第一學期 文化歷史心理學經典導讀
Week 1（洪振耀）: Gita Vygotsky
(1994, 1996)
Выгодская
Г. Л. Его жизнь – от начала до конца : памяти Л. С.
Выготского, 1896-1934 гг. Vygotsky Documentary DVD
Week 2（賴盈銓）: The Psychology of Art
Psychology of Art. Vygotsky (1925) The Psychology of Art
Verifying the Formula. Psychology of Verse. Lyric and
Epic. Hero and Dramatis personae. Drama. The Comic
and the Tragic. Theater. Painting, Drawing, Sculpture,
Architecture.
We have ascertained that contradiction is the essential feature of
artistic form and material. We have also found that the essential part of
aesthetic response is the manifestation of the affective contradiction
which we have designated by the term catharsis.
It would be very important to show how catharsis is achieved in
different art forms, what its chief characteristics are, and what
auxiliary processes and mechanisms are involved in it. However, such
an investigation would lead beyond the scope of our present endeavor,
since special research on the function of catharsis in each art form
would have to be undertaken. Our main purpose is to focus attention
on the central point of the aesthetic response, determine its
psychological “weight,” and use it as the fundamental explanatory
principle in our further investigations. We must now check the
accuracy of the formula we have found and determine its general
applicability and explanatory power. This test, and the corrections
which no doubt will be made as a consequence of its application,
should be the subject of many further individual studies. Here we shall
confine ourselves to making a brief survey to determine whether or not
our formula withstands the test. It is obvious that we must abandon the
idea of a systematic, empirical verification of our formula. We are
only able to survey individual, random phenomena by taking typical
examples from all fields of art and attempting to see whether, and to
what extent, our formula applies to them. Let us begin with poetry.
If we take existing studies of verse, studies performed not by
psychologists but by art critics, as an aesthetic fact, we immediately
note the striking resemblance between the conclusions reached by
psychologists on the one hand, and art critics on the other. The two
sets of facts – psychic and aesthetic – reveal a surprising
correspondence which corroborates and confirms our formula. This
observation applies to the concept of rhythm in modern poetry. We
have long since abandoned the naive interpretation of rhythm as meter,
or measure. Andrei Bely’s investigations in Russia and Saran’s studies
abroad showed that rhythm is a complex artistic structure that
corresponds to the contradiction which we conceptualize as the heart
of the artistic response. The Russian tonic system of versification is
based on the regular sequence of stressed and unstressed syllables. If
an iambic tetrameter [49] is defined as a verse consisting of four
disyllabic feet, each consisting of a stressed syllable followed by an
unstressed syllable, it is almost impossible to compose such a verse;
for the tetrameter would have to consist of four two-syllable words (in
the Russian language every word has but a single stress). In actual
practice, however, verses are written in this meter. These verses
contain three, five, or six words, that is, more or fewer stresses than
required by theory. According to the academic theory of philology,
any discrepancy between the requirements of the meter and the actual
number of stresses in a verse is made up by subtraction or addition of
stresses
with
correspondent
adjustment
of
articulation
and
pronunciation. In poetry, however, we retain the natural stress of
words, so that the verse frequently deviates from the required meter.
The sum of deviations from the meter defines the rhythm, according to
Bely. He proves his point as follows: if the rhythm of a verse consists
in nothing but keeping the correct beat, then all the verse written in
one meter should be identical, and such a regular beat should produce
no emotional effect aside from reminding us of a rattle or a drum. It is
the same with music, where rhythm is not the beat that can be marked
with the foot, but the filling of the measures with unequal and uneven
notes which give the impression of complex movement. These
deviations observe certain regularities, engage in certain combinations,
form a certain system; this system of irregularities is what Bely takes
as the basis for his concept of rhythm. [1] His studies have been proved
to be correct, for today we may find a precise differentiation between
the concepts of meter and rhythm in any textbook. The need for such a
differentiation arises from the fact that words resist the meter which
attempts to adjust them into a verse. “... With the aid of words,” says
Zhirmunskii, “it is as impossible to create a work of art governed
completely by the rules of musical composition without distorting the
very nature of the words, just as it is impossible to create an ornament
of the human body and still maintain its primary purpose. There is no
pure rhythm in poetry, just as there is no symmetry in painting.
Rhythm is the interaction of the natural properties of speech
components with the rules of composition which cannot be fully
applied because of the resistance of the material.” [2]
We perceive a natural number of stresses in words, and at the same
time we perceive the norm toward which verse strives but never
approaches. The conflict between meter and words – the discrepancy,
discord, and contradiction between them – this is rhythm. As we can
see, this view coincides with the analyses we have already conducted.
Here are the three parts of the aesthetic response which we mentioned
at an earlier stage: the two conflicting affects and the catharsis which
completes them in the three elements established by the theory of
metrics for the verse. According to Zhirmunskii, these are “(1) the
natural phonetic Properties of the speech material... . (2) the meter, an
ideal law governing the succession of strong and weak sounds in a
verse; and (3) the rhythm, the actual succession of strong and weak
sounds resulting from the interaction between the natural properties of
the speech material used and the metric rules.” [3] Saran holds the same
view: “A verse form is the result of an intimate unification of, or a
compromise between, two elements, the sound form characteristic of
spoken language, and the orchestral meter ... This is how the struggle,
whose results are the various ‘styles’ of the same verse form, arises.”
[4]
We now must demonstrate that the three poetical elements in the
verse coincide in their psychological meaning with the three elements
of aesthetic action. To do this, we must establish that the first two
elements are in mutual contradiction and provoke affects of
contrasting nature; the third element, rhythm, is the cathartic resolution
of the first two. Such an approach is supported by the latest studies
which replace the old-fashioned teaching of the harmony of all the
elements of a work of art and contrast it with the principle of the
struggle and antinomy of certain elements. If we do not study static
form, and if we reject the crude analogy according to which form
contains content as a glass does wine, then, according to Tynianov, we
must adopt a constructive principle and consider form to be dynamic.
We must study the factors making up a work of art not in their static
structure but in their dynamic flow. We shall then see that “the unity
of the work is not a closed symmetrical entity but an unfolding,
dynamic whole. There is no static sign of equality or multiplication
between its elements, but the dynamic sign of correlation and
integration exists always."[5] Not all factors in a work of art are
equivalent. Form is the result of the constructive subordination of
certain factors to others, rather than of their fusion into one. “We
always perceive form as flow (that is, change), as the correlation of the
subordinating, constructive factor and the subordinated one. There is
no need to attach a temporal characteristic to this unfolding. The flow,
the dynamics, can be taken per se, outside of time, and considered as
pure motion. Art is this interaction, this struggle. Without this
subordination, without the deformation of factors by the one factor
playing the constructive role, there can be no art.” [6]
Such reasoning is why modern scholars do not accept the traditional
teaching of the relationship between the rhythm and the meaning of a
verse. They show that the structure of a verse is not based upon the
correspondence between rhythm and meaning, nor upon the uniform
trend of all its factors; the exact contrary is true. Meiman distinguished
two opposing tendencies in the declamation of verses, a time-beating
one and a phrasing one. He assumed, however, that these two
tendencies are characteristics of different individuals) when, actually,
they are part of the verse itself a verse which simultaneously contains
two opposing tendencies. “The verse reveals itself as a system of
complex interactions, a struggle rather than a cooperation between
factors. It becomes obvious that the specific plus of poetry is to be
found in this interaction, the basis of which is the constructive role of
rhythm, and its deforming function with respect to the other factors ...
Thus, the acoustic approach to verse reveals the paradox of apparently
balanced and even poetic work.” [7] Proceeding from this contradiction
and the struggle of factors, investigators were able to show how the
very meaning of a verse or word changes, how the evolution of the
subject, the selection of an image, and so on, change under the effect
of rhythm as the constructive factor in a poem. The same is true in the
case of meaning. Tynianov, paraphrasing Goethe, concludes that
“great impressions depend mysteriously on various poetic forms. It
would be tempting to transpose the content of several Roman elegies
to the tone and meter of Byron’s Don Juan.”
[8]
A few examples may
show that the meaningful construction of a verse necessarily includes
an intimate contradiction in an instance where we expect harmony.
One of Lermontov’s critics writes about his remarkable poem, I, the
Mother of God, “These ornate verses lack inspired simplicity and
sincerity, the two main characteristics of prayer. In praying for a
young, innocent woman, it is inappropriate to mention old age or death.
Note: ‘the warm patroness of a cold world... .’ What a cold antithesis!”
Indeed, it is difficult not to note the inner contradiction in the meaning
of those elements which make up the poem. Evlakhov says, “Not only
does Lermontov discover a new species in the animal kingdom (in
addition to Anakreon’s horned doe) in his description of a ‘lioness
with a curly mane around her head,’ but in his poem When the Yellow
Cornfield Waves, he changes nature to suit his case. Gleb Uspenskii
remarks that ‘for the sake of this special case, climate and feelings are
confused, and everything is chosen so arbitrarily that one can only
doubt the poet’s sincerity’ ... This remark is very correct in essence,
although not very intelligent in its conclusion."[9]
All of Pushkin’s poetry involves two contradictory feelings. Let us
take the poem I Roam the Noisy Streets as an example. It is
traditionally understood to represent a poet persecuted by the notion of
death. His preoccupation saddens him, but he adjusts to the idea of
death’s inevitability and ends by praising youth and life. Given such
an interpretation, the last line of the poem contrasts with the entire
work. We can easily show that this traditional interpretation is totally
inaccurate. If the poet wanted to show how the environment leads to
thoughts of death, he would have chosen a more appropriate
environment. He would have led us to the usual haunts of sentimental
poets: a cemetery, a hospital, to the dying, or perhaps to suicide. But
Pushkin chose an ambient which creates a contradiction in every line.
The poet is seized by the thought of death in noisy streets, in crowded
churches, in busy squares – in places where death is definitely out of
place. A lone oak, sovereign of the forests; a newborn child – these
images again conjure the idea of death, and the contradiction becomes
overwhelming. Thus we can see that the poem is built upon the
juxtaposition of two extremes [50], life and death. We find this
contradiction in every line, for it pervades the entire poem. In the fifth
line, for example, the poet recognizes that death comes every day, but
it is not really death – it is the anniversary of death, that is, death’s
trace in life. It is not surprising that the poem concludes with the
statement that even the insensible corpse wishes to rest near its
homeland. The last, catastrophic line is not in contrast to the whole
poem but presents a catharsis of the two contrasting ideas by casting
them in a new form: young life conjured death’s image everywhere; it
now plays at the threshold of death.
Pushkin habitually uses such sharp contradictions. His Egyptian
Nights, his Banquet during Pestilence, and others are based on similar
contradictions which are carried to the extreme. Pushkin’s lyric poetry
always follows the law of dualism. His words are simple in meaning,
but his verse transforms this meaning into lyrical emotion. A similar
pattern exists in his epics. The most striking examples are his Tales of
Belkin. For a long time these tales were regarded as rather insignificant
and quite idyllic works, until critics discovered two conflicting levels,
a tragic reality hidden beneath a smooth and happy surface, so that
Tales of Belkin suddenly became dramatic, full of strong and powerful
effects. The artistic effect of the stories is based upon the contradiction
between the core and the surface of the story. “The superficial course
of events,” says Uzin, “imperceptibly leads the reader toward a
peaceful, calm solution of the problems, the most complex of which
apparently unravel themselves in the simplest way. But the narration
itself contains contradictory elements. As we carefully observe the
complex ornamentation of the Tales of Belkin we find that the final
resolutions are not the only ones possible.”
[10]
“Life itself and its
hidden meaning are here fused into a unit, so much so that we cannot
distinguish them. The commonplace facts appear tragic because we
feel along with them the action of hidden underground forces in action.
Belkin’s secret intention, which is so carefully concealed in the
introduction of his anonymous biographer, shows us that beneath the
peaceful and placid surface, fateful possibilities lie hidden ... Let
everything come to a happy ending: this is consolation for Mitrofan,
because any thought of another solution fills us with terror.” [11]
The merit of this critic consists in his success in showing
convincingly that Pushkin’s stories contain a hidden meaning, that the
lines which seem to lead to happiness may lead to misery as well; he
succeeded in showing that the interplay of these two directions in one
and the same line represents the true phenomenon which we seek in
the aesthetic experience of catharsis. “These two elements are joined
together in every one of Belkin’s stories with extraordinary, inimitable
art. The slightest increase of one at the expense of the other would lead
to a complete destruction of these marvellous works. The introduction
creates the equilibrium among the elements.” [12]
The same rule is applicable to the structure of the more complex
epic works. Let us take Eugene Onegin. This work is usually
understood as the portrayal of a young man of the 1820’s and an
idealized Russian girl. The heroes are conceptualized as static,
completely finished entities that do not change during the course of the
narrative.
Yet, we need only look at this work to see that Pushkin treats his
heroes dynamically and that the constructive principle of his narrative
in verse lies in the development of the characters as the story proceeds.
Tynianov says, “Only recently have we abandoned the kind of
criticism in which we discuss and condemn the protagonists of a novel
as if they were live human beings ... All such criticism is based upon
the assumption of a static protagonist... . The static unity of the
protagonist (as any static unity in a work of literature) is very unstable;
depending entirely upon the principle of construction employed, it can
oscillate in the course of a literary work in the way called for by the
dynamics of each individual case. Suffice it to say that there exists a
sign of unity, a category that justifies the most obvious cases of its
violation and forces us to regard them as equivalents of unity. But this
unity cannot be the naively conceptualized static unity of the
protagonist; instead of the law of static unity we must consider the
symbol of dynamic integration, of completion. There is no static
protagonist, there can only be dynamic ones. And the name of the
protagonist alone is enough of a symbol to prevent us from observing
the hero himself at every juncture in the narrative.”
[13]
Nothing
corroborates this statement better than Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin. In
this verse narrative, Onegin’s name functions only as the symbol of a
hero; it is equally easy to show that the protagonists represented are
dynamic and change in accordance with the structure of the work.
Critics have always proceeded from the wrong assumption, namely,
that the hero of this work is static. To corroborate their approach they
pointed out Onegin’s character traits, which were taken from his
model in life. “The object of a study of art must be the specific matter
that distinguishes art from other fields of intellectual endeavor and
methods of employing these fields as material or as tools. A work of
art is a complex interaction of many factors; consequently, the purpose
of a study must be the determination of the specific character of this
interaction.”
[14]
This view clearly says that the material of the study
must be nonmotivated in art, that is, something which belongs to art
alone. Let us now take a look at Eugene Onegin.
The conventional characteristics ascribed to Onegin and Tatiana are
derived entirely from the first part of the novel. The dynamics of the
development and evolution of these characters are ignored, as are the
extraordinary contradictions into which the hero and heroine run at the
end of the work. Hence there appears a whole series of
misunderstandings and misconceptions. Take Onegin’s character first:
we can easily show that Pushkin initially introduces certain
conventional static elements with the sole purpose of making them
function in contradictions at the end of the narrative. We are told about
the unique, overwhelming, and hopeless love of Onegin and of its
tragic end. The author should have here selected protagonists
predestined to play a love role. Instead, we see from the very
beginning that Pushkin stresses those traits in the character of Onegin
which make it impossible for him to be the hero of a story of tragic
love. In the first chapter, in which the poet describes in detail how
Onegin was familiar with the science of sweet passion (stanzas X, XI,
and XII) he is shown as a person who has wasted his heart on worldly
people. From the first stanzas the reader is prepared for the fact that
anything can happen to Onegin except death from unrequited love. It is
remarkable that this very first chapter contains the lyrical digression on
beautiful female legs, a digression which hints at the extraordinary
power of unfulfilled love, and immediately introduces another,
opposing, level which contrasts to the previous exposition of Onegin’s
character. Immediately afterward, however, the poet says that Onegin
is incapable of love (stanzas XXXVII, XLII, and XLIII):
No feelings lived within his heart;
The worldly glamour bored him;
Beauties were but fleetingly
The subject of his thoughts ...
We are absolutely certain that Onegin will not become the hero of a
tragic romance when the narrative suddenly takes an unexpected turn.
After Tatiana’s profession of love, we see that Onegin’s heart has
hardened to the extent that involvement with her is out of the question.
However, the other line of development manifests itself still. Onegin
learns that his friend Lenskii is in love and says, “I'd take the other one
[Tatiana], were I, like you, a poet.” The true image of catastrophe
finally emerges from the contrast between Onegin and Tatiana. The
poet represents Tatiana’s love as an imaginary love; he stresses
everywhere that she loves not Onegin but a romantic hero whom she
has invented.
“She began to read novels when she was very young": from this
statement Pushkin develops the imaginary, dreamy character of her
love. According to Pushkin’s story, Tatiana does not love Onegin, or
rather she does love, but her object is not Onegin; the poem tells us
about her overhearing rumors that she will marry Onegin:
A thought was born within her heart;
And when time came when she fell in love.
A seed that falls onto the ground,
Takes life from spring’s own ardor.
Her mind, consumed
By tenderness and desire, had
Long been hungry for forbidden fruit;
Her heart has long been
Beating with passion in her breast;
She yearned ... for someone,
At last ... she saw the light;
And then she said: It’s he!
It is stated quite clearly here that Onegin is the “somebody” for
whom Tatiana yearns. From then on, her love evolves along an
imaginary line (stanza X). She fancies herself Clarissa, Julie, or
Delphine, and
She sighs, she weeps, adopts
Someone else’s joy and sorrow,
Becomes oblivious, whispers
The words she'll write her dearest one ...
Her famous letter is written first in her mind, and then on paper. We
shall see that it has indeed all the features of a fictitious letter. It is
remarkable that already in stanza XV Pushkin sets his novel on a
seemingly false course when he bemoans Tatiana, who has placed her
fate in the hands of a superficial dandy, when in actual fact it is
Onegin who perishes of love. Before his encounter with Tatiana,
Pushkin reminds us that
His heart no longer burnt with love for beauty,
Although at times, indifferently, he would
Indulge in courting girls;
If they refused, he was at once consoled,
If they betrayed him, he was glad to rest.
His love, says Pushkin, is like the performance of an indifferent
guest who arrives to play whist.
Early in the morning he does not know
Where in the evening he will go.
When Onegin meets Tatiana, he immediately talks about marriage
and describes a torn, unhappy family life. It is hard to imagine duller
or more complex images than these, which are diametrically opposed
to the subject matter of their talk. The character of Tatiana’s love
reveals itself when she visits Onegin’s house, looks at his books, and
begins to understand that he is actually a sham. Her mind and feeling
now find a solution to the riddle that was haunting her. The
unexpectedly pathetic character of Onegin’s last love becomes
particularly obvious when we compare Onegin’s letter to Tatiana’s. In
the latter, Pushkin emphasizes the elements of the French roman from
which it is derived. In writing this letter, he appeals to the bard of
banquets and languid sorrow, because he is the only one who can sing
its magic melody. Pushkin calls his rendition of the letter an
incomplete and poor translation. Interestingly, he precedes Onegin’s
letter with the remark, “There is his letter, word for word.” In
Tatiana’s letter, on the other hand, all is romantically indefinite, vague,
and nebulous; in Onegin’s reply all is clear and precise – word for
word. It is remarkable that in her letter Tatiana, as if by accident,
reveals the true purpose of the narrative when she writes: “To be a
faithful wife and a good mother.” Compared with this gentle
carelessness and sweet nonsense (to quote Pushkin), the frank
truthfulness of Onegin’s letter is overwhelming.
I know it well, my days are counted;
But for my life to flow a while,
I must be certain in the morning
That I shall see you before the night ...
The entire last part of the narrative down to the very last strophe is
permeated with hints that Onegin’s life is ended, that he is dying, that
he can no longer breathe. Though Pushkin talks about this half
jokingly, half seriously, the truth reveals itself with shattering force in
the famous scene of their new encounter, which is interrupted by the
sudden and unexpected clicking of spurs:
Here, my dear friend,
I shall abandon
Our hero, when his luck
Has turned against him,
For long ... forever. ...
Pushkin ends his tale at a seemingly arbitrary point, but this strange
and completely unexpected operation strongly emphasizes the artistic
completeness of the work. When in the catastrophic stanza Pushkin
speaks about the bliss of those who have left the festival of life at an
early age without drinking the brimming cup to the very end, the
reader wonders whether the poet speaks about his hero or about
himself.
Lenskii’s parallel romance with Olga is in direct contrast with the
tragic love of Onegin and Tatiana. Pushkin claims that her faithful
portrait can be found in any novel or roman. He chose her because she
is by nature predestined to be the heroine of a love story. Lenskii, too,
is presented as a person born for love, but is killed in a duel. Here, the
reader is faced with a paradox: He expects the real love drama to
unfold between the woman destined to be the true heroine of the
narrative, and the man destined to play the role of Romeo; he expects
the shot that destroyed their love to be crucially dramatic – but his
expectations are cut short. Pushkin develops his story against the
natural grain of the material, when he transforms Olga’s and Lenskii’s
love into commonplace triteness (Lenskii’s fate, he reveals, is that of
“a country squire, happy and cuckolded, wearing a quilted dressing
gown”), and makes the real drama occur where we least expect it. In
fact, the entire work is built on an impossibility. The analogy between
the first and the second part (although their meanings are opposite)
shows this quite clearly: Tatiana’s letter – Onegin’s letter; the
encounter of Onegin and Tatiana in the country garden – the talk at
Tatiana’s in Petersburg. The reader, misled by this parallelism, does
not notice to what extent the hero and the heroine have changed; he
does not notice that the Onegin of the end of the narrative is not only
different from the Onegin of the beginning, but his complete opposite,
and the concluding action at the end is the opposite of that at the
beginning.
The character of the hero has changed dynamically, the narrative
has taken an unexpected course, and, most important, the change in the
hero’s character is essential to the unfolding of the action. Pushkin
prepares the reader to believe that Onegin cannot become the hero of a
tragic love affair, but in the end transforms him into a tragic victim of
love. A scholar very aptly once said that there are two kinds of works
of art, just as there are two kinds of flying machines – those lighter and
those heavier than air. A balloon rises because it is lighter than air.
This is not really a triumph over nature, for the balloon floats in the air
not by its own devices, but because it is pushed upward. Conversely,
an airplane (a flying machine heavier than air) fights air resistance,
overcomes it, pushes itself up, and rises despite its tendency to fall. A
true work of art reminds us of a heavier-than-air machine. It is always
made of material much heavier than air, and from the very outset
seems to oppose any effort to make it rise. The weight of the material
counteracts its rise and drags the structure to the ground. Flight can be
achieved only by overcoming this tendency to fall.
This is the case with Eugene Onegin. How simple (and how trite)
the story would be if we knew from the very beginning that Onegin
would have an unhappy love affair. At best, this plot could be
developed into a second-rate sentimental novel. But when he actually
falls victim to the tragic love in spite of his own efforts, then we
witness the artist’s triumph over “material heavier than air” and
experience the real joy of flying, the lift imparted by the catharsis of
art.
The heroes of a drama, as well as an epic, are dynamic. The
substance of drama is struggle, but the struggle contained in the
principal material of a drama overshadows the conflict between artistic
elements that results from conventional dramatic strife. This point is
easy to understand if we regard a drama not as a finished work of art
but as the basic material for a theatrical performance. A closer look at
the problem of content and form, however, will make it possible to
differentiate these two dramatic elements.
First, we must apply the concept of the dynamic protagonist to
drama. The false notion that the purpose of drama is to represent
characters could have been abandoned long ago, had scholars treated
Shakespeare’s dramas with the proper objectivity. EvIakhov calls the
idea of Shakespeare’s remarkable skill in representing characters “an
old wives’ tale.” Volkelt says that “Shakespeare in many cases went
much further than psychology properly admits.” No one, however, has
understood this fact better than Tolstoy (as we have already noted in
our discussion of Hamlet). He states that his opinion is completely
opposed to the one then prevalent in Europe and correctly points out
that King Lear speaks a pompous, characterless language, as do all of
Shakespeare’s kings. He then shows that the events in the tragedy are
unbelievable, paradoxical, and unnatural. “Perhaps this tragedy is
absurd the way I retell it ... but in its original version it is even more
so.”
[16]
As the main proof that there are no real characters in
Shakespeare’s plays Tolstoy adduces that “none of his characters ever
speak their own language, but always talk in the same Shakespearian,
stilted, unnatural language which not only does not suit the roles, but
cannot be spoken by any person alive.” [16] Tolstoy regards language as
the principal tool for representing a character, and Volkenshteyn
remarks that Tolstoy’s view is “... the critique of a bellelettristic
realist.” [17]
But he corroborates Tolstoy’s opinion when he proves that a tragedy
cannot have a characteristic language and that “the language of a tragic
hero is a resounding and pompous one, imagined by the author; there
is no room in the tragedy for a detailed characterization of speech.” [18]
With this insight, he demonstrates that tragedy has no character
because it represents man in the extreme, whereas character consists in
proportions, correlations, and compromises between features and
attitudes. Tolstoy is right when he says that “not only are
Shakespeare’s dramatis personae placed into impossible tragic
situations that do not follow the course of events and are inappropriate
in terms of time and place, but they act completely arbitrarily, not in
accord with their own stated characters.”
[19]
Tolstoy makes a great
discovery here, as he points out the domain of the unmotivated, which
is a specific distinguishing mark of art. He points to the real problem
of Shakespearian studies when he says “Shakespeare’s characters
constantly do and say things that are not only against their nature, but
serve no purpose.” [20]
We take Othello as an example to show how correct this analysis is
and how it can be used to uncover Shakespeare’s merits as well as his
faults. Tolstoy says that Shakespeare, who borrowed the subjects of
his plays from older dramas or narratives, not only distorted, but
weakened and frequently destroyed the character of his protagonists.
“Thus, Shakespeare’s characters in Othello (Othello, lago, Cassio, or
Emilia) are far less genuine and lively than those in the original Italian
novella... . The reasons for Othello’s jealousy are much more natural
in the Italian original than in Shakespeare’s tragedy ... . Shakespeare’s
Iago is a villain, a cheat, a thief, an impostor ... . The motives for his
villainy, according to Shakespeare, are many and unclear. In the
novella, however, there is but one motive, and it is simple and clear:
Iago’s passionate love for Desdemona has changed into hatred for her
and Othello after she preferred the Moor to Iago.” [21]
Tolstoy points out that Shakespeare intentionally omitted, changed,
or destroyed the characters of the Italian story. The character of
Othello himself is only a point of encounter for the two opposing
affects. Let us take a look at the hero. If Shakespeare wanted to
describe a tragedy of jealousy, he should have chosen a jealous man,
put him together with a woman who would provide him with a motive,
and finally would have established between them a relationship in
which jealousy could become the inevitable and inseparable
companion of love. Instead, he chooses characters and material which
make the solution of his problem extremely difficult. “Othello is not
jealous by nature; on the contrary, he is trustful,” remarked Pushkin.[22]
Indeed, Othello’s trustfulness is one of the mainsprings of the tragedy.
Everything proceeds because Othello is trusting and because there is
not a streak of jealousy in his nature. In fact, his character is utterly
opposed to that of a jealous person. Similarly, Desdemona is not the
type of woman who would cause blind jealousy in a man. Many critics
even find her too idealized and pure. Finally, the most important
point – Othello’s and Desdemona’s love appears so platonic that one
might think they never really consummated their marriage. The
tragedy reaches its climax: the trusting Othello, now violently jealous,
kills the innocent Desdemona. Had Shakespeare followed the first
“prescription,” he would have achieved the same banal effect as
Artsybashev in his play Jealousy, in which a suspicious husband is
jealous of a wife who is ready to give herself to any man, and where
the relationship between husband and wife is shown only in terms of
their problems. The “flight of a machine heavier than air,” with which
a work of art was compared, is triumphantly achieved in Othello,
where the tragedy evolves in two opposing directions and generates
conflicting emotions in us. Each step, each action, drags us lower, to
abject treason and treachery, while at the same time lifting us to the
heights of an ideal character, so that the collision and cathartic
purification of the two opposite affects engendered becomes the basis
of the tragedy. Tolstoy attributes Shakespeare’s unsurpassed mastery
to a specific technique: “His ability to write scenes expressing the
movement of feelings. No matter how unnatural the situations in
which he places his characters, how inappropriate the language they
speak, how impersonal they are, the movement of their feelings, the
combination of contradictory emotions is expressed with power and
precision in most of Shakespeare’s scenes.” [23]
It is the ability to represent changes in feelings which is the basis for
understanding the dynamic protagonist. Goethe remarks that at one
point Lady Macbeth says she suckled her children with her breast, but
at another point we learn that she has no children. This, according to
him, is an artistic convention, for, Shakespeare “is concerned about the
power and effect of each individual speech ... The poet makes his
characters say exactly what the situation requires and what produces
the best effect, without worrying too much whether or not it
contradicts a statement made elsewhere.”
[24]
If we bear in mind the
logic contradiction of words, we can agree with Goethe. There are
innumerable examples from Shakespeare’s plays that show that the
characters always evolve dynamically, depending on the structure of
the play, and that they always follow Aristotle’s dictum that “... the
plot is the basis, the soul, of the tragedy, and the characters follow it.”
[25]
Müller points out that Shakespeare’s comedies differ from the
ancient Roman comedies (with their inevitable parasite, bragging
warrior, pimp, and other stereotypes), but he fails to understand that
the purpose of the free rendition of characters, which Pushkin admired
so much in Shakespeare, is not to make them look like real people or
to liken their situations to real life, but to complicate and enrich the
plot and enhance the tragic setting. In the final analysis, a character is
static, and when Pushkin says that Moliere’s “hypocrite runs
hypocritically after the wife of his benefactor, hypocritically accepts
the custody of the estate, hypocritically asks for a glass of water,” he
defines the very essence of a character tragedy. Thus, when Müller
tries to determine the interrelationship between characters and plot in
the English drama, he has to admit that the plot is decisive, while the
characters are “of secondary importance in the creative process. In
Shakespeare’s case this may sound like nonsense. ... It is therefore all
the more interesting to show by examples that he too occasionally
subordinates his characters to the plot.”
[26]
When he tries to explain
Cordelia’s refusal to verbally express her love for her father as a
technical requirement, he runs into the same contradiction as we did in
the attempt to explain, from the technical viewpoint, a nonmotivated
phenomenon in art which is in fact not only a sad necessity required by
the technique, but also a joyous privilege afforded by form. The fact
that Shakespeare’s lunatics speak in prose, that letters are written in
prose, that Lady Macbeth raves in prose, makes us realize that the
connection between the language and the character of the dramatis
personae can be purely fortuitous.
It is important to clarify the substantial difference that exists
between the novel and the tragedy. In the novel the characters of the
protagonists are also frequently dynamic and full of contradictions.
They evolve as a constructive factor capable of changing events or,
conversely, of being transformed by other, stronger or superior factors.
We find this inner contradiction in Dostoevsky’s novels, which evolve
simultaneously on two levels (the most base and the most sublime),
where murderers philosophize, saints sell their bodies on the streets,
parricides save mankind, and so on. In the tragedy, however, character
has a completely different meaning. To understand the peculiarity of
the structure of a tragic hero we must bear in mind that drama is based
on struggle, and, whether we consider a tragedy or a farce, we will see
that their formal structure is identical. While a protagonist always
fights objects, laws, or forces, the various types of drama are
distinguished by what he actually opposes. In tragedy he fights
inflexible, absolute laws; in comedy he usually fights social laws; and
in farce he struggles against physiological laws. “The hero of a
comedy violates sociopsychological norms, customs, and habits. The
hero of a farce ... violates sociophysical norms of social life.” [27] This
is why farce, as in Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, frequently deals with
eroticism and digestion. The farce plays at all times with the animality
of man while his formal nature remains purely dramatic. Consequently,
in any drama, we perceive both a norm and its violation; in this respect,
the structure of a drama resembles that of a verse in which we have
also a norm (meter) and a system of deviations from it. The
protagonist of a drama is therefore a character who combines two
conflicting affects, that of the norm and that of its violation; this is
why we perceive him dynamically, not as an object but as a process.
This becomes particularly obvious if we look at the various types of
drama. Volkenshteyn considers a distinguishing feature of tragedy the
fact that its hero is endowed with very great strength; he recalls that
the ancients defined the tragic hero as a spiritual maximum. Hence, the
prime characteristic of tragedy is maximalism, or the violation of
absolute law by absolute strength of heroic struggle. As soon as
tragedy steps down from this lofty level of struggle it becomes drama.
Hebbel is mistaken when he explains the positive effect of tragic
catastrophe by saying that “when a man is covered with wounds, to
kill him is to cure him.” This statement would mean that when a tragic
poet leads his hero to destruction, he gives us a satisfaction similar to
the one we experience when a suffering, mortally wounded animal is
put to death. But this view is wrong. We do not feel that death gives
relief to the hero; at the time of the catastrophe we do not see him
covered with wounds. The tragedy performs a remarkable and
astonishing catharsis whose effect is diametrically opposed to its
content.
In tragedy, the sublime moment of the spectator coincides with the
sublime moment of the protagonist’s death or destruction. The
spectator perceives not only what the protagonist is or represents but
something more; this is why Hebbel says that catharsis in the tragedy
is necessary for the spectator only and “it is not at all necessary ... for
the protagonist to achieve inner peace.” A remarkable illustration of
this point is given in the denouement of all Shakespearean tragedies,
most of which end in an identical manner. Once the catastrophe is
accomplished, the protagonist dies unappeased, and one of the
surviving characters takes the spectator once again through the events
of the tragedy, and, in a manner of speaking, collects the ashes of
tragedy consumed in the catharsis. When the spectator hears Horatio’s
brief account of the frightful events which have just passed before his
eyes, it is as if he saw the same tragedy for a second time, only without
its sting and venom. This narrated review gives him time to realize his
own catharsis, to compare his own relationship to the tragedy, as given
in the denouement, with the immediately experienced impression of
the tragedy as a whole. “A tragedy is an explosion of supreme human
force; therefore it is in a major key. In viewing a titanic struggle, the
spectator’s feeling of horror is replaced by a feeling of cheerfulness
which approaches enthusiasm. Tragedy appeals to and awakens the
subconscious, mysterious original forces hidden in our souls. The
playwright seems to tell us that we are timid, indecisive, obsequious to
society and the state. Then he tells us to look at how strong people act:
See what will happen if you surrender to your ambition, to your
voluptuousness, to your pride. Try in your imagination to follow my
hero and see if it is not tempting to give in to passion!”
[28]
Although
this formulation is somewhat simplified, it contains a certain amount
of truth, because the tragedy awakens our most hidden passions, forces
them to flow within banks of granite, made of completely opposite
feelings, and ends this struggle with a catharsis of resolution.
Comedy has a similar structure, with a catharsis which results in the
spectator’s laughter becoming directed at the protagonist. The
distinction between the spectator and the protagonist of a comedy is
obvious: the hero weeps, while the spectator laughs. An obvious
dualism is created. The hero is sad and the spectator laughs, or vice
versa; a positive hero may meet a sad end, but the spectator is happy
just the same.
We will not dwell on the specific features that distinguish the tragic
from the comic, or the drama from the comedy. Many authors (among
them Croce and Haman) hold that in essence these categories are not
aesthetic ones, since the comic and the tragic also exist outside the arts.
They are quite right. At this stage it is important for us to show that
whenever art uses the tragic, comic, or dramatic modes, it invariably
obeys the law of catharsis. According to Bergson, the purpose of
comedy is to show “the deviation of the dramatis personae from the
conventional norms of social life.” He feels that “only man can be
ridiculous. If we laugh at an object or an animal, we take them for
human beings and humanize them.” Laughter requires a social
environment. Comedy is impossible outside society and, consequently,
again reveals itself as a dualism between certain societal norms and
deviations from them. Volkenshteyn perceives this dualism in the
comic hero and says, “A funny and witty reply given by a comic
character
obtains
a
particularly strong
effect.
Shakespeare’s
representation of Falstaff is successful because he is not only a coward,
a glutton, a philanderer, and so on, but also a marvelous joker.”
[29]
This is why the jokes destroy the trite and commonplace aspects of his
nature in a catharsis of laughter. According to Bergson, the origin of
fun lies in automatism; that is, when something live deviates from
certain norms, it behaves as if it were mechanical, and this generates
laughter.
The results of Freud’s investigations into wit, humor, and the comic
are far more interesting. We feel that his interpretation of these three
forms of experience as purely energetic is somewhat arbitrary, but
quite aside from this point we cannot but agree with the extreme
accuracy of Freud’s analysis. It is remarkable that it fully coincides
with our formula for catharsis as a basis for aesthetic reaction. Wit for
him is a Janus which can develop a thought simultaneously in two
opposite directions. There is a discrepancy in our feelings and
perceptions in the case of humor, and the laughter resulting from this
discrepancy is the best proof of the relaxing effect of wit.[30] Haman
holds a similar view: “Wit requires above all novelty and originality.
A joke can hardly be appreciated twice, and most of the time creative
people are also witty, since the jump from stress to discharge can be
quite unexpected and unpredictable. Brevity is the soul of wit; its
essence lies in the sudden transition from stress to discharge.” [31]
This also applies to a field introduced into scientific aesthetics by
Rosenkranz, author of The Aesthetics of Ugliness. A faithful follower
of Hegel, he reduces the role of ugliness to a contrast (antithesis),
whose purpose is to set off the positive element (thesis). But this view
is basically wrong because, as pointed out by Lalo, the ugly may
become an element of art for the same reasons as the beautiful. An
object described and reproduced in a work of art can by itself (that is,
outside the work of art), be both ugly and indifferent; in some cases it
must be in reality either ugly or indifferent. Characteristic examples
are portraits and realistic works of art. This fact is well known, and the
idea is far from new. “There is no snake [Lalo refers here to Boileau],
there is no monster that could not be pleasing in a work of art.” [32] It is
also Vernon Lee’s view that the beauty of objects frequently cannot be
introduced directly into art. “The most sublime art,” she says, “for
instance, the art of Michelangelo, frequently gives us bodies whose
structural beauty is distorted by conspicuous defects... . Conversely,
any art exhibit or even the most commonplace art collection can give
us dozens of examples of the reverse; that is, they provide the
possibility of easily and convincingly recognizing the beauty of the
original model which may, however, have inspired mediocre or bad
paintings or statues.” Vernon Lee sees the fact that true art processes
the original sensory impression introduced into it as the cause of this
relationship between art and ugliness [511. It is hard to find a more
suitable application for our formula than the aesthetics of ugliness, for
it discusses catharsis, without which the enjoyment of art would be
impossible. It is much harder to fit the average type of drama into this
formula. But here, we can show by the example of Chekhov’s plays
that this rule is quite correct.
Let us consider his plays The Three Sisters and The Cherry Orchard.
The former is usually (and quite erroneously) said to represent the
melancholy yearnings of three provincial belles for the glamorous life
of Moscow?’ In actual fact, however, Chekhov eliminates all those
traits that could conceivably motivate the three sisters’ desire to go to
Moscow, [52] and since Moscow is only an imaginary artistic
construct for them, not an object of real desire, the play has not a
comical but a deeply dramatic effect on the spectator. After its first
presentation, the critics wrote that the play is somewhat ridiculous
because for four entire acts the sisters keep moaning, “To Moscow, to
Moscow, to Moscow,” even though each of them could at any time
simply buy a railway ticket and go to that Moscow which, apparently,
none of them needs. One of the critics called the play the drama of a
railway ticket; and in a way he was more right about it than critics like
Izmailov. Indeed, the author who has made Moscow the center of
attraction for the sisters should somehow also motivate their urge to
get there. True, he says, they spent their childhood there; but none of
them remembers the place. The idea that they might be prevented by
some impediment from going to Moscow turns out to be incorrect also.
We cannot find any comprehensible reason why the sisters cannot go.
There are some critics who think that the sisters want to go to Moscow
because for them the city is the symbolic center of civilized and
cultivated life. This view also is wrong because not a word, not a
syllable mentions this fact. On the contrary, their brother’s urge to go
to Moscow contrasts with theirs: for him Moscow is not a dream but a
reality. He recalls the university, he wants to sit in Testov’s restaurant,
and his real and realistic Moscow is intentionally contrasted with the
Moscow of his three sisters. Theirs remains vague and without
motivation, since there is no reason why they could not get there – and
this lack of motivation, of course, is the basis for the dramatic effect of
the play.
Something similar happens in The Cherry Orchard. It is hard to
understand why the sale of the cherry orchard is such a terrible
misfortune for Ranevskaia. Perhaps she lives permanently in this
cherry orchard. But then we learn that she spends her entire life
traveling abroad and that she never could or would be able to live on
her estate. Perhaps the sale could mean ruin or bankruptcy for her, but
this motive falls away, too, because it is not the need of money that
places her in the dramatic situation. For Ranevskaia as well as for the
spectator the cherry orchard is an unmotivated element of the drama,
as is Moscow for the three sisters. The distinguishing feature of these
plays is this unreal motive – which we accept as a psychological
reality – and which paints itself onto the canvas of real everyday life.
The struggle between the two irreconcilable motives (“real” and
unmotivated) yields the contradiction which must necessarily be
solved in the catharsis, and without which there is no art.
In conclusion we must demonstrate_ very briefly, by means of
arbitrary examples, that this formula can be applied to all other art
forms beside poetry. Our reasoning and arguments proceed from
concrete examples from literature, but we can apply our conclusions to
other domains of art. The closest one is the theatre, one half of which
belongs to literature. We can show, however, that the other half, taken
in its strict interpretation as the playing of actors and the staging of the
spectacle, is also governed by our aesthetic rule. The basis for this
view was established by Diderot in his famous Paradox of the Actor in
which he analyzes the playing of an actor. He shows clearly that an
actor not only experiences and expresses the feelings of the character
he represents, but develops them into an artistic form. “But excuse
me,” someone will reply, “these mournful sounds, full of sorrow and
sadness which an actor produces from the depth of his being, which
upset my heart and soul, are they not caused by genuine feeling, by
genuine despair? Not at all. And here is the proof: they, these sounds,
are measured, they are a component part of declamation. Were they
one twentieth of a quarter of a tone higher or lower, they would be
false. They obey the law of unity. They have been selected in a
specific way and are distributed harmonically. They contribute to the
solution of a specific problem. ... He knows with accomplished
precision when to take out his handkerchief and when to shed tears.
Expect this to happen when a specific word is said, when a specific
syllable is pronounced, neither before, nor later.”
[34]
Diderot calls the
actor’s creativity a pathetic grimace, a magnificent aching. This
statement is paradoxical only in part; it would be true if we said that
on stage the moan of desperation of a mother includes, of course,
genuine desperation as well. The actor’s ability and success depend on
the measure he gives to this desperation. The task of aesthetics is, as
Tolstoy facetiously wrote, “to describe capital punishment as if it were
as sweet as honey.” Capital punishment is capital punishment even on
stage, and it is never as sweet as honey. Despair remains despair, but it
is released by the action of artistic form, and therefore the actor may
not himself fully experience the feelings attributed to the character he
represents. Diderot tells us a wonderful story: “I would like to tell you
how an actor and his wife, who hated one another, were lovers on
stage, and very passionately taken with one another. Never had they
played any other role so successfully and convincingly, or reaped such
thunderous applause. No less than ten times did we interrupt their
scene to shout our enthusiastic approval.” Diderot then quotes a long
dialogue in which the actors talk aloud to each other of passionate love,
but then, under their breath, call each other unmentionable names. As
an Italian proverb states, Se non e vero, e ben trovato.
For the psychology of art this is very significant, because it points
out the duality of an emotion experienced and represented by an actor.
Diderot claims that once an actor has finished playing his part, he does
not retain any of the feelings he has represented; they are transferred to
the audience. Unfortunately, this observation is today considered a
paradox, and no sufficiently thorough study has yet been made of the
psychology of acting, although in this field the psychology of art could
solve this problem much better than in any other art form. There are
good reasons to believe that, irrespective of its results, such a study
would corroborate the fundamental dualism of an actor’s emotion
which, it seems to us, makes it possible to apply our formula of
catharsis to the theatre [53].
The best way to show the effect of this law in painting is to study
the difference in style that exists between the art of painting (in the
proper sense of the word) and that of drawing. Klinger’s studies have
made this evident. We believe (as does Christiansen) that this
difference is due to the different interpretations of space in painting
and in drawing: painting does away with the flat, two-dimensional
character of the drawn image and forces us to perceive everything in a
new, three-dimensional fashion. A drawing may represent a
three-dimensional space, but the character of the drawing remains
two-dimensional. Thus, the impression generated by a drawing is
always dualistic: on the one hand, we perceive the image as
three-dimensional, but we also perceive the play of lines in the
two-dimensional plane. This dualism places drawing in a special
category of art. Klinger points out that, unlike painting, drawing uses
impressions of disharmony, horror, etc., quite frequently; all of these
are of positive significance. He claims that in poetry, drama, and music
such features are not only permissible, but indispensable. Christiansen
states that it is possible to produce such impressions because the horror
produced is solved by the catharsis of form. “A dissonance must be
overcome; there must be resolution and appeasement. I should like to
say catharsis, had Aristotle’s beautiful term not become meaningless
because of the many attempts to interpret it. The impression of horror
or fear must find its resolution and purification in an element of
Dionysiac enthusiasm; horror is represented not for its own sake but as
an impulse to be overcome ... And this distracting element must
signify overcoming and catharsis simultaneously.” [35]
The potential of catharsis in values of form is illustrated by
Pollaiolo’s Men Fighting, “where the horror of death is completely
obliterated by the Dionysiac triumph of rhythmic lines.” [36]
Finally, a cursory look at sculpture and architecture reveals that here,
too, the contrast between material and form is frequently the starting
point for the artistic impression. To represent the human or animal
body, sculpture almost exclusively uses marble or metal – materials
that are among those least naturally suited to this purpose. But for the
artist, this refractoriness of the material is the greatest challenge to the
creation of a live figure. The famous Laocoön group best illustrates the
contrast between form and material from which sculpture emerges.
Gothic architecture reveals this same contrast. It is remarkable that
the artist forces the stone to take on the shape of plants – to sprout
branches, to bear leaves and to blossom; it is astonishing that in a
Gothic cathedral, where the experience of material massiveness
reaches its zenith, the artist obtains the effect of a triumphant vertical
which makes the viewer feel the whole edifice striving upward with
tremendous force. The lightness and transparency that the Gothic
architect manages to draw out from heavy, inert stone is the best
corroboration of this idea.
We agree with the author who wrote about the Cologne cathedral,
“In its slender and harmonious distribution of arches intersecting as if
they were part of a filigree, the high vaults, and so on, we see the same
boldness and courage that we admire in knightly exploits. In its soft
and harmonious outlines we find the same warm feeling that emanates
from the love songs of chivalry.” As the artist produces boldness and
delicate grace from stone, he obeys the same law as that which forces
him to propel upward the stone that gravity pulls to the ground, and to
create in a Gothic cathedral the effect of an arrow shot into the sky.
The name of this law is catharsis. This law, and nothing else,
compelled the master of Notre Dame in Paris to place atop the
cathedral ugly and horrifying monsters, the gargoyles, without which
the cathedral is unimaginable.
Week 3（楊承淑）: 從柴田義松的譯作，認識 Vygotsky
的學術思想
Week 4（歐茵西）: Analysis of the Fable
Week 5（邱錦榮）: The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark
Chapter 8: The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark（The
Psychology of Art. Vygotsky 1925）
The Riddle of Hamlet. “Subjective” and “Objective” Solutions. The Problem of
Hamlet’a Character. Structure of the Tragedy. Fable and Subject. Identification of the
Hero. Catastrophe.
The tragedy of Hamlet is generally considered an enigma. It differs
from Shakespeare’s other tragedies as well as from the works of others
in that its course of action never fails to surprise and bewilder the
spectator. This is why the essays and critical studies on the play are
more like commentaries. They have one trait in common: all try to
solve the riddle set by Shakespeare. After his first encounter with the
ghost, Hamlet is expected to kill the king—why is he unable to do this?
And why does the play reflect nothing but his failure to act?
Shakespeare does not explain the reasons for Hamlet’s inertia, and
thus the critics approach the riddle from two different angles: the first,
from the character and personal experiences of Hamlet, and the second,
from the environmental obstacles in his path. According to one
viewpoint, the problem lies in Hamlet’s personality. Critics of this
persuasion attempt to show that the reason for Hamlet’s delay in
taking revenge is that his feelings rebel against an act of violence, that
he is irresolute and weak willed, or that, as Goethe claimed, too heavy
a task was placed on his weak shoulders. Since none of these
interpretations allows for an exhaustive explanation of the tragedy, we
can positively say that they are devoid of any scientific significance,
for exactly opposite views may exist just as rightfully. Other critics
explain Hamlet’s lingering as a manifestation of his state of mind, as if
he were a real person. These critics usually argue from true-life
experience and human nature, not from the artistic structure of the play.
They go so far as to say that Shakespeare intended to show the tragedy
of the weak-willed person called upon to perform a task for which he
is not properly equipped. They regard Hamlet as a tragedy of weakness
and the absence of will, despite the scenes in which the hero exhibits
just the opposite character traits and appears as a man of extraordinary
determination, courage, valor, and implacability in the face of moral
considerations.
Another school of critics seeks to explain Hamlet’s procrastination
by the objective obstacles that lie on the path to his goal. The king and
his courtiers exert opposition against Hamlet, who does not kill the
king at once, because it is impossible for him to do so. These critics,
who follow Werder’s view, claim that Hamlet’s task is not to kill the
king but to expose his guilt and chastise him. We can, of course, find
as many arguments in favor of this view as opposed to it. These critics
are badly mistaken, because they miss two fundamental points. First,
nowhere in the tragedy does Shakespeare formulate such a task for
Hamlet, either directly or by implication. The critics, therefore, are
attempting to write for Shakespeare by inventing new, complicated
tasks, again proceeding from common sense and life experience rather
than from the aesthetics of tragedy. Also, they are shutting their eyes
and ears to many scenes and monologues in which Hamlet, aware of
the subjective character of his procrastination but unable to understand
the reasons for it, attempts some explanations, none of which suffices
fully to support his actions.
Both groups of critics agree however, that the tragedy is highly
enigmatic; this admission takes most of the substance out of their
arguments. Indeed, if their considerations were correct, the tragedy
would have no riddle. How could the play be mysteriously enigmatic
if Shakespeare intended merely to portray a weak and undecided
person?
It would be clear from the outset that the hero’s
procrastination is due to his irresolution. A play about a weak-willed
character would be a bad one if his weakness were concealed in a
riddle. If the critics of the second group, those who claim that the main
difficulties arise from external causes, were correct, then Hamlet
would fail because Shakespeare, unable to represent with clarity the
real meaning of the tragedy (this very struggle with external obstacles),
would disguise it, too, with a riddle. The critics are trying to solve
Hamlet’s mystery with arguments irrelevant to the tragedy itself. They
approach it as if it were a case from actual life, which must be
explained and understood on the basis of common sense. According to
Berné’s very pertinent remark, a veil has been thrown over the picture,
but in trying to lift it in order to examine the picture beneath we
discover that the veil is painted into the picture itself. This observation
is quite accurate, for it is easy to show that the riddle has been
intentionally built into the tragedy. The tragedy is structured as a
riddle, which cannot be explained nor solved by strictly logical means.
By depriving the tragedy of its riddle, the critics deprive the play of its
most essential element.
Let us now consider the enigma of the play. Despite differences in
approach, critics unanimously note the obscurity and ambiguity of the
play. Hessner speaks of Hamlet as a tragedy-mask. According to Kuno
Fischer, we stand before Hamlet and his tragedy as if we were
standing before a curtain. We expect the curtain to rise and reveal the
image, but we discover that the image concealed is none other than the
curtain itself. Berné says that Hamlet is an absurdity, worse than the
death of one that has not yet been born. Goethe refers to some somber
mystery associated with the tragedy. Schlegel compares it to an
irrational equation. Baumgardt mentions the complexity of a fable that
contains a long series of diverse and unexpected events. “The tragedy
Hamlet indeed resembles a labyrinth,” writes Kuno Fischer. “Hamlet,”
says Brandes, “is not permeated by a ‘general meaning’ or by the idea
of unity. Certainty and definition were not the ideals which
Shakespeare was striving to reach ... The play is laden with riddles and
contradictions, but its charm and attractiveness are due mostly to its
obscurity. Speaking of “obscure” books Brandes claims that Hamlet is
one such: “At times a gulf opens between the action that envelops the
play like a mantle, and the core of the play.” “Hamlet remains a
mystery,” says C O Brink, “but an infinitely attractive one, because we
know that it is not artificially construed but draws its origin from
nature’s wisdom.” “But Shakespeare created a mystery,” to quote
Dowden, “which remains a question, forever exciting, but never fully
explained. Therefore one cannot assume that an idea or a magical
formula can solve the difficulties presented by the drama or suddenly
shed light upon all. Obscurity is characteristic of a work of art
concerned, not with a specific problem, but with life; and in that life,
in the story of a soul that treads the shady boundary between dark
night and bright day there are many things that defy or confuse
investigation.”
We could continue forever with these excerpts and quotations, since
almost all critics dwell on this subject. Even such deprecators of
Shakespeare as Tolstoy and Voltaire state essentially the same view.
Voltaire, for example, in the introduction to his tragedy Semiramis
states that “the course of events in the tragedy Hamlet is a huge mess.”
Rümelin describes the play as a whole as “incomprehensible.”
All these critics see in the obscurity a mantle that conceals a center,
a curtain that hides an image, or a veil that prevents our eyes from
seeing the picture underneath. But if Hamlet is what the critics claim it
to be, why is it shrouded in so much mystery and obscurity?
Frequently the mystery is greatly exaggerated, and even more
frequently
it
is
based
on
utter
misunderstanding.
Such
misunderstanding underlies Merezhkovskii’s view that “the ghost
appears to Hamlet in an atmosphere of solemnity and romanticism,
with claps of thunder and earthquakes… The ghost tells Hamlet of the
secrets of the dead, of God, blood, and vengeance.” This might be read
in operatic libretto, but certainly not in the actual Hamlet.
We can therefore disregard all criticism, which tries to separate the
enigma from the tragedy and take the veil from the picture. However,
it may be of some interest to see how this criticism deals with the
inscrutability of Hamlet’s character and behavior. Berné says that
“Shakespeare is a king who does not obey laws. Were he like anyone
else, we could say that Hamlet is a lyrical character who defines
dramatic processing.” Brandes also notes this incongruity: “We must
not forget that this dramatic phenomenon—an inactive hero—is
required to some extent by the technique of the play. If Hamlet were to
kill the king immediately upon receiving the ghost’s message, the play
would have to be restricted to one act. Hence, it becomes imperative to
find delaying tactics.” But this need to delay would imply that the
subject is not suited to tragedy, that Shakespeare artificially delays an
action that could be completed instantly, and introduces four
superfluous acts into a play capable of being resolved in a single act.
Montague notices this, too, and provides an excellent formula:
“Inaction is the action of the first three acts.” Beck comes to a similar
interpretation. He explains everything by the contradiction between the
plot of the play and the character of the protagonist. The plot belongs
to the chronicle into which Shakespeare has woven his subject, and
Hamlet’s character belongs to Shakespeare himself. Between the two
there is an irreconcilable contradiction. “Shakespeare was not fully the
master of his own play and was not completely free to use all its
component parts,” a deficiency which can be attributed to the
chronicle. This view, however, is so simple and self-evident that it is
pointless to look elsewhere for solutions or explanations. Thus we turn
to a new group of critics who seek the solution to Hamlet either in the
requirements of dramatic technique (as mentioned by Brandes) or in
the historic and literary roots of the tragedy. In this case, however, it
is obvious that the author’s talent is defeated by the rigid rules of
technique, or that the historic background of the subject exceeds the
possibilities of artistic treatment. In either case we must regard Hamlet
as a failure because Shakespeare was unable to select a suitable subject
for his tragedy. Then Zhukovskii would be correct in saying that
“Shakespeare’s masterpiece, Hamlet, looks like a monstrosity to me. I
don’t understand its meaning. Those who find so much in Hamlet
exhibit the wealth of their own thought and imagination rather than
prove the superiority of the play. I can’t believe that Shakespeare,
when composing this tragedy, thought in exactly the same way as
Schlegel and Tieck did, when they read into its incongruities all the
unsolved riddles of human life ... I asked him to read Hamlet to me
and then tell me in detail his thoughts on this monstrosity.”
Goncharov holds the same view. He claims that Hamlet cannot be
played on stage. “Hamlet is not a typical role. No one can play it; there
has never been an actor who could play it ... He would lose himself in
it as if he were the Wandering Jew ...Hamlet’s character is a
phenomenon which anyone in a normal state of mind simply cannot
comprehend.” Not all the literary critics who seek to explain Hamlet’s
wavering by technical or historical means think that Shakespeare has
written a bad play. Many of them point to the positive aesthetic aspects
of Hamlet’s procrastination. Volkenshteyn, for instance, holds a
different view, which is the opposite of Heine’s, Berné’s, Turgenev’s,
and many others, who believe that Hamlet himself is weak willed and
spineless. The opinions of this group are reflected in Hebbel’s words:
“Hamlet is a corpse, long before the curtain rises. What we see are the
roses and thorns which sprung from his corpse.” Volkenshteyn feels
that the true essence of a drama, particularly a tragedy, is the tension
and stress of passions; he also feels that a tragedy is always supported
by the hero’s inner strength. This is why he believes that the view of
Hamlet as a weak-willed and spineless person “is based on the blind
trust in semantics which characterizes some of the most profound
literary criticism.
“... A dramatic hero cannot be taken for what he says he is. He must
be judged for his acts. Hamlet’s acts are energetic. He alone carries on
a long and bloody fight with the king and the entire Danish court. In
his tragic striving for the restoration of justice, he attacks the king
three times: the first time he kills Polonius by mistake; the second time
he spares the king because the latter is praying; and the third time, at
the end of the play, he succeeds. With superb ingenuity he sets a trap
to corroborate the statements of the ghost. He deftly eliminates
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern from his path. Indeed, he conducts a
titanic struggle... Hamlet’s versatile, strong character corresponds to
his physical fitness: Laertes is the best fencer in France, yet Hamlet
defeats him because he turns out to be more adroit (how this
contradicts Turgenev’s assertion of Hamlet’s physical weakness!). The
protagonist of the tragedy shows a maximum of will. ... We would not
feel the tragedy in Hamlet if its hero were irresolute and weak.” There
is nothing new in outlining those traits in Hamlet which denote his
strength and courage. This has been done many times before as has the
demonstration of the obstacles facing Hamlet. What is new is the
treatment of the material which deals with Hamlet’s irresolution and
weakness. According to Volkenshteyn all the monologues in which
Hamlet reproaches himself for his lack of resolution are but
instruments to whip up his will; they do not illustrate weakness, but
rather his strength.
Thus, according to Volkenshteyn, Hamlet’s self-accusations are yet
another evidence of his extraordinary strength of character. His titanic
struggle requires a maximum of effort and fortitude, but he is not
satisfied with himself and he demands still more of himself. This
interpretation proves that the contradictions are not accidental but have
been introduced intentionally and that, moreover, they are only
seemingly fortuitous. Any mention of weakness and irresolution is
evidence of exactly the opposite—Hamlet’s formidable will. But even
this attempt to solve Hamlet’s problem is not entirely successful. As a
matter of fact, it repeats, only in slightly different terms, the earlier
view of Hamlet’s character, without explaining why he procrastinates,
why he does not kill the king in the first act, immediately after the
revelations of the ghost (as suggested by Brandes), or why the tragedy
does not end with the first act. We are thus forced to side with Werder,
who claims that the exterior obstacles represent the true cause of
Hamlet’s procrastination. This view, however, is in complete
contradiction with the meaning of the play. We may agree, though,
with the fact that Hamlet is conducting a titanic struggle, if we proceed
from Hamlet’s own character. Let us assume that tremendous forces
are concentrated within him. But with whom does he conduct his
struggle, against whom is it directed, and how does it express itself?
No sooner are these questions asked than it becomes obvious that
Hamlet’s opponents are nonentities and the forces preventing him
from murder are insignificant; he himself blindly gives in to the
machinations directed against him. The critic cannot but note that
although prayer saves the king’s life once, there is hardly any
indication that Hamlet is devout or that he spares the praying king
because of any deep personal conviction. On the contrary, this reason
crops up as if by accident and is almost incomprehensible to the
spectator. The accidental killing of Polonius proves that Hamlet’s
decision to kill was made immediately after the players’ performance
before the court. Why, then, does his sword smite the king only at the
very end of the tragedy? Finally, no matter how premeditated or
accidental, no matter how limited by outward circumstances his
struggle may be, most of the time Hamlet is parrying blows directed
against him rather than carrying on his own attack. The murders of
Guildenstern and all the rest are nothing but self-defense, and we
cannot possibly term such self-defense a titanic struggle. We will show
that Hamlet’s three attempts to kill the king, to which Volkenshteyn
refers, are evidence of exactly the opposite of what that critic sees in
them.
Equally poor interpretation was the staging of Hamlet by the Second
Moscow Art Theatre, a production which followed Volkenshteyn’s
line closely. The directors proceeded from the clash of two distinct
aspects of human nature. “One is protesting, heroic, fighting to assert
its own sense of life. This is our Hamlet. In order to emphasize this
aspect of our hero we hid to shorten the text of the tragedy
considerably and eliminate from it all that could possibly interfere
with the whirl of events. ...As early as the middle of the second act
Hamlet takes his sword in his hand and does not let it go until the end
of the tragedy. We have also underscored Hamlet’s activity by
condensing all the obstacles which he encounters in his path. This was
our guideline in the treatment of the king and the other characters.
King Claudius personifies everything that attempts to thwart the heroic
Hamlet...And our Hamlet dwells continuously in an impassioned state
of struggle against all that is personified by the king ... To emphasize
the shades and colors in the play we found it necessary to transfer the
action to the Middle Ages.” Thus spoke the directors of the play in
their announcement of plans for the staging of Hamlet. They admit
quite openly that for stage requirements and for better understanding
of the tragedy they had to perform the following three operations on
the play: to discard from it everything that prevents such an
understanding; to condense the obstacles that lie in Hamlet’s way; and
to accentuate the shades and colors in the play, while transferring the
action to the Middle Ages (despite the fact that the play is usually seen
as taking place during the Renaissance). After three such operations it
is obvious that any and all interpretations of the drama are possible. It
is also obvious that these three operations transform the tragedy into
something diametrically opposed to the author’s intent. The fact that
such radical surgery was required to produce a particular interpretation
of Shakespeare’s work is the best evidence of the immense
discrepancy between the true meaning of Hamlet’s story and the
meaning attributed to it by the critics. To illustrate the almost colossal
contradictions which beset this staged version of Hamlet, it suffices to
mention that the king, who has a fairly modest role in the original play,
suddenly becomes the heroic counterpart to Hamlet . If Hamlet, as the
focal point of heroic, enlightened will, is one of the tragedy’s poles,
then the king, as the focal point of the antiheroic, dark power, is its
other pole. But to reduce the role of the king to The personification of
all the negative principles of life would require the writing of a new
tragedy with a purpose different from that pursued by Shakespeare.
Much closer to the truth are those explanations of Hamlet’s
irresolution which, while also proceeding from formal considerations,
try to solve the riddle without performing major surgical operations on
the original text. One such attempt is an explanation of some of the
peculiarities of Hamlet based on the technique and design of the
Shakespearean stage . Its importance, cannot be denied; indeed study
of the subject is vital to a proper understanding of the tragedy. In this
regard, significance is acquired by Prels’ law of temporal continuity in
the Shakespearean drama which requires from both audience and
author a concept of staging totally different from that of our modern
theaters. We divide a play into acts, each involving only the brief time
interval during which the events represented in it occur. Important
events, and their effects, take place between acts, and the audience
learns about them subsequently. Acts may be separated by intervals of
several years. All this requires specific stylistic techniques. Things
were totally different in Shakespeare’s day: the action was continuous,
a play apparently was not divided into acts, the performance was not
interrupted by intermissions, and everything happened before the eyes
of the audience. This important aesthetic convention was bound to
have a considerable bearing upon the composition and the structure of
any play. Many things become clear once we acquaint ourselves with
the technique and aesthetics of the stage of Shakespeare’s time. But if
we overstep the boundary and assume that by establishing the
necessity of some technical measure we have solved the problem of
the play, we commit a grave error. We must be able to discern the
extent to which each device is really due to the stage technique of that
time. This, however, is not sufficient, for we must also show the
psychological significance of the device. We must explain why from
among many such devices Shakespeare chose this one, since to admit
that a device can be explained only by its technical indispensability is
tantamount to a declaration of the supremacy of bare technique over
art. There is no doubt that the structure of a play greatly depends upon
its technique, but it is also true that each and every technical device
acquires its own aesthetic significance Here is a simple example.
Silverswan says: “The poet was greatly hampered by a specific stage
arrangement. Among the cases that show the inevitability of the exit of
the actors from the stage, or the impossibility of having the play or
scene end with a group of persons on stage, we have those in which
there are corpses on stage. They cannot be made to rise and walk out.
But in Hamlet, for instance, Fortinbras appears at the end (he is
otherwise totally superfluous), with many other people, for the sole
purpose of exclaiming:
Take up the bodies: such a sight as this
Becomes the field, but here shows much amiss.
Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
Exeunt all, bearing off the dead bodies.
The reader can find a great number of such instances if he reads
Shakespeare’s plays carefully. Here we have an example of an
interpretation of the final scene of Hamlet based solely upon technical
considerations. It is obvious that without a curtain, with the action
unfolding before the audience on an open stage, the playwright must
end his play in such a way as to allow someone to carry away the
corpses. Someone has to remove the bodies in the final scene of
Hamlet; however, this could be done in several different ways. The
bodies could be taken by the courtiers, or simply by the Danish guard.
Thus, even from this strictly technical necessity, we should never
conclude that Fortinbras appears only for the purpose of removing the
corpses, that he is otherwise totally superfluous. Let us look at Kuno
Fischer’s interpretation of the tragedy. He sees the theme of revenge
embodied in three different characters: Hamlet, Laertes, and Fortinbras,
all avengers of their respective fathers. Thus, it becomes immediately
evident that Fortinbras’ final appearance acquires a deep artistic
significance, since the revenge theme reaches its final resolution. The
procession of the victorious Fortinbras before the bodies of the other
two avengers, who have been constantly juxtaposed to him, is highly
significant. Here a strictly technical device acquires an aesthetic
meaning. We shall be forced more than once to resort to such an
analysis, and the rule established by Prels will prove very helpful in
explaining Hamlet’s procrastination. This, however, only the
beginning of the investigation. The principal task consists in arriving
at an understanding of the aesthetic expediency of a device once its
technical necessity on stage has been established. Otherwise we shall
have to conclude, with Brandes, that technique wholly dominates the
poet, not vice versa, and that Hamlet procrastinates during four acts
merely because Elizabethan plays were written in five acts rather than
one. We shall never understand why the same technique that confines
and restricts Shakespeare exactly as it does other authors creates one
aesthetic in Shakespeare’s work and another in the tragedies of his
contemporaries; or moreover, why the same technique compels
Shakespeare to write Othello, King Lear, Macbeth, and Hamlet in
completely different ways. Obviously, within the limits allowed the
poet by his technique, he retains freedom of creation and composition.
The same inadequacy is found in attempts to explain Hamlet entirely
from formal requirements, which establish perfectly correct rules that
may help to understand the tragedy but are totally inadequate for its
explanation. This is how Eichenbaum casually speaks about Hamlet:
“As a matter of fact, it is not because the action in the tragedy is
delayed that Schiller has to analyze the psychology of procrastination;
quite the contrary, Wallenstein [one of Schiller’s tragic heroes]
procrastinates because action in the tragedy must be held back, and the
delay must be concealed. The same happens with Hamlet. It is not in
vain that there exist directly contradictory interpretations of Hamlet as
a personality. All of these are correct in their own way, because all of
them are equally mistaken. Both Hamlet and Wallenstein represent
two aspects indispensable for the treatment of tragic forms: a driving
force and a delaying force. Instead of a simple movement forward on
the path of the subject, or plot, we have something like a dance with
complex movements. From a psychological point of view we run into
contradictions. This is inevitable, because psychology serves only as a
motivation: the hero only seems to be a personality; in reality he is a
mask.
Shakespeare introduces the ghost into his tragedy and makes a
philosopher out of Hamlet, thus motivating both movement and
procrastination. Schiller forces Wallenstein to become a traitor almost
against his will in order to create movement in the tragedy; then he
introduces astrology as a factor to bring about procrastination.
Here a number of perplexing questions arise. Let us agree with
Echenbaum that for the proper treatment of art forms, the protagonist
must simultaneously develop and delay the action. Can this insight
explain Hamlet? No more than the need to remove the corpses at the
end of the play can explain the appearance of Fortinbras. This is true
for both Shakespeare and Schiller. Why, then, has one written Hamlet,
and the other Wallenstein? Why have an identical stage technique and
identical formal requirements led once to the creation of Macbeth and
another time to Hamlet, two plays which are completely opposed in
their composition? Let us assume that the protagonist’s psychology is
nothing but the audience’s illusion and is introduced by the author
only as a motivation. But then, is the motivation chosen by the author
of any significance to the tragedy? Are the motivation and its selection
arbitrary? Does motivation mean anything in itself, or is the effect of
the rules of tragedy identical no matter what the motivation or the
concrete form of its manifestation, just as the correctness of an
algebraic formula remains constant, no matter what arithmetic values
are substituted in it?
Thus, formalism, which began with a healthy respect for concrete
form, degenerates to the point of reducing certain individual forms to
algebraic formulae. No one will contradict Schiller when he says that a
tragic poet “must drag out the torment of feelings”, but we cannot
understand why this torment is dragged out in Macbeth where the
action develops at a breath-taking pace, and again in Hamlet, where
the action is very slow. Eichenbaum believes that his formula explains
Hamlet completely. S hakespeare introduces the ghost as a motivation
for movement. He makes Hamlet into a philosopher in order to bring
about delay. Schiller uses other motivations—astrology in place of
philosophy and treason in place of a ghost. Why, then, do we have two
completely different consequences from one and the same cause? Or
must we admit that the cause given here may not be the true one or
that it may not explain everything sufficiently? Indeed, it may not even
explain the most superficial events. Here is an example: “For some
reason,”
says
Eichenbaum,
“we
love
‘psychologies’
and
‘characteristics.’ We naively believe that a writer wants to ‘express’ or
‘represent’ a psychology or a character. We rack our brains about
Hamlet—did Shakespeare really want to express procrastination, or did
he want to express something else? In point of fact, however, the artist
does not represent or express any such thing, for he is not concerned
with psychology. Nor do we go to see Hamlet to study psychology.” ‘
All this is true, of course, but does it follow that the choice of the
character or the psychology of the protagonist makes no difference to
the author? It is true that we do not see Hamlet in order to study the
psychology of procrastination, but it is equally true that were we to
change Hamlet’s character, the play would lose its entire effect. Of
course the author has not written the tragedy for the purpose of giving
a treatise on psychology or human character. Nevertheless, the hero’s
psychology and character are neither meaningless, random, nor
arbitrary elements they are extremely important aesthetically, and to
explain Hamlet in one sentence the way Eichenbaum does is not
satisfactory. If we claim that action is delayed in Hamlet because the
hero is a philosopher, then we must accept and repeat the opinion of
the dull books and articles Eichenbaum tries to disprove. Indeed the
traditional approach psychology and the study of character asserts that
Hamlet fails to kill the king because he is a philosopher. The same
shallow approach claims that the ghost is introduced in order to force
Hamlet into action. However, Hamlet could have gotten the
information from other sources. All we have to do is turn to the
tragedy itself to realize that action is not delayed by Hamlet’s
philosophy but by something else.
Those who want to study Hamlet as a psychological problem must
abandon criticism. We have tried to show how little guidance it gives
the scholar, and how it can occasionally lead investigators astray. The
first step toward a psychological study of Hamlet is to discard the
11,000 volumes of commentary that have crushed the hero under their
weight, and of which Tolstoy speaks with horror. The tragedy must be
taken as it stands if we are to understand what it reveals, not to the
sophisticated commentator but to the honest beholder; it has to be
taken in its unexplicated form and looked at as it is. Otherwise we
run the risk of interpreting a dream rather than studying the play. Only
one such attempt to look at Hamlet with unsophisticated simplicity is
known to us. It was made by Tolstoy who, with ingenious boldness,
wrote a brilliant article on Shakespeare which, for some unfathomable
reason, is generally considered stupid and uninteresting. This is what
he writes:
None of Shakespeare’s characters shows, in such a
striking fashion, the playwright’s - I don’t want to say
inability—complete
disregard
for
proper
characterization as does Hamlet. None of his other
plays reveals as much as Hamlet the blind worship of
Shakespeare, the unreasoning hypnosis which does not
even admit the thought that a work of Shakespeare’s
can be anything but brilliant or that one of his main
characters can be anything but the expression of some
new, deeply involved idea.
Shakespeare takes a reasonably good story or drama
written some 15 years earlier, writes his own play from
it, putting into the mouth of the principal character,
quite inopportunely (as he always does), all those ideas
of his own which he thinks worthy of consideration.
But, in doing so ... he is totally unconcerned about
when and under what circumstances these ideas are
uttered. Thus the character who expresses all these
ideas becomes Shakespeare’s mouthpiece and loses his
own essence to the extent that his deeds do not
correspond to his words.
Hamlet’s personality is quite understandable in the
story from which Shakespeare drew his play. He is
outraged by his uncle’s and mother’s deed, wants to
take vengeance on them, but is afraid his uncle might
kill him as he did his father, and therefore feigns
insanity. ...
All this is clear, and it follows from Hamlet’s character
and position. But by putting into Hamlet’s mouth those
ideas which Shakespeare wants to tell the world, and
by forcing him to perform those actions which
Shakespeare needs for preparing the most effective
scenes, the author destroys the character of the Hamlet
of the legend. For the entire duration of the play
Hamlet does not act the way he might want or might
like to, but the way the author requires him to act: at
one time he is terrorized by his father’s ghost, and
another time he chaffs at him, calling him an old mole;
first he loves Ophelia, later he teases her cruelly, and so
forth. It is impossible to find an explanation for
Hamlet’s actions or words, and it is therefore
impossible to assign to him any character at all.
But since it is generally accepted that the great
Shakespeare could not possibly write anything bad,
scholars and critics have racked, and are racking their
brains to discover some unusual beauty in an obvious
defect, which is particularly evident and quite irritating
in Hamlet, where the protagonist has no character. The
wise critics now proclaim that Hamlet expresses, with
extraordinary power, a completely new and profound
character, whose distinguishing feature is the absence
of character, and that only the genius of a Shakespeare
could create such a profound characterless character.
Having established this, the scholarly critics proceed to
write volume upon volume to praise and explain the
greatness and significance of the characterization of a
person without character. It is true that some of the
critics occasionally produce timid remarks that there
might be something odd about that character, that
Hamlet is an unsolvable riddle; but no one finds the
courage to say that the emperor is naked, that it is
perfectly plain that Shakespeare was either unable or
unwilling to give Hamlet a specific character. Nor did
he understand that it was at all necessary. And so the
scholarly critics continue to study, investigate, and
extol this mysterious literary production. ...
We defer to Tolstoy’s opinion, not because we believe his
conclusions to be correct or absolutely trustworthy. The reader will
understand that Tolstoy’s final judgment of Shakespeare issues from
non-artistic motivations; the decisive factor in his moral condemnation
of Shakespeare is the fact that he regards the latter’s morals as
irreconcilable with his own moral ideals. We must bear in mind that
this moralistic approach has led Tolstoy to disapprove not only of
Shakespeare but of many other authors and their works. Toward the
end of his life he considered even his own writings harmful and
unworthy, proving that this moralistic view reaches beyond the
boundaries of art, is too broad and universal to take account of details,
and cannot be applied in the psychological investigation of art.
However, Tolstoy supports his moralistic conclusions with purely
aesthetic arguments; these appear to be so convincing as to destroy
that unreasoning and unreasonable hypnosis which surrounds
Shakespeare and his opus. Tolstoy looks at Hamlet with the eyes of the
child in Andersen’s fairy tale of the emperor’s new clothes; he is the
first who has the courage to say that the emperor is naked, i.e., that all
the merits, such as profundity, precision of character, penetration of
the depths of the human psyche, and so forth, exist only in the
spectator’s imagination. Tolstoy’s greatest merit lies in his statement
that the emperor is naked, with which he exposes not primarily
Shakespeare but the preposterous and false concept of the Bard, with
which he compares his own opinion which he considers diametrically
opposed to the one accepted by the entire civilized world. Thus,
pursuing a moralistic aim, Tolstoy destroys one of the most absurd
prejudices in the history of literature. He was the first to express boldly
what now has been confirmed by many, namely, that Shakespeare fails
to give convincing psychological motivation to quite a few of the
intrigues and actions in his plays, that his characters are often
implausible, and that frequently there are serious incongruities,
unacceptable to common sense, between the protagonist’s character
and his actions. Stoll, for instance, bluntly asserts that in Hamlet
Shakespeare is more interested in the situation than in the hero’s
character, that Hamlet should be viewed as a tragedy of intrigue in
which the decisive role is played by the sequence of events and not by
the disclosure of the hero’s character. Rugg holds the same view. He
speculates that Shakespeare does not entangle the action in order to
complicate Hamlet’s character, but that he complicates the character to
make the hero fit more easily into the traditional dramatic concept of
the fable. Such commentaries are by no means unique, nor do they
stand alone among other conflicting opinions. In other Shakespearean
plays, quite a few facts have been found which prove incontestably
that Tolstoy’s assertion is basically correct. We will show how
Tolstoy’s opinion can be properly applied to such tragedies as Othello,
and King Lear, how convincing he has roved the irrelevance of
character in Shakespeare’s works and how precisely he has understood
the aesthetic significance of Shakespeare’s language.
We take, as the starting point for our discussion, the obvious view,
according to which no specific character can be assigned to Hamlet,
for he is made up of contradictory traits, and it is impossible to find a
credible explanation for his words and actions. However, we will
dispute Tolstoy’s views on Shakespeare’s complete inability to
represent the artistic progress of the action. Tolstoy fails to understand,
or perhaps does not want to accept, Shakespeare’s aesthetics. By
narrating the latter’s artistic devices in plain language, he transposes
the author’s poetic language into a language of prose, removes the
devices from the aesthetic functions which they perform in the
drama—and reaches a nonsensical conclusion. This, of course, is
bound to happen if we perform a similar operation on the work of any
other poet and deprive his text of its proper sense by narrating the
story in plain language. Tolstoy proceeds to recount King Lear, scene
by scene, to show the preposterousness of their concatenation. Were
we to do the same to his Anna Karenina, we would reduce that novel
to a similar bundle of absurd nonsense. What Tolstoy says about Anna
Karenina can also be applied to King Lear. It is impossible to retell the
facts of a novel or a tragedy and express its meaning, because meaning
can only be found in the combination of ideas. Tolstoy claims that this
combination is not made up of thoughts but of “something else” which
cannot be expressed in words but only through images, scenes,
situations, and so forth. To retell King Lear in one’s own words is as
impossible as putting music into words. This is why narration is the
least convincing method of artistic critique. His basic mistake,
however, did not prevent Tolstoy from making a number of brilliant
discoveries which will supply students of Shakespeare with many
interesting problems for years to come and which of course will be
interpreted in a way different from Tolstoy’s. While we agree with
Tolstoy that Hamlet has no character, we persevere in our argument:
Could this lack of character be an artistic intention of the author rather
than just a mistake? Of course Tolstoy is right when he points out the
absurdity of those arguments that maintain that the depth of
Shakespeare’s character lies in this absence of character. We cannot
dismiss the idea, however, that in this tragedy, Shakespeare had no
intention of revealing, describing or studying a character per se, and
that he may intentionally have used a character totally unfit for the
particular events of the play in order to obtain a specific artistic effect
from the paradox.
We shall show the fallacy of the idea that Shakespeare’s Hamlet is a
tragedy of character. At this point, however, we shall merely assume
that the lack of character is the author’s intention, and that he uses it as
a device for specific artistic purposes. We shall begin by analyzing the
structure of the tragedy.
We can proceed with our analysis in three different ways: First, we
have the sources used by Shakespeare, the original treatment of the
material; then, the plot of the tragedy; and, finally, a new and more
complex artistic feature—the dramatis personae. We shall now try to
determine the interrelationship between these three elements.
Tolstoy rightly begins his investigation by comparing the original
saga of Hamlet with Shakespeare’s tragedy. In the saga everything is
clear and understandable. The motives behind the prince’s acts are
obvious. The action is well coordinated, and each step is justified both
psychologically and logically. Many of the earlier studies of the play
have elaborated this point sufficiently. The riddle of Hamlet could
hardly have sprung up if the story had been confined to the old sources,
or at least to its older pre-Shakespearean dramatic forms, since there is
absolutely nothing mysterious or obscure in them. This fact enables us
to draw a conclusion diametrically opposed to Tolstoy’s view that all
is clear and obvious in the legend but muddled and unreasonable in
Hamlet and that consequently Shakespeare has spoiled the legend. It is
more correct to follow an opposite trend of thought: since everything
is logical and understandable in the saga, Shakespeare had available to
him ready-made logical and psychological motives. If he chose to
process this material so as to ignore all the obvious ties which hold the
original saga together, he must have had a special intention. We are
inclined to believe that Shakespeare created Hamlet’s enigma for
stylistic reasons and that it is not the result of the author’s inability.
We therefore choose to approach the problem from a different angle.
As a matter of fact, we no longer consider it to be an unsolved riddle
or a difficulty to be overcome; we consider it an intentional artistic
device that we must try to understand. The question we ask is, “Why
does Shakespeare make Hamlet delay,” rather than, “Why does
Hamlet delay?” Any artistic method, or device, can be grasped much
more easily from its teleological trend (the psychological function it
performs) than from its causal motivation, which may explain a
literary fact but never an aesthetic one.
To find an answer to the question of why Shakespeare makes
Hamlet delay, we must compare the Hamlet legend with the plot of the
tragedy. We have already mentioned that the treatment of the plot
follows the law of dramatic composition, prevalent in Shakespeare’s
time, known as the law of temporal continuity. Action on stage was
considered continuous, and consequently the play proceeded according
to a time concept completely different from that of contemporary plays.
The stage was never empty, not even for an instant. While a dialogue
took place on stage, some lengthy events of perhaps several days’
duration occurred backstage, as the audience learned several scenes
later. The spectator thus did not perceive the passing of real time, for
the playwright operated with a fictitious stage time of totally different
proportions. Consequently, there figures a tremendous distortion of the
concept of time in the Shakespearean tragedy. The duration of events,
everyday occurrences, and actions are distorted to fit the requirement
of stage time. How absurd then it is to talk of Hamlet’s temporizing in
terms of real time! By what real time units could we measure his
procrastination? The real time periods are in constant contradiction in
the tragedy and there is no way of determining the true duration of
events in the tragedy. We are unable to estimate how much time
elapses between the first apparition of the ghost and the killing of the
king. Is it a day, a month, a year? It is therefore evident that the
problem of Hamlet’s procrastination cannot be solved psychologically.
If he kills the king only a few days after the first appearance of the
ghost, then there is no delay, no procrastination, in terms of the course
of our everyday life. But if it takes him longer, we must seek different
psychological explanations for different periods of time; that is, there
is one explanation if it takes him a month and another if it takes him a
year to kill his uncle. In the tragedy, Hamlet is not in any way bound
by these units of real time, since all the events of the play are
measured and related to one another in terms of conventional stage
time units. Does this mean that the question of Hamlet’s delaying no
longer arises? Could it be that the author allocated to the action exactly
the amount of time it requires on stage and that therefore everything
happens on schedule? We shall see that this is not the case. Indeed, all
we have to do is remind ourselves of the monologues in which Hamlet
reproaches himself for procrastinating. The tragedy apparently
emphasizes the temporizing of its hero and, surprisingly enough, gives
several quite different explanations for this procrastination.
Let us follow the main plot of the tragedy. Immediately upon the
revelation of the ghost’s secret, when Hamlet learns that he has been
charged with the duty of revenge, he says that he will fly to revenge on
wings as swift as love’s desire. From the pages of memory he deletes
all the thoughts, feelings, and dreams of his entire life, to devote
himself entirely to the secret behest. Already at the end of this scene he
sighs under the unbearable burden of the discovery that has befallen
him. He bemoans the fact that he was born to perform a fateful exploit.
After his talk with the actors, Hamlet reproaches himself for the first
time for his inaction. It astonishes him that an actor is carried away by
passion and inflamed by a meaningless plot, while he himself remains
silent and inactive in the face of the crime which has destroyed the life
and the reign of a great sovereign—his father. The remarkable thing in
this famous monologue is Hamlet’s inability to understand the reason
for his delay. He reproaches himself by speaking of shame and
dishonor, but he alone knows that he is no coward. Here we are given
the first motive for delaying the death of the king: perhaps the words
of the ghost are not to be believed. Indeed, the accusations must be
thoroughly verified. So, Hamlet sets his famous “mousetrap,” and only
after it snaps are all his doubts gone. Since the king has given himself
away, Hamlet no longer doubts the veracity of the ghost. When
Hamlet’s mother calls him, he convinces himself not to lift his sword
against her:
’Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on. Soft! Now to my mother.
O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom:
Let me be cruel, not unnatural;
I will speak daggers to her, but use none;
My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites;
How in my words soever she be shent,
To give them seals never, my soul, consent! (III, 2)
Hamlet now is ready to kill, and he fears that he might even harm
his own mother. Oddly enough, this realization is followed by the
prayer scene. Hamlet enters, takes his sword, and places himself
behind the king whom he could kill on the spot. We have left Hamlet
ready to avenge, ready to kill, we have left him as he was convincing
himself not to raise arms against his mother; now we expect him to
perform his act. But instead we hear
Now might I do it pat, now he is praying;
And now I’ll do’t: and so he goes to heaven ... (III, 3)
A few verses later Hamlet sheathes his sword and gives a
completely new reason for his procrastination: he does not want to kill
the king while the latter is praying or atoning.
Up, sword; and know thou a more horrid hent:
When he is drunk asleep, or in his rage,
Or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed,
At gaining, swearing, or about some act
That has no relish of salvation in’t,
Then trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven,
And that his soul may be as damn’d and black
As hell, whereto he goes. My mother stays:
This physic but prolongs thy sickly days. (III, 3)
In the next scene Hamlet kills Polonius, who is hiding behind a
tapestry, by unexpectedly making a pass with his sword through the
arras and calling out “A rat!” From this, and from his words to the
dead Polonius it is obvious that he intended to kill the king, who is
precisely the rat caught in the mousetrap; it is the king to whom
Hamlet refers as “thy better” and for whom he mistook Polonius. The
motives that have stopped Hamlet in the preceding scene have
disappeared, so much so that it appears irrelevant. One of the two
scenes must include an obvious contradiction if the other is correct.
Kuno Fischer says that most critics consider the scene of Polonius’
killing to be proof of Hamlet’s unplanned, thoughtless actions. Many
productions, and quite a few critics, omit the prayer scene because
they fail to understand how it is possible to introduce a new motive for
procrastination without prior preparation. Nowhere in the tragedy,
either earlier or later, does this new condition for killing the king (to
kill him while he is sinning in order to destroy his soul after death)
appear. During Hamlet’s scene with his mother the ghost appears
again, and Hamlet thinks that he has come to reproach him for putting
off the revenge. Hamlet does not resist being exiled to England; in the
monologue after the scene with Fortinbras he compares himself to that
courageous leader, and once again reproaches himself for his weak
will and inactivity. He feels that his procrastination is a disgrace, and
finishes his monologue resolutely:
O, from this time forth
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth! (IV, 4)
Later when we find Hamlet in the graveyard, or again talking to
Horatio, or finally during the duel, there is no mention of revenge. Not
until the very end of the play is Hamlet’s promise that he will think
only about blood kept. Before the duel he is full of premonitions:
Not a whit, we defy augury; there’s a special
providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, ’tis not
to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not
now, yet it will come: the readiness is all: since no man
has aught of what he leaves, what is’t to leave betimes?
(V, 2)
He feels that his death is approaching, and so does the audience. Not
until the very end of the duel does he think about revenge. The final
catastrophe seems to be contrived for completely different reasons.
Hamlet does not kill the king to fulfill his promise to the ghost. The
spectator learns that Hamlet is virtually dead because the poison is
already in his blood and he has less than half an hour to live. Only now,
with one foot in the grave, does he kill the king.
The final scene leaves absolutely no doubt that Hamlet kills the king
for his latest crime: the poisoning of the queen, and the killing of
Laertes and Hamlet himself. Not a word is said about Hamlet’s father,
and the audience has completely forgotten about him. The denouement
is astonishing and inexplicable—nearly all the critics agree that the
killing of the king leaves us with the feeling of duty unfulfilled, or, at
best, fulfilled by default.
The play, it would appear, was obscure and enigmatic because
Hamlet had not killed the king. Now that he has performed the killing,
the enigma should vanish; instead it has really only now become
apparent. Mezieres quite correctly states: “Indeed, everything in the
last scene surprises us; everything from the beginning to the end is
unexpected. Throughout the play we have been waiting for Hamlet to
kill the king. Finally he strikes—but no sooner does he perform the
deed than we are again astonished and bewildered.” Says Sokolovskii,
“The last scene of the tragedy is based on a collision of accidental
circumstances that happen so unexpectedly and so suddenly that some
commentators with old-fashioned views have accused Shakespeare of
blundering. The intervention of an external force had to be invented. ...
It is purely accidental, and in the hands of Hamlet it functions like
those sharp weapons which we occasionally allow children to handle
but all the while guide their grip on the hilt.”
Berné is correct in saying that in killing the king Hamlet avenges
not only his father but his mother and himself as well. Johnson
reproaches Shakespeare for having the king killed not according to a
premeditated plan but as a totally unexpected accident. Alfonso states,
“The killing of the king is due to events totally beyond Hamlet’s
control; it is not the result of a well-prepared plan. Had it been left
entirely to Hamlet, the king would never have been killed.” If we take
a closer look at this new line of plot, we see that Shakespeare at times
emphasizes Hamlet’s procrastination and at other times conceals it. He
composes several scenes in a row without ever mentioning the task set
before the prince, and then he has Hamlet reveal his weakness once
more in statements and monologues. The audience is reminded of
Hamlet’s procrastination in sudden, explosion like spurts, rather than
being apprised of it in a continuous, uniform fashion. After the sudden
explosion of a monologue, the spectator looks back and vividly
realizes the existence of procrastination. But the author rapidly covers
it up until the next explosion, and so on. In the spectator’s mind are
combined two fundamentally incompatible ideas. On the one hand,
Hamlet must avenge his father and let no internal or external causes
prevent him from going into action. The author even plays with the
audience’s impatience and makes it see Hamlet draw his sword but
then, quite unexpectedly, not strike. On the other hand, the audience
realizes that Hamlet is delaying, but fails to understand why. It
observes the drama of Hamlet evolve, torn by contradictions, evading
the clearly set task and constantly straying from the path which is so
clearly outlined.
Given such treatment of the subject, we may plot our
interpretational curve of the tragedy. The plot of our story runs in a
straight line, and if Hamlet had killed the king immediately after
hearing the ghost’s revelations, he would cover the distance between
these two events in the shortest possible way. The author, however,
proceeds in a different fashion. Because at all times he lets us see, feel,
and be aware of the straight line which the action should follow, we
are even more keenly conscious of the digressions and loops it
describes in actual fact.
It appears as if Shakespeare had set himself the task of pushing the
plot from its straight path onto a devious and twisted one. It is quite
possible to find in these the series of events and facts indispensable for
the tragedy, on account of which the play describes its oblique orbit.
We must resort to synthesis, to the physiology of the tragedy, in order
to understand this fully. We must try to guess the function assigned to
this curve from the significance of the whole. We must try to find out
why the author, with such exceptional and in many respects unique
boldness, forces the tragedy to deviate from its straight path.
Let us consider the end of the tragedy. Two things immediately
strike the critic’s eye. First of all, the main line of development of the
tragedy is fuzzy and obscured. The king is killed in the course of a
melee; he is but one of four victims, whose deaths occur as suddenly
as a bolt from the blue. The audience is caught by surprise, for it does
not expect events to proceed in this fashion. The motives for the king’s
death are so obviously implicit in the final scene that the audience
forgets that it has finally reached the point to which the tragedy had
been leading without actually reading it. As soon as Hamlet sees the
queen die, he shouts:
O villany! Ho! let the door be lock’d:
Treachery! Seek it out.
Laertes reveals to Hamlet that these plots are all the king’s. Hamlet
then exclaims:
The point envenom’d too!
Then, venom, to thy work.
Finally, as he gives the king the poisoned goblet,
Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane,
Drink off this potion. Is thy union here?
Follow my mother.
Nowhere is there any mention of Hamlet’s father, and all the
motivations are based on the events of the last scene. Thus the tragedy
reaches its catastrophe, but it is concealed from the spectator that this
is precisely the point to which the plot development has been directed.
Yet, in addition to this direct camouflage another, exactly opposing
one, reveals itself, and we can easily show that the scene of the killing
of the king is treated on two diametrically opposed psychological
planes: On the one hand, the king’s death is overshadowed by a series
of immediate causes, as well as other deaths; on the other hand, it is
distinguished from the series of killings in a way that has no
comparison in any other tragedy. All the other deaths come to pass
almost unnoticed. The queen dies, and no one seems to take note. Only
Hamlet bids her farewell “Wretched queen, adieu!” Even Hamlet’s
own death seems to be blurred and overshadowed. Once dead, nothing
is said about him any more. Laertes dies inconspicuously and,
significantly, he exchanges forgiveness with Hamlet before his life
leaves him. He forgives Hamlet Polonius’ death and his own, and begs
Hamlet to forgive him for having killed him. This sudden and quite
unnatural change in Laertes’ character has no motivation in the tragedy.
It is necessary only to calm the audience’s reaction to these deaths and
make the king’s death stand out more clearly against this dimmed
background. As mentioned earlier the king’s death is made to stand
out by means of a highly exceptional device that has no equal in any
other tragedy. What is so unusual about this scene is the fact that for
some unexplained reason Hamlet kills the king twice, first with the
tainted sword, then with the poisoned potion. Why? The action does
not call for it. Both Laertes and Hamlet die from the effect of one
poison only, that on the sword. It would appear that the killing of the
king has been split into two separate actions, to emphasize it and to
impress upon the audience the fact that the tragedy has reached its
conclusion. We can easily find a reason for this double killing of the
king, which would appear to be absurd from a methodological
viewpoint and futile from a psychological viewpoint. The meaning of
the tragedy is in its catastrophe, the killing of the king, which we have
been expecting from the first act on, but which we reach by a totally
different, unexpected path. In fact, the catastrophe comes as a result of
a new plot, and when we reach that point we do not immediately
realize that it is the point to which the tragedy has been carrying us all
along.
It now becomes clear that at this point (the king’s double death)
converge two distinct lines of action, each of which we have seen go
its own way, and each of which must end in its own, separate death.
But no sooner does the double killing happen then the poet begins to
blur this device of short-circuiting the two lines of the catastrophe. In
the brief epilogue in which Horatio, in the manner of all
Shakespearean narrator-players, briefly retells what has happened in
the play, the king’s death is once again obscured:
And let me speak to the yet unknowing world
How these things came about: so shall you hear
Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts,
Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters,
Of deaths put on by cunning and forc’d cause,
And, in this upshot, purposes mistook
Fall’n on the inventors’ heads: all this can I
Truly deliver.
In this general mass of “bloody acts and casual slaughters” the
catastrophe of the tragedy is once again diluted to the point of
obliteration. In this climactic scene we come to realize the tremendous
power of the artistic treatment of the subject, and witness the effects
that Shakespeare manages to draw from it. A closer look into the
sequence of these deaths reveals that Shakespeare perverts their
natural order to obtain a satisfactory artistic effect. The deaths form a
melody, as if they were individual notes. In actual fact the king dies
before Hamlet, but in the artistically treated plot we do not hear about
the king’s death. All we do know is that Hamlet is dying and that he
will not live for another half hour. Though we know that he is virtually
dead and that he received his wound before anyone else, he outlives
the rest of the victims. All these groupings and regroupings of the
basic events serve to satisfy one requirement, that of the psychological
effect. When we learn of Hamlet’s imminent death we lose, once and
for all, any hope that the tragedy will ever reach the point toward
which it has been developed. We are convinced, indeed, that all events
are running in the opposite direction. But at that very instant, when we
least expect it, and are personally convinced that it is impossible, the
catastrophe does finally come to pass. Hamlet, in his last words, points
to some mysterious hidden meaning in all the preceding events. He
asks Horatio to recount how everything happened, and why, and asks
him to give an impartial description of the events, the one that the
audience might also remember, and concludes, “The rest is silence.”
And it is indeed silence for the audience, since the rest happens in the
unexpressed sequels that arise from this extraordinarily constructed
play. More recent investigators quite willingly underscore that eternal
complexity of the play which earlier critics neglected to notice. “We
see here several plots running parallel: the story of the murder of
Hamlet’s father and Hamlet’s vengeance, the story of Polonius’ death
and Laertes’ vengeance, Ophelia’s story, Fortinbras’ story, the
episodes with the actors, Hamlet’s trip to England, and so on. The
action changes location no less than twenty times. In each individual
scene we witness rapid changes of theme, character and location. An
element of arbitrariness prevails ... There is much talk about intrigue ...
and many episodes that interrupt, or change, the course of action.”
However, Tomashevskii misses the point by claiming that these
sudden changes are only a matter of the variety and diversity of the
subject. The episodes that interrupt or change the course of action are
closely connected with the basic plot. They include the episodes with
the actors and with the gravediggers who in a grimly jocular way
re-narrate Ophelia’s death, the killing of Polonius, and all the rest. The
plot of the tragedy, in its final form, unfolds before us in the following
way: the story on which the tragedy is based is conserved. From the
very beginning, the audience has a clear view of the outline of the
action and of the path along which it should develop. The action,
however, constantly strays from the path set by the plot and meanders
in quite complex curves. At some junctures, such as in Hamlet’s
monologues, the audience is informed, in spurts, that the tragedy has
left the preset track. These monologues, in which Hamlet bitterly
reproaches himself for procrastinating, are primarily meant to make us
realize that things are not evolving the way they should and to keep us
aware of the final point toward which all action is directed. After each
monologue, we hope that the action will right itself and fall back into
the preset path, until a new monologue reveals to us that the action has
once more gone astray. As a matter of fact, the structure of the tragedy
can be expressed by two very simple formulas. The formula of the
story is that Hamlet kills the king to avenge the death of his father; that
of the plot is that he does not kill the king. If the material of the
tragedy tells us how Hamlet kills the king to avenge the death of his
father, then, the plot of the tragedy shows us how he fails to kill him
and, when he finally does, that it is for reasons other than vengeance.
The duality of the story and the plot accounts for the action taking its
course on two different planes. Constant awareness of the preset path,
the deviations from it, and the internal contradictions, are an intrinsic
part of this play. Shakespeare apparently chose the most suitable
events to express what he wanted to say. He chose material that
definitely rushed toward a climax, but at the same time forced him to
deviate from it. Shakespeare used a psychological method quite
appropriately called the “method of teasing the emotions” by
Petrazhitskii, who wanted to introduce it as an experimental method.
In fact, the tragedy does nothing but tease our feelings. It promises the
fulfillment of the task set from the very beginning, but deviates again
and again from this goal, thus straining our expectations to the utmost
and making us quite painfully feel every step that leads away from the
main path. When the target is reached at last, it turns out that we have
been brought to it from a completely different direction; we also
discover that the two paths which led away from each other in
apparent conflict suddenly converge at one point during the final scene
(when the king is killed twice). The same motives that prevent the
killing of the king finally lead us to his death. The catastrophe reaches
a point of extreme contradiction, a short-circuiting of two currents
flowing in opposite directions. Add to this the fact that the evolving
plot is continuously interrupted by completely irrational events, and
we can see that the effect of mysteriousness and obscurity is one of the
fundamental motives of the author. We think of Ophelia’s madness, of
Hamlet’s intermittent insanity, of his deception of Polonius and the
courtiers, of the pompous and rather senseless declamation of the actor,
of the cynical conversation between Hamlet and Ophelia, of the
clownish scene of the gravediggers—and we discover that all this
material reworks the same events that occurred earlier in the play but
exaggerates them to some extent and emphasizes their absurdity, as in
a dream. Suddenly, we understand the true meaning of these events.
We may liken them to lightning rods of absurdity ingeniously placed
by the playwright at the most dangerous points of his tragedy, in order
to bring the affair somehow to an end and make the absurdity of
Hamlet’s tragedy plausible. However, the task of art, like that of
tragedy, is to force us to experience the incredible and absurd in order
to perform some kind of extraordinary operation with our emotions.
Poets use two devices for this purpose. First, there are the “lightning
rods of absurdity,” as we called all the irrational and absurd parts of
Hamlet. The action evolves in such an incredible way that it threatens
to become absurd. The internal contradictions are extreme. The
divergence between the two lines of action reaches its apogee and they
seem to burst asunder, tearing apart the entire tragedy. It is at this stage
that the action suddenly takes on the forms of paradox, pompous
declamation, cynicism, recurrent madness, open buffoonery. Against
this background of outspoken insanity the play’s absurdity slowly
becomes less marked and more credible. Madness and insanity are
introduced in massive doses to save the play’s meaning. Every time
absurdity threatens to destroy the play’s action, it is diverted by the
“lightning rod” which solves the catastrophe that is bound to happen
at any moment.
The other device used by Shakespeare to force us to put our feelings
into the paradox of the tragedy is the following: Shakespeare operates
with a double set of conventions stand up against actors, presents one
and the same event twice (once as the real event and then as one
played by the actors), splits actions in two and with the fictitious part,
the second convention, obliterates and conceals the absurdity of the
first “real” part.
Let us take an example. The actor recites the pathetic monologue of
Pyrrhus, becomes emotional, and weeps. Hamlet points out
immediately that the tears are only an act, that the actor weeps for
Hecuba (about whom he does not care), but that all the emotion and
passion are fictitious. But when Hamlet juxtaposes these fictitious
feelings to his own, we suddenly realize that Hamlet’s emotions are
true, and we an almost violently taken by them. Shakespeare uses the
same device of introducing a fictitious action in the famous scene of
the “Mousetrap.” The player king and queen play the fictitious murder
scene, while the real king and queen sit horrified by the representation.
This juxtaposition of actors and spectators on two different planes of
action makes us vividly realize that the king’s discomfiture is quite
real. The paradox on which the tragedy is based remains intact,
because it is protected by two reliable guardians: outright lunacy on
the one hand, compared to which the tragedy acquires an obvious
sense and significance, and outright fictitiousness on the other; this is
the second convention, next to which the actions occurring on the first
plane appear real. It is as if another picture were superimposed on the
first. In addition to this contradiction, there is another one in the
tragedy which is of equal importance for the artistic effect of the play.
The dramatis personae chosen by Shakespeare somehow do not quite
fit the action; moreover, Shakespeare convincingly disproves the
widespread belief that the individual characters of the dramatis
personae must determine their own actions. It would appear, however,
that if Shakespeare wanted to represent a killing that is somehow never
carried out, he must either follow Werder’s recommendation—to
surround the execution of the task with as many complicated obstacles
as possible in order to block the protagonist’s way, or he must follow
Goethe’s prescription—show that the task assigned the hero exceeds
his strength and requires of him a titanic performance, irreconcilable
with human nature. But Shakespeare had a third way out. He could
have followed Berné’s formula and made Hamlet a coward. However,
not only did he choose none of the three possibilities above, but he
operated in the exactly opposite direction. He thoroughly removed all
objective obstacles from the hero’s path that there is no indication in
the tragedy of what prevents Hamlet from killing the king immediately
after the ghost’s revelations. Furthermore, he gave Hamlet a fully
feasible objective (since in the course of the play, incidental
unimportant scenes, Hamlet kills three times). Finally, he portrayed
Hamlet as a man of exceptional energy and tremendous strength,
making him into a character opposite to the one actually required by
the plot.
To save the situation, the critics had to introduce the corrections
mentioned earlier, and either adapt the plot to the hero or adapt the
hero to the plot, for they proceeded from the incorrect assumption of a
direct relation between the hero and the plot—that the plot must grow
out of the characters of the play, just as these must be understood from
the plot.
All this is refuted by Shakespeare. He proceeds from the opposite
point of view, from the incompatibility between protagonist and plot,
the fundamental contradiction between character and events. Being
familiar with the fact that the subject was treated in contradiction to
the story, we can readily find the significance of the contradiction that
constantly arises in the play. There arises another unity from the
structure of the play, that of the dramatis personae, or the protagonist.
We shall show how the idea of the protagonist’s character develops. At
this point, however, we can assume that a poet who always plays with
the intimate contradiction between the subject and story can very
easily exploit this second contradiction between the character of his
protagonist and the unfolding action. Psychoanalysts are right in
asserting that the substance of the psychological effect of a tragedy
consists in our identification with the hero. It is quite correct that the
author forces us to view all the other characters, actions, and events
from the protagonist’s viewpoint. The hero becomes the point upon
which our attention is focused, and simultaneously serves as a support
for our feelings which would otherwise be lost in endless digressions
as we evaluate, empathize, and suffer with every character. Were we to
evaluate the king’s and Hamlet’s emotions or Polonius’ and Hamlet’s
hopes in the same way, our feelings would suffer constant changes and
oscillations in which one and the same event would appear to us to
have completely contradictory meanings. The tragedy, however,
proceeds in a different way. It shapes our feelings into a unity and
forces them to follow the protagonist alone and to perceive everything
through his eyes. It suffices to examine any tragedy, Hamlet in
particular, to realize that all its characters are portrayed as the
protagonist sees them. All the events are refracted by the lens of his
soul. The author actually builds his tragedy on two planes: on the one
hand, he sees everything with Hamlet’s eyes; but then he also views
Hamlet with his own – Shakespeare’s – eyes, so that the spectator
becomes at the same time Hamlet and his contemplator. This insight
explains the important roles played by the characters of the tragedy, in
particular Hamlet. We are dealing here with a completely new
psychological level. In the fable we discovered two meanings within
one and the same action. In the short story we discovered one level for
the story (subject) and one for the plot (material). In the tragedy we
uncover yet another level, the psyche and the emotions of the hero.
Since all three levels refer in the last analysis to the same facts taken in
three different contexts, it is obvious that they must contradict one
another, be it only to show that they mutually diverge. We can
understand how a tragic character is constructed if we use the
analogies devised by Christiansen in his psychological theory of
portraits. According to him, the problem of a portrait is primarily how
the painter portrays life in his painting, how he animates the face, and
how he obtains the effect characteristic only of portraits—the
representation of living persons. We will never find a difference
between a portraiture and non-portrait painting if we examine the
formal and material aspects only. (A non-portrait painting may of
course include faces just as a portrait may include a landscape or still
life.) Only if we base our search on the characteristic that distinguishes
the portrait, that is, the representation of a living person, will we be
able to determine the difference between the two. Christiansen
proceeds from the premise that “lifelessness and size are
interdependent. As the size of the portrait grows, its life becomes fuller
and more definite in its manifestations; motion becomes calmer and
steadier. Portrait painters know from experience that a larger head
talks better.”
Thus, our eyes detach themselves from one specific point in the
portrait upon which they have been focused (and which therefore loses
its immobile compositional center), and begin to wander about, “from
the eyes to the mouth, from one eye to the other, and observe all those
details which make up the expression of the face.”
At the various points at which the eye stops while examining the
portrait, it takes in a different expression of the face, a different mood,
a different feeling, and discovers the liveliness, the motion, the
succession of unequal and disparate states which are the distinguishing
mark of a portrait. Non-portrait paintings remain as they have been
originally painted, while portraits change constantly, whence their
liveliness. Christianson devised the following formula for the
psychological life of a portrait: “It is the physiognomic incongruity of
the various factors that makes up the expression of a face. Of course it
is possible, and, speaking in abstract terms, also more natural to have
the corners of the mouth, the eyes, and other parts of the face express
the same feeling or emotion or mood. ... Then the entire portrait would
resonate with the same tune. ... But then, like any tune, it would be
devoid of life. This danger of consistency is why the painter makes the
expression in one eye slightly different from that in the other, and
makes the effect of the corners of the mouth different again, and so
forth. However, it is not enough to paint different moods, expressions,
and feelings; they must also harmonize with one another. ... The
principal theme is given by the relationship between the eyes and
mouth: the mouth talks and the eyes answer. Excitement, will, and
tension are concentrated around the corners of the mouth, while the
relaxed calm of the intellect prevails in the eyes... . The mouth reveals
the instincts and the driving forces of a man. The eye shows what he
has become in his victory, defeat, or tired resignation. ...”
Christiansen interprets portraits as if they were dramas. A portrait
conveys not simply a face and an intimate feeling frozen into it, but far
more. It tells us of the changing emotions of a soul; it tells us its
history and its present life. A spectator approaches the problem of a
tragic character in a similar fashion. Character, strictly speaking, can
be expressed only in an epic, just as spiritual life can be expressed
only in a portrait. In order to be really alive, the tragic character must
be composed of contradictory traits and must carry us from one
emotion to another. The physiognomic incongruency among the
various details of the facial expression in a portrait is the basis for our
emotional reaction; and the psychological non-coincidence of the
various factors expressing the character in a tragedy is the basis for our
tragic sympathy. By forcing our feelings to alternate continuously to
the opposite extremes of the emotional range, by deceiving them,
splitting them and piling obstacles in their way, the tragedy can obtain
powerful emotional effect. When we see Hamlet, we feel as if we have
lived the lives of thousands of persons in one night; indeed, we have
experienced more than we would have in years of common, everyday
life. And at the point when, together with the hero, we begin to feel
that he no longer belongs to himself and no longer does the things he
should do, the tragedy acquires its strength. Hamlet expresses this
impuissance remarkably well in his love letter to Ophelia, “Thine
evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him.” Russian
translators usually translate the word machine as body because they
fail to understand that the essence of the tragedy lies in this one word.
(Boris Pasternak, incidentally, translates this correctly.) Goncharov
was quite right in saying that Hamlet’s tragedy is to be a man, not a
machine. Indeed, we begin to feel together with the hero like a
“machine of feelings,” directed and controlled by the tragedy itself.
We now come to the results of our study. We can formulate our
findings as a threefold contradiction on which the tragedy is based: the
contradiction involving the story, the plot, and the dramatis personae.
Each of these three factors develops in its own way, and it is perfectly
clear that a new element is introduced into the tragic genre. We
already dealt with split planes in the short story, when we experienced
events from two opposite directions, one given by the subject and the
other acquired in the plot. These two conflicting levels reappear in the
tragedy—we have mentioned several times that Hamlet causes our
emotions to move on two different levels. On the one hand we
perceive the goal toward which the tragedy moves, and on the other
we perceive its digressions as well. The new contribution of the
protagonist is that at any moment, he unifies both contradictory planes
and is the supreme and ever present embodiment of the contradiction
inherent in the tragedy. We have said that the tragedy is constructed
from the viewpoint of the protagonist, which means that the tragedy is
the force uniting the two opposing currents and combining in the
protagonist, two opposing emotions. Thus the two opposite levels of
the tragedy are perceived as a single unit, for they merge in the tragic
hero with whom we identify. The simple duality which we discovered
in the story is replaced in the tragedy by a much deeper and more
serious one, because of the fact that not only do we view the entire
tragedy through the protagonist’s eyes, but we in turn look at the
protagonist himself through our own eyes. This is as it should be; our
analysis of the tragedy proves it. We showed that it is at this point of
convergence that the two levels of the tragedy, which we had thought
were leading in diametrically opposed directions, meet. Their
unexpected convergence gives the tragedy its special character and
shows its events in an entirely different light. The spectator is deceived.
What he thought were deviations from the main thread of the tragedy
have led him to its final goal, but when he finally reaches it he does
not realize that it is the last stop on his trip. Now the contradictions
have changed roles; they are united, in the final analysis, in the
experiences of the protagonist which the spectator perceives as in a
dream. He is not relieved by the killing of the king, he experiences no
relaxation. Immediately after the killing of the king the audience’s
attention is attracted by another death, that of the protagonist, Hamlet.
This death makes the spectator at last aware of all the conflicts and
contradictions that besieged his conscious and unconscious self during
the play.
And when in Hamlet’s last words and Horatio’s narrative the
tragedy again describes its circle, the spectator is keenly aware of the
duality upon which it is built. Horatio’s narration returns him to the
tragedy’s external plane, to the “words, words, words.” The rest, to
speak with Hamlet, “is silence.”
Week 6（Naydina）: Art and Life
Art and Life (The Psychology of Art. Vygotsky 1925)
Theory of Contimination. Significance of Art in Life.
Social Significance of Art. Art Criticism, Art and
Teaching. The Art of the Future.
Now we must study the following questions: What significance does
art acquire if we assume that our interpretation of it is correct? What is
the relation between aesthetic response and all other forms of human
behavior? How do we explain the role and importance of art in the
general behavioral system of man? There are as many different
answers to these questions as there are different ways of evaluating the
importance of art. Some believe art is the supreme human activity
while others consider it nothing but leisure and fun. The evaluation of
art depends directly on the psychological viewpoint from which we
approach it. If we want to find out what the relationship between art
and life is, if we want to solve the problem of art in terms of applied
psychology, we must adopt a valid general theory for solving these
problems. The first and most widespread view holds that art infects us
with emotions and is therefore based upon contamination. Tolstoy says,
“The activity of art is based on the capacity of people to infect others
with their own emotions and to be infected by the emotions of
others. ... Strong emotions, weak emotions, important emotions, or
irrelevant emotions, good emotions or bad emotions – if they
contaminate the reader, the spectator, or the listener – become the
subject of art.
This statement means that since art is but common emotion, there is
no substantial difference between an ordinary feeling and a feeling
stirred by art. Consequently, art functions simply as a resonator, an
amplifier, or a transmitter for the infection of feeling. Art has n6
specific distinction; hence the evaluation of art must proceed from the
same criterion which we use to evaluate any feeling. Art may be good
or bad if it infects us with good or bad feelings. Art in itself is neither
good nor bad; it is a language of feeling which we must evaluate in
accordance with what it expresses. Thus, Tolstoy came to the natural
conclusion that art must be evaluated from a moral viewpoint; he
therefore approved of art that generated good feelings, and objected to
art that, from his point of view, represented reprehensible events or
actions. Many other critics reached the same conclusions as did
Tolstoy and evaluated a work of art on the basis of its obvious content,
while praising or condemning the artist accordingly. Like ethics, like
aesthetics – this is the slogan of this theory.
But Tolstoy soon discovered that his theory failed when he tried to
be consistent with his own conclusions. He compared two artistic
impressions: one produced by a large chorus of peasant women who
were celebrating the marriage of his daughter; and the other, by an
accomplished musician who played Beethoven’s Sonata. The singing
of the peasant women expressed such a feeling of joy, cheerfulness,
and liveliness that it infected Tolstoy and he went home in high spirits.
According to him, such singing is true art, because it communicates a
specific and powerful emotion. Since the second impression involved
no such specific emotions, he concluded that Beethoven’s sonata is an
unsuccessful artistic attempt which contains no definite emotions and
is therefore neither remarkable nor outstanding. This example shows
us the absurd conclusions that can be reached if the critical
understanding of art is based upon the criterion of its infectiousness.
Beethoven’s music incorporates no definite feeling, while the singing
of the peasant women has an elementary and contagious gaiety. If this
is true, then Yevlakhov is right when he states that “‘real, true’ art is
military or dance music, since it is more catchy.” Tolstoy is consistent
in his ideas; beside folk songs, he recognizes only “marches and
dances written by various composers” as works “that approach the
requirements of universal art.” A reviewer of Tolstoy’s article, V. G.
Valter, points out that “if Tolstoy had said that the gaiety of the
peasant women put him in a good mood, one could not object to that.
It would mean that the language of emotions that expressed itself in
their singing (it could well have expressed itself simply in yelling, and
most likely did) infected Tolstoy with their gaiety. But what has this to
do with art? Tolstoy does not say whether the women sang well; had
they not sung but simply yelled, beating their scythes, their fun and
gaiety would have been no less catching, especially on his daughter’s
wedding day.”
We feel that if we compare an ordinary yell of fear to a powerful
novel in terms of their respective infectiousness, the latter will fail the
test. Obviously, to understand art we must add something else to
simple infectiousness. Art also produces other impressions, and
Longinus’ statement, “You must know that the orator pursues one
purpose, and the poet another. The purpose of poetry is trepidation,
that of prose is expressivity,” is correct. Tolstoy’s formula failed to
account for the trepidation which is the purpose of poetry.
But to prove that he is really wrong, we must look at the art of
military and dance music and find out whether the true purpose of that
art is to infect. Petrazhitskii assumes that aestheticians are wrong when
they claim that the purpose of art is to generate aesthetic emotions only.
He feels that art produces general emotions, and that aesthetic
emotions are merely decorative. “For instance, the art of a warlike
period in the life of a people has as its main purpose the excitation of
heroic-bellicose emotions. Even now, military music is not intended to
give the soldiers in the field aesthetic enjoyment, but to excite and
enhance their belligerent feelings. The purpose of medieval art
(including sculpture and architecture) was to produce lofty religious
emotions. Lyric appeals to one aspect of our emotional psyche, satire
to another; the same applies to drama, tragedy, and so on ...
Apart from the fact that military music does not generate bellicose
emotions on the battlefield, the question is not properly formulated
here. Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii, for example, comes closer to the truth
when he says that “military lyrics and music ‘lift the spirit’ of the army
and ‘inspire’ feats of valor and heroic deeds, but neither of them leads
directly to bellicose emotions or belligerent affects. On the contrary,
they seem to moderate bellicose ardor, calm an excited nervous system,
and chase away fear. We can say that lifting morale, calming nerves,
and chasing away fear are among the most important practical
functions of ‘lyrics’ which result from their psychological nature. It is
therefore wrong to think that music can directly cause warlike
emotions; more precisely, it gives bellicose emotions an opportunity
for expression, but music as such neither causes nor generates them.
Something similar happens with erotic poetry, the sole purpose of
which, according to Tolstoy, is to excite lust. Anyone who understands
the true nature of lyrical emotions knows that Tolstoy is wrong.
“There is no doubt that lyrical emotion has a soothing effect on all
other emotions (and affects) to the point that at times it paralyzes them.
This is also the effect it has on sexuality with its emotions and affects.
Erotic poetry, if it is truly lyrical, is far less suggestive than works of
the visual arts in which the problems of love and the notorious sex
problem are treated with the purpose of producing a moral reaction.
Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii is only partly correct in his assumption that
sexual feeling, which is easily excited, is most strongly stirred by
images and thoughts, that these images and thoughts are rendered
harmless by lyrical emotion, and that mankind is indebted to lyrics,
even more than to ethics, for the taming and restraining of sexual
instincts. He underestimates the importance of the other art forms,
which he calls figurative, and does not remark that in their case also
emotions provoked by images are counteracted by the nonlyrical
emotion of art. Thus we see that Tolstoy’s theory does not hold in the
domain of the applied arts, where he thought its validity to be absolute.
As concerns great art (the art of Beethoven and Shakespeare), Tolstoy
himself pointed out that his theory is inapplicable. Art would have a
dull and ungrateful task if its only purpose were to infect one or many
persons with feelings. If this were so, its significance would be very
small, because there would be only a quantitative expansion and no
qualitative expansion beyond an individual’s feeling. The miracle of
art would then be like the bleak miracle of the Gospel, when five
barley loaves and two small fishes fed thousands of people, all of
whom ate and were satisfied, and a dozen baskets were filled with the
remaining food. This miracle is only quantitative: thousands were fed
and were satisfied, but each of them ate only fish and bread. But was
this not their daily diet at home, without any miracles?
If the only purpose of a tragic poem were to infect us with the
author’s sorrow, this would be a very sad situation indeed for art. The
miracle of art reminds us much more of another miracle in the Gospel,
the transformation of water into wine. Indeed, art’s true nature is that
of transubstantiation, something that transcends ordinary feelings; for
the fear, pain, or excitement caused by art includes something above
and beyond its normal, conventional content. This “something”
overcomes feelings of fear and pain, changes water into wine, and thus
fulfills the most important purpose of art. One of the great thinkers
said once that art relates to life as wine relates to the grape. With this
he meant to say that art takes its material from life, but gives in return
something which its material did not contain.
Initially, an emotion is individual, and only by means of a work of
art does it become social or generalized. But it appears that art by itself
contributes nothing to this emotion. It is not clear, then, why art should
be viewed as a creative act nor how it differs from an ordinary yell or
an orator’s speech. Where is the trepidation of which Longinus spoke,
if art is viewed only as an exercise in infectiousness? We realize that
science does not simply infect one person or a whole society with
thoughts and ideas, any more than technology helps man to be handy.
We can also recognize that art is an expanded “social feeling” or
technique of feelings, as we shall show later. Plekhanov states that the
relationship between art and life is extremely complex, and he is right.
He quotes Tairfe who investigated the interesting question of why
landscape painting evolved only in the city. If art were intended
merely to infect us with the feelings that life communicates to us, then
landscape painting could not survive in the city. History, however,
proves exactly the opposite. Taine writes, “We have the right to
admire landscapes, just as they had the right to be bored by it. For
seventeenth-century man there was nothing uglier than a mountain. It
aroused in him many unpleasant ideas, because he was as weary of
barbarianism as we are weary of civilization. Mountains give us a
chance to rest, away from our sidewalks, offices, and shops; we like
landscape only for this reason.” 6
Plekhanov points out that art is sometimes not a direct expression of
life, but an expression of its antithesis. The idea, of course, is not in
the leisure of which Taine speaks, but in a certain antithesis: art
releases an aspect of our psyche which finds no expression in our
everyday life. We cannot speak of an infection with emotions. The
effect of art is obviously much more varied and complex; no matter
how we approach art, we always discover that it involves something
different from a simple transmission of feelings. Whether or not we
agree with Lunacharskii that art is a concentration of life, we must
realize that it proceeds from certain live feelings and works upon those
feelings, a fact not considered by Tolstoy’s theory.
We have seen that this process is a catharsis – the transformation of
these feelings into opposite ones and their subsequent resolution. This
view of course agrees perfectly with Plekhanov’s principle of
antithesis in art. To understand this we must look at the problem of the
biological significance of art, and realize that art is not merely a means
for infection but something immeasurably more important in itself. In
his “Three Chapters of Historic Poetics,” Veselovskii says that ancient
singing and playing were born from a complex need for catharsis; a
chorus sung during hard and exhausting work regulates muscular
effort by its rhythm, and apparently aimless play responds to the
subconscious requirement of training and regulation of physical or
intellectual effort. This is also the requirement of psychophysical
catharsis formulated by Aristotle for the drama; it manifests itself in
the unsurpassed mastery of Maori women to shed tears at will, and
also in the overwhelming tearfulness of the eighteenth century. The
phenomenon is the same; the difference lies only in expression and
understanding. We perceive rhythm in poetry as something artistic and
forget its primitive psychophysical origins. The best repudiation of the
contamination theory is the study of those psychophysical principles
on which art is based and the explanation of the biological significance
of art. Apparently art releases and processes some extremely complex
organismic urges. The best corroboration of our viewpoint can be
found in the fact that it agrees with Bucher’s studies on the origins of
art and permits us to understand the true role and purpose of art.
Bucher established that music and poetry have a common origin in
heavy physical labor. Their object was to relax cathartically the
tremendous stress created by labor. This is how Bucher formulated the
general content of work songs: “They follow the general trend of work,
and signal the beginning of a simultaneous collective effort; they try to
incite the men to work by derision, invective, or reference to the
opinion of spectators; they express the thoughts of the workers about
labor itself, its course, its gear, and so forth, as well as their joys or
sorrows, their complaints about the hardness of the work and the
inadequate pay; they address a plea to the owner, the supervisor, or
simply to the spectator.”
The two elements of art and their resolution are found here. The
only peculiarity of these songs is that the feeling of pain and hardship
which must be solved by art is an essential part of labor itself.
Subsequently, when art detaches itself from labor and begins to exist
as an independent activity, it introduces into the work of art the
element which was formerly generated by labor: the feelings of pain,
torment, and hardship (which require relies are now aroused by art
itself, but their nature remains the same. Biicher makes an extremely
interesting statement: “The peoples of antiquity considered song an
indispensable accompaniment of hard labor.” From this we realize that
song at first organized collective labor, then gave relief and relaxation
to painful and tormenting strain. We shall see that art, even in its
highest manifestations, completely separate from labor and without
any direct connection thereto, has maintained the same functions. It
still must systematize, or organize, social feeling and give relief to
painful and tormenting strain. Quintilian puts it this way: “And it
appears as if [music] were given to us by nature in order to make labor
bearable. For instance, the rower is inspired by song; it is useful not
only where the efforts of many are combined, but also when it is
intended to provide rest for an exhausted worker.”
Thus art arises originally as a powerful tool in the struggle for
existence; the idea of reducing its role to a communication of feeling
with no power or control over that feeling, is inadmissible. If the
purpose of art, like Tolstoy’s chorus of peasant women, were only to
make us gay or sad, it would neither have survived nor have ever
acquired its present importance. Nietzsche expresses it well injoyful
Wisdom, when he says that rhythm involves inducement and incentive:
“It arouses an irresistible desire to imitate, and not only our legs but
our very soul follow the beat. ... Was there anything more useful than
rhythm for ancient, Superstitious mankind? With its help everything
became feasible – work could be performed magically, God could be
forced to appear and listen to grievances, the future could be changed
and corrected at will, one’s soul could be delivered of any abnormality.
Without verse man would be nothing; with it, he almost became God.”
It is quite interesting to see how Nietzsche explains the way in which
art succeeded in acquiring such power over man. “When the normal
mood and harmony of the soul were lost, one had to dance to the song
of a bard – this was the prescription of that medicine ... First of all,
inebriation and uncontrolled affect were pushed to the limit, so that the
insane became frenzied, and the avenger became saturated with
hatred." Apparently the possibility of releasing into art powerful
passions which cannot find expression in normal, everyday life is the
biological basis of art. The purpose of our behavior is to keep our
organism in balance with its surroundings. The simpler and more
elementary our relations with the environment, the simpler our
behavior. The more subtle and complex the interaction between
organism and environment, the more devious and intricate the
balancing process. Obviously this process cannot continue smoothly
toward an equilibrium. There will always be a certain imbalance in
favor of the environment or the organism. No machine can work
toward equilibrium using all its energy efficiently. There are always
states of excitation which cannot result in an efficient use of energy.
This is why a need arises from time to time to discharge the unused
energy and give it free rein in order to reestablish our equilibrium with
the rest of the world. Orshanskii says that feelings “are the pluses and
minuses of our equilibrium.” These pluses and minuses, these
discharges and expenditures of unused energy, are the biological
function of art.
Looking at a child, it is evident that its possibilities are far greater
than actually realized. If a child plays at soldiers, cops and robbers,
and so on, this means, according to some, that inside himself he really
becomes a soldier or a robber. Sherrington’s principle (the principle of
struggle for a common field of action) clearly shows that in our
organism the nervous receptor fields exceed many times the executing
effector neurons, so that the organism perceives many more stimuli
than it can possibly attend to. Our nervous system resembles a railway
station into which five tracks lead, but only one track leads out. Of five
trains arriving at this station, only one ever manages to leave (and this
only after a fierce struggle), while the other four remain stalled. The
nervous system reminds us of a battlefield where the struggle never
ceases, not even for a single instant, and our behavior is an
infinitesimal part of what is really included in the possibilities of our
nervous system, but cannot find an outlet. In nature the realized and
executed part of life is but a minute part of the entire conceivable life
Oust as every life born is paid for by millions of unborn ones).
Similarly, in our nervous system, the realized part of life is only the
smallest part of the real life contained in us. Sherrington likens our
nervous system to a funnel with its narrow part turned toward action,
and the wider part toward the world. The world pours into man,
through the wide opening of the funnel 154), thousands of calls,
desires, stimuli, etc. enter, but only an infinitesimal part of them is
realized and flows out through the narrowing opening. It is obvious
that the unrealized part of life, which has not gone through the narrow
opening of our behavior, must be somehow utilized and lived. The
organism is in an equilibrium with its environment where balance
must be maintained, just as it becomes necessary to open a valve in a
kettle in which steam pressure exceeds the strength of the vessel.
Apparently art is a psychological means for striking a balance with the
environment at critical points of our behavior. Long ago the idea had
been expressed that art complements life by expanding its possibilities.
Von Lange says, “There is a sorry resemblance between contemporary
civilized man and domestic animals: limitation and monotony. Issuing
from the patterns of bourgeois life and its social forms, these are the
main features of the individual existence, which lead everybody, rich
and poor, weak and strong, talented and deprived, through an
incomplete and imperfect life. It is astonishing how limited is the
number of ideas, feelings, and actions that modern man can perform or
experience."
Lazurskii holds the same view when he explains the theory of
empathy by referring to one of Tolstoy’s novels. “There is a point in
Anna Karenina where Tolstoy tells us that Anna reads a novel and
suddenly wants to do what the heroes of that novel do: fight, struggle,
win with them, go with the protagonist to his estate, and so on.” Freud
shares this opinion and speaks of art as a means of appeasing two
inimical principles, the principle of pleasure and that of reality.
Insofar as we are talking about the meaning of life, these writers
come closer to the truth than those who, like Grant-Allen, assume that
“aesthetics are those emotions which have freed themselves from
association with practical interests.” This reminds us of Spencer’s
formula: he assumed that “beautiful is what once was, but no longer is,
useful.” Developed to its extreme limits, this viewpoint leads to the
theory of games, which is accepted by many philosophers, and given
its highest expression by Schiller. The one serious objection against it
is that, in not recognizing art as a creative act, it tends to reduce it to
the biological function of exercising certain organs, a fact of little
importance for the adult. Much more convincing are the other theories
which consider art an indispensable discharge of nervous energy and a
complex method of finding an equilibrium between our organism and
the environment in critical instances of our behavior. We resort to art
only at critical moments in our life, and therefore can understand why
the formula we propose views art as a creative act. If we consider art
to be catharsis, it is perfectly clear that it cannot arise where there is
nothing but live and vivid feeling. A sincere feeling taken per se
cannot create art. It lacks more than technique or mastery, because a
feeling expressed by a technique will never generate a lyric poem or a
musical composition. To do this we require the creative act of
overcoming the feeling, resolving it, conquering it. Only when this act
has been performed – then and only then is art born. This is why the
perception of art requires creativity: it is not enough to experience
sincerely the feeling, or feelings, of the author; it is not enough to
understand the structure of the work of art; one must also creatively
overcome one’s own feelings, and find one’s own catharsis; only then
will the effect of art be complete. This is why we agree with
Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii who says that the purpose of military music is
not to arouse bellicose emotions but, by establishing an equilibrium
between the organism and the environment at a critical moment for the
organism, to discipline and organize its work, provide appropriate
relief to its feelings, to chase away fear, and to open the way to
courage and valor. Thus, art never directly generates a practical action;
it merely prepares the organism for such action. Freud says that a,
frightened person is terrified and runs when he sees danger; the useful
part of this behavior is that he runs, not that he is frightened. In art, the
reverse is true: fear per se is useful. Man’s release per se is useful,
because it creates the possibility of appropriate flight or attack. This is
where we must consider the economy of our feelings, which
Ovsianiko-Kulikovskii describes thus: “The harmonic rhythm of lyrics
creates emotions which differ from the majority of other emotions in
that such ‘lyric emotions’ save our psychic energies by putting our
‘psychic household’ into harmonic order.”
This is not the same economy of which we talked earlier, it is not an
attempt to avoid the output of psychic energies. In this respect art is
not subordinated to the principle of the economy of strength; on the
contrary, art is an explosive and sudden expenditure of strength, of
forces (psychic and otherwise), a discharge of energy. A work of art
perceived coldly and prosaically, or processed and treated to be
perceived in this way, saves much more energy and force than if it
were perceived with the full effect of its artistic form in mind.
Although it is an explosive discharge, art does introduce order and
harmony into the “psychic household,” of our feelings. And of course
the waste of energy performed by Anna Karenina when she
experienced the feelings and emotions of the heroes of the novel she
was reading, is a saving of psychic forces if compared to the actual
emotion.
A more complex and deeper meaning of the principle of
economizing emotions will become clearer if we try to understand the
social significance of art. Art is the social within us [55], and even if
its action is performed by a single individual, it does not mean that its
essence is individual. It is quite naive and inappropriate to take the
social to be collective, as with a large crowd of persons. The social
also exists where there is only one person with his individual
experiences and tribulations. This is why the action of art, when it
performs catharsis and pushes into this purifying flame the most
intimate and important experiences, emotions, and feelings of the soul,
is a social action. But this experience does not happen as described in
the theory of contamination (where a feeling born in one person infects
and contaminates everybody and becomes social), but exactly the other
way around. The melting of feelings outside us is performed by the
strength of social feeling, which is objectivized, materialized, and
projected outside of us, then fixed in external objects of art which have
become the tools of society. A fundamental characteristic of man, one
that distinguishes him from animals, is that he endures and separates
from his body both the apparatus of technology and that of scientific
knowledge, which then become the tools of society. Art is the social
technique of emotion, a tool of society which brings the most intimate
and personal aspects of our being into the circle of social life. It would
be more correct to say that emotion becomes personal when every one
of us experiences a work of art; it becomes personal without ceasing to
be social. “Art,” says Guyau, “is a condensation of reality; it shows us
the human machine under high pressure. It tries to show us more life
phenomena than we actually experience.” Of course this life,
concentrated in art, exerts an effect not only on our emotions but also
on our will “because emotion contains the seed of will.” Guyau
correctly attributes a tremendous importance to the role played by art
in society. It introduces the effects of passion, violates inner
equilibrium, changes will in a new sense, and stirs feelings, emotions,
passions, and vices without which society would remain in an inert
and motionless state. It “pronounces the word we were seeking and
vibrates the string which was strained but soundless. A work of art is
the center of attraction, as is the active will of a genius: if Napoleon
attracts will, Corneille and Victor Hugo do so too, but in a different
way. ... Who knows the number of crimes instigated by novels
describing murders? Who knows the number of divorces resulting
from representations of debauchery?” “Guyau formulates the question
in much too primitive a way, because he imagines that art directly
causes this or the other emotion. Yet, this never happens. A
representation of murder does not cause murder. A scene of
debauchery does not inspire divorce; the relationship between art and
life is very complex, and in a very approximate way it can be
described as will be shown.
Hennequin sees the difference between aesthetic and real emotion in
the fact that aesthetic emotion does not immediately express itself in
action. He says, however, that if repeated over and over again, these
emotions can become the basis for an individual’s behavior; thus, an
individual can be affected by the kind of literature he reads. “An
emotion imparted by a work of art is not capable of expressing itself in
immediate actions. In this respect aesthetic feelings differ sharply from
actual feelings. But, since they serve an end in themselves, they justify
themselves and need not be immediately expressed in any practical
activity; aesthetic emotions can, by accumulation and repetition, lead
to substantial practical results. These results depend upon the general
properties of aesthetic emotion and the particular properties of each of
these emotions. Repeated exercises of a specific group of feelings
under the effect of invention, imagination, or unreal rnoods or causes
that generally cannot result in action do not require active
manifestations, and doubtless weaken the property common to all real
emotions, that of expression in action. ...” “I Hennequin introduces
two very important corrections, but his solution of the problem
remains quite primitive. He is correct in saying that aesthetic emotion
does not immediately generate action, that it manifests itself in the
change of purpose. He is also correct when he states that aesthetic
emotion not only does not generate the actions of which it speaks, but
is completely alien to them. On the basis of Guyau’s example, we
could say that the reading of novels about murder not only does not
incite us to murder, but actually teaches us not to kill; but this point of
view of Hennequin’s, although it is more applicable than the former, is
quite simple compared with the subtle function assigned to art.
As a matter of fact, art performs an extremely complex action with
our passions and goes far beyond the limits of these two simplistic
alternatives. Andrei Bely says that when we listen to music we feel
what giants must have felt. Tostoy masterfully describes this high
tension of art in his Kreutzer Sonata: ” Do you know the first place?
Do you really know it?” he explains. Oh! ... A sonata is a frightening
thing. Yes, this part, precisely. Music, generally, is a frightening thing.
What is it? I don’t understand. What is music? What does it do? And
why does it do whatever it does? They say that music elevates our soul.
Rubbish, nonsense! It does work, it has a terrible effect (I am talking
for myself, but it certainly does not lift the soul. It does not lift the soul,
nor does it debase it, but it irritates it. How can I put it? Music makes
me oblivious of myself; it makes me forget my true position; it
transfers me into another position, not mine, not my own: it seems to
me, under the effect of music, that I feel what I don’t feel, that I
understand what I actually don’t understand, can’t understand. ...
"Music immediately, suddenly, transports me into the mood which
must have been that of the man who wrote it. I become one with him,
and together with him I swing from one mood into another, from one
state into another, but why I am doing it, I don’t know. That fellow,
for instance, who wrote the Kreutzer Sonata, Beethoven, he knew why
he was in that state. That state led him to certain actions, and therefore,
for him, that state was sensible. For me, it means nothing, it is
completely senseless. And this is why music only irritates and
achieves nothing. Well, if I play a military march, the soldiers will
march in step, and the music has achieved its purpose; if dance music
is played, I dance, and the music achieves its purpose. Or, if Mass is
sung and I take communion, well, here too the music has achieved its
purpose; otherwise, it is only irritation, and no one knows what to do
with this irritation. This is why music occasionally has such a horrible,
terrifying effect. In China music is an affair of state, and this is how it
should be ...
“Otherwise it could be a terrifying tool in the hands of anybody.
Take for instance the Kreutzer Sonata. How can one play its presto in a
drawing room, amidst ladies in decollete? Play it, and then busy
oneself, then eat some ice cream and listen to the latest gossip? No,
these things can be played only in the face of significant, important
circumstances, and then it will be necessary to perform certain
appropriate acts that fit the music. If it must be played, we must act
according to its setting of our mood. Otherwise the incongruity
between the place, the time, the waste of energy, and the feelings
which do not manifest themselves will have a disastrous effect.”
This excerpt from The Kreutzer Sonata tells us quite convincingly
of the incomprehensibly frightening effect of music for the average
listener. It reveals a new aspect of the aesthetic response and shows
that it is not a blank shot, but a response to a work of art, and a new
and powerful stimulus for further action. Art requires a reply, it incites
certain actions, and Tolstoy quite correctly compares the effect of
Beethoven’s music with that of a dance tune or a march. In the latter
case, the excitement created by the music resolves itself in a response,
and a feeling of satisfied repose sets in. In the case of Beethoven’s
music we are thrown into a state of confusion and anxiety, because the
music reveals those urges and desires that can find a resolution only in
exceptionally important and heroic actions. When this music is
followed by ice cream and gossip amidst ladies in d’collet, we are left
in a state of exceptional anxiety, tension, and disarray. But Tolstoy’s
character makes a mistake when he compares the irritating and
stimulating effect of this music to the effect produced by a military
march. He does not realize that the effect of music reveals itself much
more subtly, by means of hidden shocks, stresses, and deformations of
our constitution. It may reveal itself unexpectedly, and in an
extraordinary way. But in this description, two points are made with
exceptional clarity: First, music incites, excites, and irritates in an
indeterminate fashion not connected with any concrete reaction,
motion, or action. This is proof that its effect is cathartic, that is, it
clears our psyche, reveals and calls to life tremendous energies which
were previously inhibited and restrained. This, however is a
consequence of art, not its action. Secondly, music has coercive power.
Tolstoy suggests that music should be an affair of state. He believes
that music is a public affair. One critic pointed out that when we
perceive a work a work of art we think that our reaction is strictly
personal and associated only with ourselves. We believe that it has
nothing to do social psychology. But this is as wrong as the opinion of
a person pays taxes and considers this action only from his own
viewpoint own, personal budget, without bearing in mind that he
participate the huge and complex economy of the state. He does not
reflect that by paying taxes he takes part in involved state operations
whose existence he does not even suspect. This is why Freud is wrong
when he says that man stands face to face with the reality of nature,
and that art be derived from the purely biological difference between
the principle of enjoyment toward which all our inclinations gravitate,
and that of reality which forces us to renounce satisfaction and
pleasure. Between man and the outside world there stands the social
environment, which in its own way refracts and directs the stimuli
acting upon the individual and guides all the reactions that emanate
from the individual. applied psychology it is therefore of immense
significance to know I as Tolstoy puts it, music is something awesome
and frightening to average listener. If a military march incites soldiers
to march proudly in a parade, what exceptional deeds must
Beethoven’s music inspire! Let me repeat: music by itself is isolated
from our everyday behavior; it does not drive us to do anything, it only
creates a vague and enormous desire for some deeds or actions; it
opens the way for the emergence of powerful, hidden forces within us;
it acts like an earthquake as it throws open unknown and hidden strata.
The view that art returns us to atavism rather than projecting us into
the future, is erroneous. Although music does not generate any direct
actions, its fundamental effect, the direction it imparts to psychic
catharsis, is essential for the kind of forces it will release, what it will
release, and what it will push into the background. Art is the
organization of our future behavior. It is a requirement that may never
be fulfilled but that forces us to strive beyond our life toward all that
lies beyond it.
We may therefore call art a delayed reaction, because there is
always a fairly long period of time between its effect and its execution.
This does not mean, however, that the effect of art is mysterious or
mystical or that its explanation requires some new concepts different
from those which the psychologist sets up when he analyzes common
behavior. Art performs with our bodies and through our bodies. It is
remarkable that scholars like Rutz and Sievers, who studied perceptual
processes and not the effects of art, speak of the dependence of
aesthetic perception on a specific muscular constitution of the body.
Rutz was the first to suggest that any aesthetic effect must be
associated with a definite type of muscular constitution. Sievers
applied his idea to the contemplation of sculpture. Other scholars
mention a connection between the basic organic constitution of the
artist and the structure of his works. From the most ancient times, art
has always been regarded as a means of education, that is, as a
long-range program for changing our behavior and our organism. The
subject of this chapter, the significance of applied arts, involves the
educational effect of art. Those who see a relationship between
pedagogy and art find their view unexpectedly supported by
psychological analysis. We can now address ourselves to the last
problems on our agenda, those of the practical effect of art on life and
of its educational significance.
The educational significance of art and its practical aspects may be
divided into two parts. We have first criticism as a fundamental social
force, which opens the way to art, evaluates it, and serves as a
transitional mechanism between art and society. From a psychological
point of view, the role of criticism is to organize the effects of art. It
gives a certain educational direction to these effects, and since by itself
it has no power to influence the basic effect of art per se it puts itself
between this effect and the actions into which this effect must finally
resolve itself.
We feet therefore that the real purpose and task of art criticism is
different from its conventional one. Its purpose is not to interpret or
explain a work of art, nor is its purpose to prepare the spectator or
reader for the perception of a work of art. Only half of the task of
criticism is aesthetic; the other half is pedagogical and public. The
critic approaches the average “consumer” of art, for instance,
Tolstoy’s hero in The Kreutzer Sonata, at the troublesome point when
he is under the incomprehensible and frightening spell of the music
and does not know what it will release in him. The critic wishes to be
the organizing force, but enters the action when art has already had its
victory over the human psyche which now seeks impetus and direction
for its action. The dualistic nature of criticism obviously entails a
dualistic task. The criticism which consciously and intentionally puts
art into prose establishes its social root, and determines the social
connection that exists between art and the general aspects of life. It
gathers our conscious forces counteract or, conversely, to cooperate
with those impulses which have been generated by a work of art. This
criticism leaves the domain of art and enters the sphere of social life,
with the sole purpose of guiding the aesthetically aroused forces into
socially useful channels. Everyone knows that a work of art affects
different people in different ways. Like a knife, or any other tool, art
by itself is neither good nor bad. More precisely, it has tremendous
potential for either good or evil. It all depends on what use we make of,
or what task m sign to, this tool. To repeat a trite example: a knife in
the hands surgeon has a value completely different from that of the
same knife the hands of a child.
But the foregoing is only half the task of criticism. The other half
consists in conserving the effect of art as art, and preventing the read
spectator from wasting the forces aroused by art by substituting for its
powerful impulses dull, commonplace, rational-moral precepts. Few
understand why it is imperative not only to have the effect of art shape
and excite the reader or spectator but also to explain art, and to explain
it in such a way that the explanation does not fill the emotion. We can
readily show that such explanation is indispensable, our behavior is
organized according to the principle of unity, which is accomplished
mainly by means of our consciousness in which any emotion seeking
an outlet must be represented. Otherwise we risk creating a conflict,
and the work of art, instead of producing a catharsis, would inflict a
wound, and the person experiences what Tolstoy when his heart is
filled with a vague, incomprehensible emotion of depression,
impotence, and confusion. However, this does not mean that the
explanation of art kills the trepidation of poetry mentioned by
Longinus, for there are two different levels involved. This second
element, the element of conservation of an artistic impression, has
always been regarded by theoreticians as decisively important for art
criticism but, oddly enough, our critics have always ignored it.
Criticism has always approached art as if it were a parliamentary
speech or a non-aesthetic fact. It considered its task to be the
destruction of the effect of art in order to discover the significance of
art. Plekhanov was aware that the search for the sociological
equivalent of a work of art is only the first half of the task of criticism.
“This means,” he said when discussing Belinskii, “that evaluation of
the idea of a work of art must be followed by an analysis of its artistic
merits. Philosophy did not eliminate aesthetics. On the contrary, it
paved the way for it and tried to find a solid basis for it. This must also
be said about materialistic criticism. In searching for the social
equivalent of a given literary phenomenon, this type of criticism
betrays its own nature if it does not understand that we cannot confine
ourselves to finding this equivalent, and that sociology must not shut
the door to aesthetics but, on the contrary, open it wide. The second
action of materialistic criticism must be, as was the case with many
critic-idealists, the evaluation of the aesthetic merits of the work under
investigation ... The determination of the sociological equivalent of a
given work of literature would be incomplete and therefore imprecise
if the critic failed to appraise its artistic merits. In other words, the first
action of materialistic criticism not only does not eliminate the need
for the second action, but requires it as a necessary and indispensable
complement.”
A similar situation arises with the problem of art in education: the
two parts or acts cannot exist independently. Until recently, the public
approach to art prevailed in our schools as well as in our criticism. The
students learned or memorized incorrect sociological formulas
concerning many works of art. “At the present time,” says Gershenzon,
“pupils are beaten with sticks to learn Pushkin, as if they were cattle
herded to the watering place, and given a chemical dissociation of H20
instead of drinking water.” It would be unfair to conclude with
Gershenzon that the system of teaching art in the schools is wrong
from beginning to end. In the guise of the history of social thought
reflected in literature, our students learned false literature and false
sociology. Does this mean that it is possible to teach art outside the
sociological context and only on the basis of individual tastes, to jump
from concept to concept, from the Iliad to Maiakovskii? Eichenwaid
seems to believe this, for he claims that it is impossible as well as
unnecessary to teach literature in the schools. “Should one teach
literature?” he asks. “Literature, like the other arts, is optional. It
represents an entertainment of the mind. ... Is it necessary that students
be taught that Tatiana fell in love with Onegin, or that Lermontov was
bored, sad, and unable to love forever?”
Eichenwald is of the opinion that it is impossible to teach literature
and that it should be taken out of the school curriculum because it
requires an act of creativity different from all the other subjects taught
at school. But he proceeds from a rather squalid aesthetic, and all his
weak spots become obvious when we analyze his basic position,
“Read, enjoy, but can we force people to enjoy?” Of course, if “to
read” means “to enjoy,” then literature cannot be taught and has no
place in the schools (although someone once said that the art of
enjoyment could also he taught). A school that eliminates lessons in
literature is bound to be a bad school. “At the present time,
explanatory reading has as its main purpose the explanation of the
content of what is being read. Under such a system, poetry as such is
eliminated from the curriculum. For instance, the difference between a
fable by Krylov and its rendition in prose is Completely lost.” From
the repudiation of such a position, Gershenzon comes to the
conclusion: “Poetry cannot and must not be a compulsory subject of
education; it is time that it again become a guest from paradise on
earth, loved by everyone, as was the case in ancient times. Then it will
once again become the true teacher of the masses.” The basic idea here
is that poetry is a heavenly guest and it must be made to resume the
role it played “in ancient times.” But Gershenzon does not concern
himself with the fact that these ancient times are gone forever, and that
nothing in our time plays the same role it played then. He ignores this
fact because he believes that art is fundamentally different from all the
other activities of man. For him, art is a kind of a mystical or spiritual
act that cannot be recreated by studying the forces of the. According to
him, poetry cannot be studied scientifically.” One of the greatest
mistakes of contemporary culture,” he says, “application of a scientific
or, more precisely, a naturalistic method to the study of poetry.” Thus,
what contemporary scholars consider to be the only possible way of
solving the riddle of art is for Gershenzon the supreme mistake of
contemporary culture.
Future studies and investigations are likely to show that the i
creating a work of art is not a mystical or divine act of our soul, I real
an act as all the other movements of our body, only much complex.
We have discovered in the course of our study that a creative act that
cannot be recreated by means of purely conscious operations. But, by
establishing that the most important elements in art are subconscious
or creative, do we automatically eliminate any and all conscious
moments and forces? The act of artistic creation cannot be taught. This
does not mean, however, that the educator cannot cooper ate in
forming it or bringing it about. We penetrate the subconscious through
the conscious. We can organize the conscious processes in such a way
that they generate subconscious processes, and everyone knows that an
act of art includes, as a necessary condition, all preceding acts of
rational cognizance, understanding, recognition, association, and so
forth. It is wrong to assume that the later subconscious processes do
not depend on the direction imparted by us to the conscious processes.
By organizing our conscious, which leads us toward art, we insure a
priori the success or failure of the work of art. Hence Molozhavy
correctly states that the act of art is “the process of our response to the
phenomenon, although it may never have reached the stage of action.
This process ... widens the scope of our personality, endows it with
new possibilities, prepares for the completed response to the
phenomenon, that is, behavior, and also has educational value ...
Potebnia is wrong to treat the artistic image as a condensation of
thought. Both thought and image are a condensation either of the
conscious with respect to the phenomenon involved or of the psyche,
which issued from a series of positions preparatory to the present
position. But this gives us no right to confuse these biological
elements, these psychological processes, on the basis of the vague
argument that both thought and artistic image are creative acts. On the
contrary, we must emphasize all their individual peculiarities in order
to understand each as a part of the whole. The tremendous strength
that arouses emotions, inspires the will, fortifies energy, and pushes us
to action lies in the concreteness of the artistic image which is in turn
based upon the originality of the psychological path leading to it.”
These considerations need one substantial correction if we move
from the field of general psychology into child psychology. When we
determine the influence exerted by art, we must take into account the
specific peculiarities facing one who deals with children. Of course
this is a separate field, a separate and independent study, because the
domain of child art and the response of children to art is completely
different from that of adults. However, we shall say a few brief words
on the subject and trace a basic line along which child psychology
intersects this field. There are remarkable phenomena in the art of
children. First, there is the early presence of a special structure
required by art, which points to the fact that for the child there exists a
psychological kinship between art and play. “First of all,” says Biihler,
“is the fact that the child very early adopts the correct structure, which
is alien to reality but required by the fairy tale, so that he can
concentrate on the exploits of the heroes and follow the changing
images. It seems to me that he loses this ability during some period of
his development, but it returns to him in later years. ...” Apparently art
does not perform the same function in a child as it does in an adult.
The best example of this is a child’s drawing which in many cases is
on the borderline of artistic creativity. The child does not understand
that the structure of a line can directly express the moods and
trepidations of the heart and soul. The ability to render the expressions
of people and animals in different positions and gestures develops very
slowly in a child, for various reasons. The principal one is the
fundamental fact that a child draws patterns, not events or phenomena.
Some claim the opposite, but they seem to ignore the simple fact that a
child’s drawing is not yet art for the child. His art is unique and
different from the art of adults, although the two have one very
interesting characteristic in common. It is the most important trait in
art and we shall mention it in conclusion. Only recently was it noticed
that certain absurdities or amusing nonsense which can be found in
nursery rhymes by inverting the most commonplace events play a
tremendously important role in child art. Most frequently the required
or desired absurdity is achieved in a nursery rhyme by assigning
certain functions of object A to object B, and vice versa. ... "The
hermit asked me how many strawberries grow at the bottom of the
ocean. I answered him: ‘As many as there are red herrings in the
forest.’ To understand this nursery jingle the child must know the truth
about life: herrings exist only in the ocean, and strawberries only in the
forest. He begins to look for the absurd only when he is absolutely
sure of the facts.” We, too, feel that the statement, that this aspect of
child art comes very close to play, is true; as a matter of fact, it gives
us a good explanation of the role and the significance of art in a child’s
life. “We still do not quite understand the connection which exists
between nursery rhymes and child’s play. ... When evaluating books
for small children, critics frequently forget to apply the criterion of
play. Most folk nursery rhymes do not issue from games but are play,
a game in themselves: a play of words, a play of rhythms, sounds; ...
these muddles always maintain some sort of ideal order. There is
system in this folly. By dragging a child into a topsy-turvy world, we
help his intellect work, because the child becomes interested in
creating such a topsy-turvy world for himself in order to become more
effectively the master of the laws governing the real world. These
absurdities could be dangerous for a child if they screened out the real
interrelationships between ideas and objects. Instead, they push them
to the fore, and emphasize them. They enhance (rather than weaken)
the child’s perception of reality.”
Here, too, we observe the same phenomenon of the dualism of art.
In order to perceive art, we must contemplate simultaneously the true
situation of things and their deviation from this situation. We can also
observe how an effect of art arises from such a contradictory
perception. Since absurdities are tools for the child to use in
understanding reality, it becomes suddenly clear why the extreme
leftists in art criticism come up with a slogan: art as a method for
building life. They say that art is building life because “reality is
forged from the establishment and destruction of contradictions. When
they criticize the idea of art as the cognition of life and advance the
idea of a dialectic perception of the world through matter, they reach
agreement with the psychological laws of art. "Art is an original,
chiefly emotional ... dialectic approach to building life."
Now we can envision the role of art in the future. It is hard to guess
what forms this unknown life of the future will take, and it is even
harder to guess what place art will take in that future life. One thing is
clear, however: arising from reality and reaching toward it, art will be
determined by the basic order of the future flow of life.
“In the future,” says Friche, “the role of art is not likely to change
substantially from its present role. Socialist society will not be the
antithesis of capitalist society, but its organic continuation."
If we regard art as an embellishment or ornament of life, such a
viewpoint is admissible. However, it basically contradicts the
psychological laws of art. Psychological investigation reveals that art
is the supreme center of biological and social individual processes in
society, that it is a method for finding an equilibrium between man and
his world, in the most critical and important stages of his life. This
view of course completely refutes the approach according to which art
is an ornament, and thereby leads us to doubt the correctness of the
above statement. Since the future has in store not only a rearrangement
of mankind according to new principles, not only the organization of
new social and economic processes, but also the “remolding of man,”
there seems hardly any doubt that the role of art will also change.
It is hard to imagine the role that art will play in this remolding of
man. We do not know which existing but dormant forces in our
organisms it will draw upon to form the new man. There is no question,
however, that art will have a decisive voice in this process. Without
new art there can be no new man. The possibilities of the future, for art
as well as for life, are inscrutable and unpredictable. As Spinoza said,
“That of which the body is capable has not yet been determined.”
Week 7（宋文里）: Art as Psychoanalysis
Week 8（劉皇杏） : Methods of Reflexological and
Psychological investigation / Методика рефлексологического
и психологического исследования Vol 3, Part 1, Chapt. 1
（請見 PDF 檔案）
Week 8: Methods of Reflexological and Psychological investigation
Week 9（洪振耀）: Midterm Exam
Week 10（張蓓莉）: Principles of Social Education for
deaf-dumb children in Russia, Vol. 2, Part 2, 110-121
（請見 PDF 檔案）
Week 10: Principles of Social Education for deaf-dumb children in Russia
Week 11（袁之琦）: 1927 The Historical Meaning of the
Crisis in Psychology: A Methodological Investigation
Chapter 1: The Nature of the Crisis
Lately more and more voices are heard proclaiming that the problem of
general psychology is a problem of the first order. What is most
remarkable is that this opinion does not come from philosophers who
have made generalisation their professional habit, nor even from
theoretical psychologists, but from the psychological practitioners who
elaborate the special areas of applied psychology: psychiatrists and
industrial psychologists; the representatives of the most exact and
concrete part of our science. The various psychological disciplines have
obviously reached a turning point in the development of their
investigations, the gathering of factual material, the systematisation of
knowledge, and the statement of basic positions and laws. Further
advance along a straight line, the simple continuation of the same work,
the gradual accumulation of material, are proving fruitless or even
impossible. In order to go further we must choose a path.
Out of such a methodological crisis, from the conscious
need for guidance in different disciplines, from the
necessity – on a certain level of knowledge – to critically
coordinate heterogeneous data, to order uncoordinated laws
into a system, to interpret and verify the results, to cleanse
the methods and basic concepts, to create the fundamental
principles, in a word, to pull the beginnings and ends of our
knowledge together, out of all this, a general science is born.
This is why the concept of a general psychology does not
coincide with the concept of the basic theoretical
psychology that is central to a number of different special
disciplines. The latter, in essence the psychology of the adult
normal person, should be considered one of the special
disciplines along with zoopsychology and psychopathology.
That it has so far played and in some measure still plays the
role of a generalising factor, which to a certain extent forms
the structure and system of the special disciplines, furnishes
their main concepts, and brings them into line with their own
structure, is explained by the historical development of the
science, rather than by logical necessity. This is the way
things have been and to some extent still are, but they should
not and will not remain this way since this situation does not
follow from the very nature of the science, but is determined
by external, extraneous circumstances. As soon as these
conditions change, the psychology of the normal person will
lose its leading role. To an extent we are already beginning
to see this happen. In the psychological systems that
cultivate the concept of the unconscious, the role of such a
leading discipline, the basic concepts of which serve as the
starting points for the related sciences, is played by
psychopathology. These are, for example, the systems of
Freud, Adler, and Kretschmer.
In the latter, this leading role of psychopathology is no
longer connected with the central concept of the
unconscious, as in Freud and Adler, i.e., not with the actual
priority of the given discipline in the elaboration of the basic
idea, but with a fundamental methodological view according
to which the essence and nature of the phenomena studied
by psychology can be revealed in their purest form in the
extreme, pathological forms. We should, consequently,
proceed from pathology to the norm and explain and
understand the normal person from pathology, and not the
other way around, as has been done until now. The key to
psychology is in pathology, not only because it discovered
and studied the root of the mind earlier than other branches,
but because this is the internal nature of things, and the
nature of the scientific knowledge of these things is
conditioned by it. Whereas for traditional psychology every
psychopath as a subject for study is more or less – to a
different degree – a normal person and must be defined in
relation to the latter, for the new systems each normal person
is more or less insane and must be psychologically
understood precisely as a variant of some pathological type.
To put it in more straightforward terms, in certain systems
the normal person is considered as a type and the
pathological personality as a variety or variant of this main
type; in others, on the contrary, the pathological
phenomenon is taken as a type and the normal as one of its
varieties. And who can predict how the future general
psychology will decide this debate?
On the basis of such dual motives (based half on facts,
half on principle) still other systems assign the leading role
to zoopsychology. Of this kind are, for example, the
majority of the American courses in the psychology of
behaviour and the Russian courses in reflexology, which
develop their whole system from the concept of the
conditional reflex and organise all-their material around it. A
number of authors propose that animal psychology, apart
from being given the actual priority in the elaboration of the
basic concepts of behaviour, should become the general
discipline with which the other disciplines should be
correlated. As the logical beginning of a science of
behaviour, the starting point for every genetic examination
and explanation of the mind, and a purely biological science,
it is precisely this science which is expected to elaborate the
fundamental concepts of the science and to supply them to
kindred disciplines.
This, for example, is the view of Pavlov. What
psychologists do can in his opinion have no influence upon
animal
psychology,
but
what
zoopsychologists
do
determines the work of psychologists in a very essential way.
The latter build the superstructure, but the former lay the
foundation [Pavlov, 1928, Lectures on Conditioned Reflex].
And indeed, the source from which we derive all our basic
categories for the investigation and description of behaviour,
the standard we use to verify our results, the model
according to which we align our methods, is zoopsychology.
Here again the matter has taken a course opposed to that
of traditional psychology. There the starting point was man;
one proceeded from man in order to get an idea of the mind
of the animal. One interpreted the manifestations of its soul
by analogy with ourselves. In so doing, the matter was by no
means always reduced to a crude anthropomorphism.
Serious methodological grounds often dictated such a course
of research: with subjective psychology it could not be
otherwise. It regarded man as the key to the psychology of
animals; always the highest forms as the key to the lower
ones. For, the investigator need not always follow the same
path that nature took; often the reverse path is more
advantageous.
Marx [MECW Vol 27] referred to this methodological
principle of the “reverse” method when he stated that “the
anatomy of man is the key to the anatomy of the ape.”
The allusions to a higher principle in lower species of animals can only
be understood when this higher principle itself is already known. Thus,
bourgeois economy gives us the key to antique economy etc., but not at
all in the sense understood by the economists who slur over all historical
differences and see bourgeois forms in all forms of societies. We can
understand the quit-rent, the tithe, etc., when we are acquainted with the
ground rent, but we must not equate them with the latter.
To understand the quitrent on the basis of the ground rent,
the feudal form on the basis of the bourgeois form – this is
the same methodological device used to comprehend and
define thinking and the rudiments of speech in animals on
the basis of the mature thinking and speech of man. A
certain stage of development and the process itself can only
be fully understood when we know the endpoint of the
process, the result, the direction it took, and the form into
which the given process developed. We are, of course,
speaking only of the methodological transference of basic
categories and concepts from the higher to the lower, not of
the transference of factual observations and generalisations.
The concepts of the social category of class and class
struggle, for instance, are revealed in their purest form in the
analysis of the capitalist system, but these same concepts are
the key to all pre-capitalist societal formations, although in
every case we meet with different classes there, a different
form of struggle, a particular developmental stage of this
category. But those details which distinguish the historical
uniqueness of different epochs from capitalist forms not
only are not lost, but, on the contrary, can only be studied
when we approach them with the categories and concepts
acquired in the analysis of the other, higher formation.
Marx [MECW Vol 27] explains that
bourgeois society is the most developed and diverse historical
organisation of production. The categories which express its relationships
and an understanding of its composition yield therefore at the same time
an insight into the composition and the productive relations of all societal
forms which have disappeared. Bourgeois society was built with the
rubbish and elements of these societies, parts of which have not been
fully overcome and still drag on and the mere indications of which have
developed into full-fledged meanings.
Having arrived at the end of the path we can more easily
understand the whole path in its entirety as well as the
meaning of its different stages.
This is a possible methodology; it has been sufficiently
vindicated in a whole number of disciplines. But can it be
applied to psychology? It is precisely on methodological
grounds that Pavlov rejects the route from man to animal.
He defends the reverse of the “reverse,” i.e., the direct path
of investigation, repeating the route taken by nature. This is
not because of any factual difference in the phenomena, but
rather because of the inapplicability and epistemic
barrenness of psychological categories and concepts. In his
words,
it is impossible by means of psychological concepts, which are essentially
non-spatial, to penetrate into the mechanism of animal behaviour, into the
mechanism of these relations [Pavlov, 1928, Lectures on Conditioned
Reflex].
Thus it is not a matter of facts but of concepts, that is, the
way one conceives of these facts. He [ibid.] says that
Our facts are conceived of in terms of time and space; they are purely
scientific facts; but psychological facts are thought of only in terms of
time.
The issue is about different concepts, not different
phenomena. Pavlov wishes not only to win independence for
his area of investigation, but to extend its influence and
guidance to all spheres of psychological knowledge. This is
clear from his explicit references to the fact that the debate is
not only about the emancipation from the power of
psychological concepts, but also about the elaboration of a
psychology by means of new spatial concepts.
In his opinion, science, “guided by the similarity or
identity of the external manifestations” [ibid.], will sooner or
later apply to the mind of man the objective data obtained.
His path is from the simple to the complex, from animal to
man. He says [ibid.] that
The simple, the elementary is always conceivable without the complex,
whereas the complex cannot be conceived of without the elementary.
These data will become “the basis for psychological
knowledge.” And in the preface to the book in which he
presents his twenty years of experience with the study of
animal behaviour, Pavlov [ibid.] declares that he
is deeply and irrevocably convinced that along this path [we will manage]
to find the knowledge of the mechanisms and laws of human nature
[ibid.].
Here we have a new controversy between the study of
animals and the psychology of man. The situation is, in
essence,
very
similar
to
the
controversy
between
psychopathology and the psychology of normal man. Which
discipline should lead, unify, and elaborate the basic
concepts, principles, and methods, verify and systematise
the data of all other areas? Whereas previously traditional
psychology has considered the animal as a more or less
remote ancestor of man, reflexology is now inclined to
consider man, with Plato, as a “featherless biped.” Formerly
the animal mind was defined and described in concepts and
terms acquired in the study of man. Nowadays the behaviour
of animals gives “the key to the understanding of the
behaviour of man,” and what we call “human” behaviour is
understood as the product of an animal which, because it
walks and stands erect, has a developed thumb and can
speak.
And again we may ask: which discipline other than
general psychology can decide this controversy between
animal and man in psychology; for, on this decision will rest
nothing more and nothing less than the whole future fate of
this science.
Chapter 2: Our Approach
From the analysis of the three types of psychological systems we have
considered above, it is already obvious how pressing is the need for a
general psychology with the boundaries and approximate content partially
outlined here. The path of our investigation will at all times be as follows:
we will proceed from an analysis of the facts, albeit facts of a highly
general and abstract nature, such as a particular psychological system and
its type, the tendencies and fate of different theories, various
epistemological methods, scientific classifications and schemes, etc. We
will examine these facts not from the abstract-logical, purely
philosophical side, but as particular facts in the history of science, as
concrete, vivid historical events in their tendency, struggle, in their
concrete context, of course, and in their epistemological-theoretical
essence, i.e., from the viewpoint of their correspondence to the reality
they are meant to cognise. We wish to obtain a clear idea of the essence
of individual and social psychology as two aspects of a single science,
and of their historical fate, not through abstract considerations, but by
means of an analysis of scientific reality. From this we will deduce, as a
politician does from the analysis of events, the rules for action and the
organisation of scientific research. The methodological investigation
utilises the historical examination of the concrete forms of the sciences
and the theoretical analysis of these forms in order to obtain generalised,
verified principles that are suitable for guidance. This is, in our opinion,
the core of this general psychology whose concept we will attempt to
clarify in this chapter.
The first thing we obtain from the analysis is the
demarcation between general psychology and the theoretical
psychology of the normal person. We have seen that the
latter is not necessarily a general psychology, that in quite a
number of systems theoretical psychology itself turns into
one of the special disciplines, defined by another field; that
both psychopathology and the theory of animal behaviour
can and do take the role of general psychology. Vvedensky
(1917, p. 5) assumed that general psychology
might much more correctly be called basic psychology, because this part
lies at the basis of all psychology.
Høffding, who assumed that psychology “can be practiced
in many modes and ways,” that “there is not one, but many
psychologies,” and who saw no need for unity, was
nevertheless inclined to view subjective psychology “as the
basis and the center, around which the contributions of the
other approaches should be gathered.” In the present case it
would indeed be more appropriate to talk about a basic, or
central, psychology than about a general one; but to
overlook the fact that systems may arise from a completely
different basis and center, and that what the professors
considered to be the basis in those systems, by the very
nature of things, drifts to the periphery, would be more than
a little dogmatic, and naively complacent. Subjective
psychology was basic or central in quite a number of
systems, and we must understand why. Now it loses its
importance, and again we must understand why. In the
present case it would be terminologically most correct to
speak of theoretical psychology, as opposed to applied
psychology, as Munsterberg does. Applied to the adult
normal person it would be a special branch alongside child
psychology, zoopsychology, and psychopathology.
Theoretical psychology, Binswanger notes, is not general
psychology, nor a part of it, but is itself the object or subject
matter of general psychology. The latter deals with the
questions whether theoretical psychology is in principle
possible and what are the structure and suitability of its
concepts. Theoretical psychology cannot be equated with
general psychology, if only for the reason that precisely the
matter of building theories in psychology is a fundamental
question of general psychology.
There is a second thing that we may reliably infer from
our analysis. The very fact that theoretical psychology, and
later other disciplines, have performed the role of a general
psychology, is conditioned by, on the one hand, the absence
of a general psychology, and on the other hand, the strong
need for it to fulfil its function temporarily in order to make
scientific research possible. Psychology is pregnant with a
general discipline but has not yet delivered it.
The third thing we may gather from our analysis is the
distinction between two phases in the development of any
general science, any general discipline, as is shown by the
history of science and methodology. In the first phase of
development the general discipline is only quantitatively
distinct from the special one. Such a distinction, as
Binswanger rightly says, is characteristic of the majority of
sciences. Thus, we distinguish general and special botany,
zoology, biology, physiology, pathology, psychiatry, etc.
The general discipline studies what is common to all
subjects of the given science. The special discipline studies
what is characteristic of the various groups or even
specimens from the same kind of objects. It is in this sense
that the discipline we now call differential psychology was
called special. In the same sense this area was called
individual psychology. The general part of botany or
zoology studies what is common to all plants or animals, the
general part of psychology what is common to all people. In
order to do this the concept of some trait common to most or
all of them was abstracted from the real diversity and in this
form, abstracted from the real diversity of concrete traits, it
became the subject matter studied by the general discipline.
Therefore, the characteristic and task of such a discipline
was seen to be the scientific study of the facts common to
the greatest number of the particular phenomena of the given
area [Binswanger].
This stage of searching and of trying to apply an abstract
concept common to all psychological disciplines, which
forms the subject matter of all of them and determines what
should be isolated from the chaos of the various phenomena
and what in the phenomena has epistemic value for
psychology – this stage we see vividly expressed in our
analysis. And we may judge what significance these
searches and the concept of the subject matter of psychology
looked for and the desired answer to the question what
psychology studies may have for our science in the present
historical moment of its development.
Any concrete phenomenon is completely inexhaustible
and infinite in its separate features. We must always search
in the phenomenon what makes it a scientific fact. Exactly
this distinguishes the observation of a solar eclipse by the
astronomer from the observation of the same phenomenon
by a person who is simply curious. The former discerns in
the phenomenon what makes it an astronomic fact. The
latter observes the accidental features which happen to catch
his attention.
What is most common to all phenomena studied by
psychology, what makes the most diverse phenomena into
psychological facts – from salivation in a dog to the
enjoyment of a tragedy, what do the ravings of a madman
and the rigorous computations of the mathematician share?
Traditional psychology answers: what they have in common
is that they are all psychological phenomena which are
non-spatial and can only be perceived by the experiencing
subject himself Reflexology answers: what they share is that
all these phenomena are facts of behaviour, correlative
activity, reflexes, response actions of the organism.
Psychoanalysts answer: common to all these facts, the most
basic factor which unites them is the unconscious which is
their basis. For general psychology the three answers mean,
respectively, that it is a science of (1) the mental and its
properties; or (2) behaviour; or (3) the unconscious.
From this it is obvious that such a general concept is
important for the whole future fate of the science. Any fact
which is expressed in each of these three systems will, in
turn, acquire three completely different forms. To be more
precise, there will be three different forms of a single fact.
To be even more precise, there will be three different facts.
And as the science moves forward and gathers facts, we will
successively get three different generalisations, three
different laws, three different classifications, three different
systems – three individual sciences which, the more
successfully they develop, the more remote they will be
from each other and from the common fact that unites them.
Shortly after beginning they will already be forced to select
different facts, and this very choice of facts will already
determine the fate of the science as it continues. Kofflka was
the first to express the idea that introspective psychology
and the psychology of behaviour will develop into two
sciences if things continue as they are going. The paths of
the two sciences lie so far apart that “it is by no means
certain whether they will eventually lead to the same end.”
Pavlov and Bekhterev share essentially the same opinion.
They accept the existence of two parallel sciences –
psychology and reflexology – which study the same object,
but from different sides. In this connection Pavlov [1928,
Lectures on Conditioned Reflex] said that “certainly
psychology, insofar as it concerns the subjective state of
man, has a natural right to existence.” For Bekhterev,
reflexology neither contradicts nor excludes subjective
psychology but delineates a special area of investigation, i.e.,
creates a new parallel science. He talks about the intimate
interrelation of both scientific disciplines and even about
subjective reflexology as an inevitable future development.
Incidentally, we must say that in reality both Pavlov and
Bekhterev reject psychology and hope to understand the
whole area of knowledge about man by exclusively
objective means, i.e., they only envision the possibility of
one single science, although by word of mouth they
acknowledge two sciences. In this way the general concept
predetermines the content of the science.
At present psychoanalysis, behaviourism, and subjective
psychology are already operating not only with different
concepts, but with different facts as well. Facts such as the
Oedipus complex, indisputable and real for psychoanalysts,
simply do not exist for other psychologists; for many it is
wildest phantasy. For Stern, who in general relates
favourably
to
psychoanalysis,
the
psychoanalytic
interpretations so commonplace in Freud's school and as far
beyond doubt as the measurement of one's temperature in
the hospital, and consequently the facts whose existence
they presuppose, resemble the chiromancy and astrology of
the 16th century. For Pavlov as well, it is pure phantasy to
claim that a dog remembers the food on hearing the bell.
Likewise, the fact of muscular movements during the act of
thinking, posited by the behaviourist, does not exist for the
introspectionist.
But the fundamental concept, the primary abstraction, so
to speak, that lies at the basis of a science, determines not
only the content, but also predetermines the character of the
unity of the different disciplines, and through this, the way
to explain the facts, i.e., the main explanatory principle of
the science.
We see that a general science, as well as the tendency of
various disciplines to develop into a general science and to
spread their influence to adjacent branches of knowledge,
arise out of the need to unify heterogeneous branches of
knowledge. When similar disciplines
have gathered
sufficient material in areas that are relatively remote from
each other, the need arises to unify the heterogeneous
material, to establish and define the relation between the
different areas and between each area and the whole of
scientific knowledge. How to connect the material from
pathology, animal psychology, and social psychology? We
have seen that the substrate of the unity is first of all the
primary abstraction. But the heterogeneous material is not
united merely by adding one kind of material to another, nor
via the conjunction “and,” as the Gestalt psychologists say,
nor through simply joining or adding parts so that each part
preserves its balance and independence while being included
into the new whole. Unity is reached by subordination,
dominion, through the fact that different disciplines
renounce their sovereignty in favour of one single general
science. The various disciplines do not simply co-exist
within the new whole, but form a hierarchical system, which
has primary and secondary centers, like the solar system.
Thus, this unity determines the role, sense, meaning of each
separate area, i.e., not only determines the content, but also
the way to explain things, the most important generalisation,
which in the course of the development of the science
becomes its explanatory principle.
To take the mind, the unconscious, or behaviour as the
primary concept implies not only to gather three different
categories of facts, but also to offer three different ways of
explaining these facts.
We see that the tendency to generalise and unite
knowledge turns or grows into a tendency to explain this
knowledge. The unity of the generalising concept grows into
the unity of the explanatory principle, because to explain
means to establish a connection between one fact or a group
of facts and another group, to refer to another series of
phenomena. For science to explain means to explain
causally. As long as the unification is carried out within a
single discipline, such an explanation is established by the
causal linkage of the phenomena that lie within a single area.
But as soon as we proceed to the generalisation across
different disciplines, the unification of different areas of
facts, the generalisation of the second order, we immediately
must search for an explanation of a higher order as well, i.e.,
we must search for the link of all areas of the given
knowledge with the facts that lie outside of them. In this
way the search for an explanatory principle leads us beyond
the boundaries of the given science and compels us to find
the place of the given area of phenomena amidst the wider
circle of phenomena.
This second tendency, which is the basis of the isolation
of a general science, is the tendency toward a unified
explanatory principle and toward transcending the borders of
the given science in the search for the place of the given
category of being within the general system of being and the
given science within the general system of knowledge. This
tendency can already be observed in the competition of the
separate disciplines for supremacy. Since the tendency of
becoming an explanatory principle is already present in
every generalising concept, and since the struggle between
the disciplines is a struggle for the generalising concept, this
second tendency must inevitably appear as well. And in fact,
reflexology advances not only the concept of behaviour, but
the principle of the conditional reflex as well, i.e., an
explanation of behaviour on the basis of the external
experience of the animal. And it is difficult to say which of
these two ideas is more essential for the current in question.
Throw away the principle and you will be left with
behaviour, that is, a system of external movements and
actions, to be explained from consciousness, i.e., a
conception that has existed within subjective psychology for
a long time. Throw away the concept of behaviour and retain
the principle, and you will get sensationalist associative
psychology. About both of these we will come to speak
below. Here it is important to establish that the
generalisation of the concept and the explanatory principle
determine a general science only together, as a unified pair.
In exactly the same way, psychopathology does not simply
advance the generalising concept of the unconscious, but
also interprets this concept causally, through the principle of
sexuality. For psychoanalysis to generalise the psychological
disciplines and to unite them on the basis of the concept of
the unconscious means to explain the whole world, as
studied by psychology, through sexuality.
But here the two tendencies – towards unification and
generalisation – are still merged and often difficult to
distinguish. The second tendency is not sufficiently clear-cut,
and may even be completely absent at times. That it
coincides with the first tendency must again be explained
historically rather than by logical necessity. In the struggle
for supremacy among the different disciplines, this tendency
usually shows up; we found it in our analysis. But it may
also fail to appear and, most importantly, it may also appear
in a pure form, unmixed and separate from the first tendency,
in a different set of facts. In both cases we have each
tendency in its pure form.
Thus, in traditional psychology the concept of the mental
may be explained in many ways, although admittedly not
just any explanation is possible: associationism, the
actualistic conception, faculty theory, etc. Thus the link
between generalisation and unification is intimate, but not
unambiguous. A single concept can be reconciled with a
number of explanations and the other way around. Further,
in the systems of the psychology of the unconscious this
basic concept is not necessarily interpreted as sexuality.
Adler and Jung use other principles as the basis of their
explanation. Thus in the struggle between the disciplines,
the first tendency of knowledge – the tendency towards
unification – is logically necessary, while the second
tendency is not logically necessary but historically
determined, and will be present to a varying degree. That is
why the second tendency can be most easily and
comfortably observed in its pure form – in the struggle
between the principles and schools within one and the same
discipline.
Chapter 3: The Development of Sciences
It can be said of any important discovery in any area, when it transcends the
boundaries of that particular realm, that it has the tendency to turn into an explanatory
principle for all psychological phenomena and lead psychology beyond its proper
boundaries into broader realms of knowledge. In the last several decades this
tendency has manifested itself with such amazing strictness and consistency, with
such regular uniformity in the most diverse areas, that it becomes absolutely possible
to predict the course of development of this or that concept, discovery, or idea. At the
same time this regular repetition in the development of widely varying ideas
evidently – and with a clarity that is seldom observed by the historian of science and
methodologist – points to an objective necessity underlying the development of the
science, to a necessity which we may observe when we approach the facts of science
from an equally scientific point of view. It points to the possibility of a scientific
methodology built on a historical foundation.
The regularity in the replacement and development of ideas, the
development and downfall of concepts, even the replacement of
classifications etc. – all this can be scientifically explained by the links
of the science in question with (1) the general sociocultural context of
the era; (2) the general conditions and laws of scientific knowledge; (3)
the objective demands upon the scientific knowledge that follow from
the nature of the phenomena studied in a given stage of investigation
(in the final analysis, the requirements of the objective reality that is
studied by the given science). After all, scientific knowledge must
adapt and conform to the particularities of the studied facts, must be
built in accordance with their demands. And that is why we can always
show how the objective facts studied by a certain science are involved
in the change of a scientific fact. In our investigation we will try to
take account of all three viewpoints.
We can sketch the general fate and lines of development of such
explanatory ideas. In the beginning there is some factual discovery of
more or less great significance which reforms the ordinary conception
of the whole area of phenomena to which it refers, and even transcends
the boundaries of the given group of phenomena within which it was
first observed and formulated.
Next comes a stage during which the influence of these ideas
spreads to adjacent areas. The idea is stretched out, so to speak, to
material that is broader than what it originally covered. The idea itself
(or its application) is changed in the process, it becomes formulated in
a more abstract way. The link with the material that engendered it is
more or less weakened, and it only continues to nourish the cogency of
the new idea, because this idea accomplishes its campaign of conquest
as a scientifically verified, reliable discovery. This is very important.
In the third stage of development the idea controls more or less the
whole discipline in which it originally arose. It has partly changed the
structure and size of the discipline and has itself been to some extent
changed by them. It has become separated from the facts that
engendered it, exists in the form of a more or less abstractly
formulated principle, and becomes involved in the struggle between
disciplines for supremacy, i.e., in the sphere of action of the tendency
toward unification. Usually this happens because the idea, as an
explanatory principle, managed to take possession of the whole
discipline, i.e., it in part adapted itself, in part adjusted to itself the
concept on which the discipline is based, and now acts in concert with
it. In our analysis, we have found such a mixed stage in the existence
of an idea, where both tendencies help each other. While it continues
expanding due to the tendency toward unification, the idea is easily
transferred to adjacent disciplines. Not only is it continually
transformed, swelling from ever new material, but it also transforms
the areas it penetrates. In this stage the fate of the idea is completely
tied to the fate of the discipline it represents and which is fighting for
supremacy.
In the fourth stage the idea again breaks away from the basic
concept, as the very fact of the conquest – at least in the form of a
project defended by a single school, the whole domain of
psychological knowledge, or all disciplines – this very fact pushes the
idea to develop further. The idea remains the explanatory principle
until the time that it transcends the boundaries of the basic concept.
For to explain as we have seen, means to transcend one's proper
boundaries in search of an external cause. As soon as it fully coincides
with the basic concept, it stops explaining anything. But the basic
concept cannot develop any further on logical grounds without
contradicting itself. For its function is to define an area of
psychological knowledge. By its very essence it cannot transcend its
boundaries. Concept and explanation must, consequently, separate
again. Moreover, unification logically presupposes, as was shown
above, that we establish a link with a broader domain of knowledge,
transcend the proper boundaries. This is accomplished by the idea that
separates itself from the concept. Now it links psychology with the
broad areas that lie outside of it, with biology, physics, chemistry,
mechanics, while the basic concept separates it from these areas. The
functions of these temporarily co-operating allies have again changed.
The idea is now openly included in some philosophical system,
spreads to the most remote domains of being, to the whole world –
while transforming and being transformed – and is formulated as a
universal principle or even as a whole world view.
This discovery, inflated into a world view like a frog that has
swollen to the size of an ox, a philistine amidst the gentry, now enters
the fifth and most dangerous stage of development: it may easily burst
like a soap-bubble. In any case it enters a stage of struggle and
negation which it now meets from all sides. Admittedly, there had
been a struggle against the idea in the previous stages as well. But that
was the normal opposition to the expansion of an idea, the resistance
of each different area against its aggressive tendencies. The initial
strength of the discovery that engendered it protected it from a genuine
struggle for life just like a mother protects her young. It is only now,
when the idea has entirely separated itself from the facts that
engendered it, developed to its logical extremes, carried to its ultimate
conclusions, generalised as far as possible, that it finally displays what
it is in reality, shows its real face. However strange it may seem, it is
actually only now, reduced to a philosophical form, apparently
obscured by many later developments and very remote from its direct
roots and the social causes that engendered it, that the idea reveals
what it wants, what it is, from which social tendencies it arose, which
class interests it serves. Only having developed into a world view or
having become attached to it, does the particular idea change from a
scientific fact into a fact of social life again, i.e., it returns to the
bosom from which it came. Only having become part of social life
again, does it reveal its social nature, which of course was present all
the time, but was hidden under the mask of the neutral scientific fact it
impersonated.
And in this stage of the struggle against the idea, its fate is
approximately as follows. Just like a new nobleman, the new idea is
shown in light of its philistine, i.e., its real, origin. It is confined to the
areas from which it sprang. It is forced to go through its development
backwards. It is accepted as a particular discovery but rejected as a
world view. And now new ways are being proposed to interpret this
particular discovery and the related facts. In other words, other world
views which represent other social tendencies and forces even
reconquer the idea's original area, develop their own view of it – and
then the idea either withers away or continues to exist more or less
tightly integrated in some world view amidst a number of other world
views, sharing their fate and fulfilling their functions. But as an idea
which revolutionises the science it ceases to exist. It is an idea that has
retired and has received the rank of general from its department.
Why does the idea as such cease to exist? Because operating in the
domain of world views is a law discovered by Engels, a law that says
that ideas gather around two poles – those of idealism and materialism,
which correspond to the two poles of social life, the two basic classes
that fight each other. The idea reveals its social nature much more
readily as a philosophical fact than as a scientific fact. And this is
where its role ends – it is unmasked as a hidden, ideological agent
dressed up as a scientific fact and begins to participate in the general,
open struggle of ideas. But exactly here, as a small item within an
enormous sum, it vanishes like a drop of rain in the ocean and ceases
to exist independently.
Chapter 4: Current Trends in Psychology
Every discovery in psychology that has the tendency to turn into an explanatory
principle follows this course. The ascent of such ideas itself may be explained by the
presence of an objective scientific need, rooted in the final analysis in the nature of
the studied phenomena, as it is revealed in the given stage of knowledge. It can be
explained, in other words, by the nature of the science and thus, in the final analysis
by the nature of the psychological reality studied by this science. However, the history
of the science can only explain why, in a given stage of its development, the need for
the ideas developed, why this was impossible a hundred years before. It cannot
explain more. Exactly which ideas turn into world views and which not; which ideas
are advanced, which path they cover; what is their fate – this all depends upon factors
that lie outside the history of the science and determine this very history.
We may compare this with Plekhanov's (1922) theory of art. Nature
has provided man with an aesthetic need, it enables him to have
aesthetic ideas, tastes, and feelings. But precisely which tastes, ideas,
and feelings a given person in the society of a given historical period
will have cannot be deduced from man's nature; only a materialistic
conception of history can give the answer. Actually, this argument is
not even a comparison, nor is it a metaphor. It literally falls under the
same general law which Plekhanov specifically applied to matters of
art. Indeed, the scientific acquisition of knowledge is one type of
activity of societal man amongst a number of other activities.
Consequently, scientific knowledge acquisition, viewed as the
acquisition of knowledge about nature and not as ideology, is a certain
type of labor. And as with any labor, it is first of all a process between
man and nature, in which man himself confronts nature as a natural
force. This process is determined in the first place by the properties of
the nature which is being transformed and the properties of the natural
force which is transforming, i.e., in the present case, by the nature of
the psychological phenomena and the epistemic conditions of man.
But precisely because they are natural, i.e., immutable, these properties
cannot explain the development, movement, and change in the history
of a science. This is generally known. Nevertheless, in each stage of
the development of a science we may distinguish, differentiate, or
abstract the demands put forward by the very nature of the phenomena
under investigation as they are known in the given stage, a stage
determined, of course, not by the nature of the phenomena, but by the
history of man. Precisely because the natural properties of mental
phenomena at a certain level of knowledge are a purely historical
category – for the properties change in the process of knowledge
acquisition – and because the sum total of known properties is a purely
historical quantity, they can be considered as the cause or one of the
causes of the historical development of the science.
To illustrate the model for the development of general ideas in
psychology just described, we will examine the fate of four ideas
which have been influential in the last few decades. In doing so our
sole interest will be the fact that made the development of these ideas
possible, rather than the ideas in themselves, i.e., a fact rooted in the
history of the science, not outside of it. We will not investigate why it
is precisely these ideas and their history that is important as a
symptom or indication of the stage that the history of the science is
going through. At the moment we are interested not in a historical but
a methodological question: to what extent are the psychological facts
elicited and known at the moment, and what changes in the structure
of the science do they require in order to make possible the further
acquisition of knowledge on the basis of what is already known? The
fate of the four ideas must bear witness to the need of the science at
the present moment, to the content and dimensions of this need. The
history of the science is important for us insofar as it determines the
degree to which psychological facts are cognised.
These four ideas are: psychoanalysis, reflexology, Gestalt
psychology, and personalism.
The idea of psychoanalysis sprang from particular discoveries in the
area of neuroses. The unconscious determination of a number of
mental phenomena and the hidden sexuality of a number of activities
and forms, until then not included in the field of erotic phenomena,
were established beyond doubt. Gradually this discovery, corroborated
by the success of therapeutic measures based on this conception, i.e.,
sanctioned by practice, was transferred to a number of adjacent areas –
the psychopathology of everyday life and child psychology – and it
conquered the whole field of the theory of neuroses. In the struggle
between the disciplines this idea brought the most remote branches of
psychology under its sway. It has been shown that on the basis of this
idea a psychology of art and an ethnic psychology can be developed.
But psychoanalysis at the same time transcended the boundaries of
psychology: sexuality became a metaphysical principle amidst all
other metaphysical ideas, psychoanalysis became a world view,
psychology a metapsychology. Psychoanalysis has its own theory of
knowledge and its own metaphysics, its own sociology and
mathematics. Communism and totem, the church and Dostoyevsky's
creative work, occultism and advertising, myth and Leonardo da
Vinci's inventions – it is all disguised and masked sex and sexuality,
and that is all there is to it.
The idea of the conditional reflex followed a similar course.
Everybody knows that it originated in the study of mental salivation in
dogs. But then it was extended to a number of other phenomena as
well. It conquered animal psychology. In Bekhterev's system it is
applied and used in all domains of psychology and reigns over them.
Everything – sleep, thought, work, and creativity – turns out to be a
reflex. It ended up dominating all psychological disciplines: the
collective psychology of art, industrial psychology and pedology,
psychopathology, even subjective psychology. And at the moment
reflexology only rubs shoulders with universal principles, universal
laws, first principles of mechanics. Just as psychoanalysis grew into a
metapsychology via biology, reflexology via biology grows into a
world view based on energy. The table of contents of a textbook in
reflexology is a universal catalogue of global laws. And again, just as
with psychoanalysis, it turned out that everything in the world is a
reflex. Anna Karenina and kleptomania, the class struggle and a
landscape, language and dream are all reflexes (Bekhterev, 1921;
1923).
Gestalt
psychology also
originally arose
in
the
concrete
psychological investigation of the processes of form perception. There
it received its practical christening; it passed the truth test. But, as it
was born at the same time as psychoanalysis and reflexology, it
covered the same path with amazing uniformity. It conquered animal
psychology, and it turned out that the thinking of apes is also a Gestalt
process. It conquered the psychology of art and ethnic psychology, and
it turned out that the primitive conception of the world and the creation
of art are Gestalten as well. It conquered child psychology and
psychopathology and both child development and mental disease were
covered by the Gestalt. Finally, having turned into a world view,
Gestalt psychology discovered the Gestalt in physics and chemistry, in
physiology and biology, and the Gestalt, withered to a logical formula,
appeared to be the basis of the world. When God created the world he
said: let there be Gestalt – and there was Gestalt everywhere (Kofflka,
1925; Kohler, 1917, 1920; Wertheimer, 1925).
Finally, personalism originally arose in differential psychological
research. Being an exceptionally valuable principle of personality in
the theory of psychometrics and in the theory of occupational choice,
etc., it migrated first to psychology in its entirety and then crossed its
boundaries. In the form of critical personalism it extended the concept
of personality not only to man, but to animals and plants as well. One
more step, well known to us from the history of psychoanalysis and
reflexology, and everything in the world is personality. The
philosophy which began by contrasting the personality with the thing,
by rescuing the personality from the power of things, ended up by
accepting all things as personalities. The things disappeared altogether.
A thing is only a part of the personality: it does not matter whether we
are dealing with the leg of a person or the leg of a table. But as this
part again consists of parts etc. and so on to infinity, it – the leg of a
person or a table – again turns out to be a personality in relation to its
parts and a part only in relation to the whole. The solar system and the
ant, the tram-driver and Hindenburg, a table and a panther – they are
all personalities (Stern, 1924).
These fates, similar as four drops of the same rain, drag the ideas
along one and the same path. The extension of the concept grows and
reaches for infinity and according to the well-known logical law, its
content falls just as impetuously to zero. Each of these four ideas is
extremely rich, full of meaning and sense, full of value and fruitful in
its own place. But elevated to the rank of universal laws they are
worthy of each other, they are absolutely equal to each other, like
round and empty zeros. Stern's personality is a complex of reflexes
according to Bekhterev, a Gestalt according to Wertheimer sexuality
according to Freud.
And in the fifth stage of development these ideas meet with exactly
the same criticism, which can be reduced to a single formula. To
psychoanalysis it is said: the principle of unconscious sexuality is
indispensable for the explanation of hysterical neuroses, but it can
explain neither the composition of the world nor the course of history.
To reflexology it is said: we must not make a logical mistake, the
reflex is only one single chapter of psychology, but not psychology as
a whole and even less, of course, the world in its entirety (Vagner,
1923; Vygotsky, 1925a). To Gestalt psychology it is said: you have
found a very valuable principle in your own area. But if thinking
consists of no more than the aspects of unity and the integrated whole,
i.e., of no more than the Gestalt formula, and this same formula
expresses the essence of each organic and even physical process, then
the picture of the world becomes, of course, amazingly complete and
simple – electricity, gravity, and human thinking are reduced to a
common denominator. We must not throw both thinking and relation
into one single pot of structures: let it first be shown that it belongs in
the same pot as structural functions. The new factor guides a broad
though limited area. But as a universal principle it does not stand up to
critique. Let the thinking of bold theoreticians in their attempts to
explain be characterised by the motto “it's all or nothing.” But as a
sound counterpoise the cautious investigator should take account of
the stubborn opposition of the facts. After all, to try and explain
everything means to explain nothing.
Doesn't this tendency of each new idea in psychology to turn into a
universal law show that psychology really should rest upon universal
laws, that all these ideas wait for a master-idea which comes and puts
each different, particular idea in its place and indicates its importance?
The regularity of the path covered with amazing constancy by the most
diverse ideas testifies, of course, to the fact that this path is
predetermined by the objective need for an explanatory principle and it
is precisely because such a principle is needed and not available that
various special principles occupy its place. Psychology, realising that
it is a matter of life or death to find a general explanatory principle,
grabs for any idea, albeit an unreliable one.
Spinoza [1677] in his “Treatise on the improvement of the
understanding” describes a similar state of knowledge:
A sick man struggling with a deadly disease, when he sees that
death will surely be upon him unless a remedy is found, is compelled
to seek such a remedy with all his strength, inasmuch as his whole
hope lies therein.
Chapter 5: From Generalisation to Explanation
We have traced a distinct tendency towards explanation - which already took shape in
the struggle between disciplines for supremacy – in the development of particular
discoveries into general principles. But in so doing we already proceeded to the
second phase of development of a general science which we have mentioned in
passing above. In the first phase, which is determined by the tendency towards
generalization, the general science is at bottom quantitatively different from the
special ones. In the second phase – the phase in which the tendency towards
explanation predominates – the internal structure of the general science is already
qualitatively distinct from the special disciplines. Not all sciences, as we will see, go
through both phases in their development. The majority knows only a general science
in its first phase. The reason for this will become clear as soon as we carefully state
the qualitative difference of the second phase.
We have seen that the explanatory principle carries us beyond the
boundaries of a given science and must interpret the whole unified
area of knowledge as a special category or stage of being amidst a
number of other categories, i.e., at stake are highly generalized,
ultimate, essentially philosophical principles. In this sense the general
science is the philosophy of the special disciplines.
In this sense Binswanger [1922, p. 3] says that a general science
such as, for example, general biology elaborates the foundations and
problems of a whole area of being. Interestingly, the first book that lay
the foundation of general biology was called “The philosophy of
zoology” (Lamarck). The further a general investigationpenetrates,
continues Binswanger, the larger the area it covers, the more abstract
and more remote from directly perceived reality the subject matter of
such an investigation will become. Instead of living plants, animals,
persons, the subject matter of science becomes the manifestations of
life and, finally, life itself, just as in physics force and matter replaced
bodies and their changes. Sooner or later for each science the moment
comes when it must accept itself as a whole, reflect upon its methods
and shift the attention from the facts and phenomena to the concepts it
utilizes. But from this moment on the general science is distinct from
the special one not because it is broader in scope, but because it is
organized in a qualitatively different way. No longer does it study the
same objects as the special science; rather, it investigates the concepts
of this science. It becomes a critical study in the sense Kant used this
expression. No longer being a biological or physical investigation, the
critical investigation is concerned with the concepts of biology or
physics. Consequently, general psychology is defined by Binswanger
as a critical reflection upon the basic concepts of psychology, in short,
as “a critique of psychology.” It is a branch of general methodology,
i.e., of the part of logic that studies the different applications of logical
forms and norms in the various sciences in accordance with the formal
and material reality of the nature of their objects, their procedures, and
their problems.
This argumentation, based on formal logical premises, is only half
true. It is correct that the general science is a theory of ultimate
foundations, of the general principles and problems of a given area of
knowledge, and that consequently its subject matter, methods of
investigation, criteria and tasks are different from those in the special
disciplines. But it is incorrect to view it as merely a part of logic, as
merely a logical discipline, as if general biology is no longer a
biological discipline but a logical one, as if general psychology stops
being psychology but becomes logic. It is incorrect to view it as
merely critique in the Kantian sense, to assume that it only studies
concepts. It is first of all incorrect historically, but also according to
the essence of the matter and the inner nature of scientific knowledge.
It is incorrect historically, i.e., it does not correspond with the actual
state of affairs in any science. There does not exist a single general
science in the form described by Binswanger. Not even general
biology in the form in which it actually exists, the biology whose
foundations were laid by the works of Lamarck and Darwin, the
biology which is until now the canon of genuine knowledge of living
matter, is, of course, part of logic, but a natural science, albeit of the
highest level. Of course, it does not deal with living, concrete objects
such as plants and animals, but with abstractions such as organism,
evolution of species, natural selection and life, but in the final analysis
it nevertheless studies by means of these abstractions the same reality
as zoology and botany. It would be as much a mistake to say that it
studies concepts and not the reality reflected in these concepts, as it
would to say of an engineer who is studying a blueprint of a machine
that he is studying a blueprint and not a machine, or of an anatomist
studying an atlas that he studies a drawing and not the human skeleton.
For concepts as well are no more than blueprints, snapshots; schemas
of reality and in studying them we study models of reality, just as we
study a foreign country or city on the plan or geographical map.
When it comes to such well developed sciences as physics and
chemistry, Binswanger [1922, p. 4] himself is compelled to admit that
a broad field of investigations developed in between the critical and
empirical poles and that this area is called theoretical, or general,
physics, chemistry, etc. He remarks that natural-scientific theoretical
psychology, which in principle wishes to be like physics, acts likewise.
However abstractly theoretical physics may formulate its subject of
study, for example as “the theory of causal dependencies between
natural phenomena,” it nevertheless studies real facts. General physics
studies the concept of the physical phenomenon itself, of the physical
causal link, but not the various laws and theories on the basis of which
the real phenomena may be explained as physically causal. The subject
matter of investigation of general physics is rather the physical
explanation itself.
As we see, Binswanger himself admits that his conception of the
general science diverges in one point from the actual conception as it
is realized in a number of sciences. They are not differentiated by a
greater or lesser degree of abstraction of the concepts – what can be
further from the real, empirical things than causal dependency as the
subject matter of a whole science? – but by their ultimate focus:
general physics, in the end, focuses on real facts which it wishes to
explain by means of abstract concepts. The general science is in
principle not focused on real facts, but on the concepts themselves and
has nothing to do with the real facts.
Admittedly, when a debate between theory and history arises, when
there is a discrepancy between the idea and the fact, as in the present
case, the debate is always solved in favor of history or fact. The
argument from the facts may itself not always be appropriate in the
area of fundamental research. Then to the reproach that the ideas and
facts do not correspond we are fully justified to answer so much the
worse for the facts. In the present case, so much the worse for the
sciences when they find themselves in a phase of development in
which they have not yet attained the stage of a general science. When a
general science in this sense does not yet exist, it does not follow that
it will never exist, that it should not exist, that we cannot and must not
lay its foundations. We must therefore examine the essence, the logical
basis of the problem, and then it will also become possible to clarify
the meaning of the historical deviation of the general science from its
abstract idea.
It is important to make two points.
1. Every natural-scientific concept, however high the degree of its
abstraction from the empirical fact, always contains a clot, a sediment
of the concrete, real and scientifically known reality, albeit in a very
weak solution, i.e., to every ultimate concept, even to the most abstract,
corresponds some aspect of reality which the concept represents in an
abstract, isolated form. Even purely fictitious, not natural-scientific but
mathematical concepts ultimately contain some echo, some reflection
of the real relations between things and the real processes, although
they did not develop from empirical, actual knowledge, but purely a
priori, via the deductive path of speculative logical operations. As
Engels demonstrated, even such an abstract concept as the series of
numbers, or even such an obvious fiction as zero, i.e., the idea of the
absence of any magnitude, is full of properties that are qualitative, i.e.,
in the end they correspond in a very remote and dissolved form to real,
actual relations. Reality exists even in the imaginary abstractions of
mathematics.
16 is not only the addition of 16 unities, it is also the square of 4
and the biquadrate of 2 . ... Only even numbers can be divided by
two .. .. For division by 3 we have the rule of the sum of the figures. ...
For 7 there is a special law.. .. Zero destroys any other number by
which it is multiplied; when it is made divisor or dividend with regard
to some other number, this number will in the first case become
infinitely large, in the second case infinitely small [Engels, 1925/1978,
pp. 522/524].
About both concepts of mathematics one might say what Engels, in
the words of Hegel, says about zero: “The non-existence of something
is a specific non-existence” [ibid., p. 525], i.e., in the end it is a real
non-existence. But maybe these qualities, properties, the specificity of
concepts as such, have no relation whatsoever to reality.
Engels [ibid., p. 530] clearly rejects the view that in mathematics we
are dealing with purely free creations and imaginations of the human
mind to which nothing in the objective world corresponds. Just the
opposite is the case. We meet the prototypes of each of these
imaginary quantities in nature. The molecule possesses exactly the
same properties in relation to its corresponding mass as the
mathematical differential in relation to its variable.
Nature operates with these differentials, the molecules, in exactly
the same way and according to the same laws as mathematics with its
abstract differentials [ibid., p. 531].
In mathematics we forget all these analogies and that is why its
abstractions turn into something enigmatic. We can always find
the real relations from which the mathematical relation ... was
taken ... and even the natural analogues of the mathematical way to
make these relations manifest [ibid., p. 534]
The prototypes of mathematical infinity and other concepts lie in the
real world
The mathematical infinite is taken, albeit unconsciously, from
reality, and that is why it can only be explained on the basis of reality,
and not on the basis of itself, the mathematical abstraction (ibid., p.
534)
If this is true with respect to the highest possible, i.e., mathematical
abstraction, then bow much more obvious it is for the abstractions of
the real natural sciences. They must, of course, be explained only on
the basis of the reality from which the system and not on the basis of
themselves, the abstraction.
2. The second point that we need to make in order to present a
fundamental analysis of the problem of the general science is the
opposite of the first. Whereas the first claimed that the highest
scientific abstraction contains an element of reality, the second is the
opposite theorem: even the most immediate, empirical, raw, singular
natural scientific fact already contains a first abstraction. The real and
the scientific fact are distinct in that the scientific fact is a real fact
included into a certain system of knowledge, i.e., an abstraction of
several features from the inexhaustible sum of features of the natural
fact. The material of science is not raw, but logically elaborated,
natural material which has been selected according to a certain feature.
Physical body, movement, matter – these are all abstractions. The fact
itself of naming a fact by a word means to frame this fact in a concept,
to single out one of its aspects; it is an act toward understanding this
fact by including it into a category of phenomena which have been
empirically studied before. Each word already is a theory, as linguists
have noted for quite some time and as Potebnya [1913/1993] has
brilliantly demonstrated.
Everything described as a fact is already a theory. These are the
words of Goethe to which Munsterberg refers in arguing the need for a
methodology. When we meet what is called a cow and say: “This is a
cow,” we add the act of thinking to the act of perception, bringing the
given perception under a general concept. A child who first calls
things by their names is making genuine discoveries. I do not see that
this is a cow, for this cannot be seen. I see something big, black,
moving, plowing, etc., and understand that this is a cow. And this act
is an act of classification, of assigning a singular phenomenon to the
class of similar phenomena, of systematizing the experience, etc. Thus,
language itself contains the basis and possibilities for the scientific
knowledge of a fact. The word is the germ of science and in this sense
we can say that in the beginning of science was the word.
Who has seen, who has perceived such empirical facts as the heat
itself in steam-generation? It cannot be perceived in a single real
process, but we can infer this fact with confidence and to infer means
to operate with concepts.
In Engels we find a good example of the presence of abstractions
and the participation of thought in every scientific fact. Ants have
other eyes than we have. They see chemical beams that are invisible to
us. This is a fact. How was it established? How can we know that
“ants see things that are invisible to us”? Naturally, this is based on the
perceptions of our eye, but in addition to that we have not only the
other senses but the activity of our thinking as well. Thus, establishing
a scientific fact is already a matter of thinking, that is, of concepts.
To be sure, we will never know how these chemical beams look to
the ants. Who deplores this is beyond help [Engels, 1925/1978, p.
507].
This is the best example of the non-coincidence of the real and the
scientific fact. Here this non-coincidence is presented in an especially
vivid way, but it exists to a certain degree in each fact. We never saw
these chemical beams and did not perceive the sensations of ants, i.e.,
that ants see certain chemical beams is not a real fact of immediate
experience for us, but for the collective experience of mankind it is a
scientific fact. But what to say, then, about the fact that the earth turns
around the sun? For here in the thinking of man the real fact, in order
to become a scientific fact, had to turn into its opposite, although the
earth’s rotation around the sun was established by observations of the
sun’s rotations around the earth.
By now we are equipped with all we need to solve this problem and
we can go straight for the goal. If at the root of every scientific concept
lies a fact and, vice versa, at the basis of every scientific fact lies a
concept, then from this it inevitably follows that the difference
between general and empirical sciences as regards the object of
investigation is purely quantitative and not fundamental. It is a
difference of degree and not a difference of the nature of the
phenomenon. The general sciences do not deal with real objects, but
with abstractions. They do not study plants and animals, but life. Their
subject matter is scientific concepts. But life as well is part of reality
and these concepts have their prototypes in reality. The special
sciences have the actual facts of reality as their subject matter, they do
not study life as such, but actual classes and groups of plants and
animals. But both the plant and the animal, and even the birch tree and
the tiger, and even this birch tree and this tiger are already concepts.
And scientific facts as well, even the most primitive ones, are already
concepts. Fact and concept form the subject matter of all disciplines,
but to a different degree, in different proportion. Consequently, general
physics does not cease being a physical discipline and does not
become part of logic because it deals with the most abstract physical
concepts. Ultimately, even these serve to know some part of reality.
But perhaps the nature of the objects of the general and the special
disciplines is really the same, maybe they differ only in the proportion
of concept and fact, and the fundamental difference which allows us to
count the one as logic and the other as physics lies in the direction, the
goal, the point of view of both investigations, so to speak, in the
different role played by the same elements in both cases?
Could we perhaps put it like this: both concept and fact participate
in the development of the subject matter of any science, but in one
case – the case of empirical science – we utilize concepts to acquire
knowledge about facts, and in the second – general science – we
utilize facts to acquire knowledge about concepts? In the first case the
concepts are not the subject matter, the goal, the objective of
knowledge, but its tools, means, auxiliary devices. The goal, the
subject matter of knowledge are the facts. As a result of the growth of
knowledge the number of known facts is enhanced, but not the number
of concepts. Like any tool of labor the concepts,in contrast, suffer wear
and tear in their use, become worn down, in need of revision and often
of replacement. In the second case it is the other way around; we study
the concepts themselves as such, their correspondence with the facts is
only a means, a way, a method, a verification of their suitability. As a
result we do not learn of new facts, but acquire either new concepts or
new knowledge about the concepts. After all, we can look twice at a
drop of water under the microscope and this will be two completely
distinct processes, although both the drop and the microscope will be
the same both times: the first time we study the composition of the
drop of water by means of the microscope; the second time we verify
the suitability of the microscope itself by looking at a drop of water –
isn’t it like that?
But the whole difficulty of the problem is exactly that it is not like
that. It is true that in a special science we utilize concepts as tools to
acquire knowledge of facts. But using tools means at the same time to
test them, to study and master them, to throw away the ones that are
unfit, to improve them, to create new ones. Already in the very first
stage of the scientific processing of empirical material the use of a
concept is a critique of the concept by the facts, the comparison of
concepts, their modification. Let us take as an example the two
scientific facts mentioned above, which definitely do not belong to
general science: the earth’s rotation around the sun and the vision of
ants. How much critical work on our perceptions and, thus, on the
concepts linked with them, how much direct study of these concepts –
visibility, invisibility, apparent movement – how much creation of new
concepts, of new links between concepts, how much modification of
the very concepts of vision, light, movement etc. was needed to
establish these facts! And, finally, does not the very selection of the
concepts needed to know these facts require an analysis of the
concepts in addition to the analysis of the facts? After all, if concepts,
as tools, were set aside for particular facts of experience in advance, all
science
would
be
superfluous:
then
a
thousand
administrator-registrators or statistician-counters could note down the
universe on cards, graphs, columns. Scientific knowledge differs from
the registration of a fact in that it selects the concept needed, i.e., it
analyzes both fact and concept.
Any word is a theory. To name an object is to apply a concept to it.
Admittedly, by means of the word we wish to comprehend the object.
But each name, each application of the word, this embryo of science,
is a critique of the word, a blurring of its form, an extension of its
meaning. Linguists have clearly enough demonstrated how words
change from being used. After all, language otherwise would never be
renewed, words would not die, be born, or become obsolete.
Finally, each discovery in science, each step forward in empirical
science is always at the same time an act of criticizing the concept.
Pavlov discovered the fact of conditional reflexes. But didn’t he really
create a new concept! at the same time? Did we really call a trained,
well-learned movement a reflex before? And it cannot be otherwise: if
science would only discover facts without extending the boundaries of
its concepts, it would not discover anything new. It would make no
headway in finding more and more new specimens of the same
concepts. Each tiny new fact is already an extension of the concept.
Each newly discovered relation between two facts immediately
requires a critique of the two corresponding concepts and the
establishment of a new relation between them. The conditional reflex
is a discovery of a new fact by means of an old concept. We learned
that mental salivation develops directly from the reflex, more correctly,
that it is the same reflex, but operating under other conditions. But at
the same time it is a discovery of a new concept by means of an old
fact: by means of the fact “salivation occurs at the sight of food,”
which is well known to all of us, we acquired a completely new
concept of the reflex, our idea of it diametrically changed. Whereas
before, the reflex was a synonym for a premental, unconscious,
immutable fact, nowadays the whole mind is reduced to reflexes, the
reflex has turned out to be a most flexible mechanism, etc. How would
this have been possible if Pavlov had only studied the fact of salivation
and not the concept of the reflex? This is essentially the same thing
expressed in two ways, for in each scientific discovery knowledge of
the fact is to the same extent knowledge of the concept. The scientific
investigation of facts differs from registration in that it is the
accumulation of concepts, the circulation of concepts and facts with a
conceptual return.
Finally, the special sciences create all the concepts that the general
science studies. For the natural sciences do not spring from logic, it is
not logic that provides them with ready-made concepts. Can we really
assume that the creation of ever more abstract concepts proceeds
completely unconsciously? How can theories, laws, conflicting
hypotheses exist without the critique of concepts? How can we create
a theory or advance a hypothesis, i.e., something which transcends the
boundaries of the facts, without working on the concepts?
But perhaps the study of concepts in the special sciences proceeds in
passing, accidentally as the facts are being studied, whereas the
general science studies only concepts? This would not be correct either.
We have seen that the abstract concepts with which the general science
operates possess a kernel of reality. The question arises what science
does with this kernel – is it ignored, forgotten, covered in the
inaccessible stronghold of abstractions like pure mathematics? Does
one never in the process of investigation, nor after it, turn to this kernel,
as if it did not exist at all? One only has to examine the method of
investigation in the general science and its ultimate result to see that
this is not true. Are concepts really studied by pure deduction, by
finding logical relations between concepts, and not by new induction,
by new analysis, the establishing of new relations, in a word – by work
on the real contents of these concepts? After all, we do not develop our
ideas from specific premises, as in mathematics, but we proceed by
induction – we generalize enormous groups of facts, compare them,
analyze and create new abstractions. This is the way general biology
and general physics proceed. And not a single general science can
proceed otherwise, since the logical formula “A is B” has been
replaced by a definition, i.e., by the real A and B: by mass, movement,
body, and organism. And the result of an investigation in a general
science is not new forms of inter-relations of concepts, as in logic, but
new facts: we learn of evolution, heredity, inertia. How do we learn of
this, how do we reach the concept of evolution? We compare such
facts as the data of comparative anatomy and physiology, botany and
zoology, embryology and photo and zootechnics etc., i.e., we proceed
as we proceed with the individual facts in a special science. And on the
basis of a new study of the facts elaborated by the various sciences we
establish new facts, i.e., in the process of investigation and in its result
we are constantly operating with facts.
Thus, the difference between the general and the special science as
concerns their goal, orientation, and the elaboration of concepts and
facts, again appears to be only quantitative. It is a difference of degree
of one and the same phenomenon and not of the nature of two sciences.
It is not absolute or fundamental.
Finally, let us proceed to a positive definition of the general science.
It might seem that if the difference between general and special
science as to their subject matter, method, and goal of study is merely
relative and not absolute, quantitative and not fundamental, we lose
any ground to distinguish them theoretically. It might seem that there
is no general science at all as distinct from the special sciences. But
this is not true, of course. Quantity turns into quality here and provides
the basis for a qualitatively distinct science. However the latter is not
torn away from the given family of sciences and transferred to logic.
The fact that at the root of every scientific concept lies a fact does not
mean that the fact is represented in every scientific concept in the same
way. In the mathematical concept of infinity reality is represented in a
way completely different from the way it is represented in the concept
of the conditional reflex. In the concepts of a higher order with which
the general science is dealing, reality is represented in another way
than in the concepts of an empirical science. And the way, character,
and form in which reality is represented in the various sciences in
every case determines the structure of every discipline.
But this difference in the way of representing reality, i.e., in the
structure of the concepts, should not be understood as something
absolute either. There are many transitional levels between an
empirical science and a general one. Binswanger [1922, p. 4] says that
not a single science that deserves the name can “leave it at the simple
accumulation of concepts, it strives rather to systematically develop
concepts into rules, rules into laws, laws into theories.” The
elaboration of concepts, methods, and theories takes place within the
science itself during the whole course of scientific knowledge
acquisition, i.e., the transition from one pole to the other, from fact to
concept, is accomplished without pausing for a single minute. And
thereby the logical abyss, the impassable line between general and
special science is erased, whereas the factual independence and
necessity of a general science is created. Just like the special science
itself internally takes care of all the work of funneling facts via rules
into laws and laws via theories into hypotheses, general science carries
out the same work, by the same method, with the same goals, but for a
number of the various special sciences.
This is entirely similar to Spinoza’s argumentation about method. A
theory of method is, of course, the production of means of production,
to take a comparison from the field of industry. But in industry the
production of means of productionis no special, primordial production,
but forms part of the general process of production and itself depends
upon the same methods and tools of production as all other production.
Spinoza [1677/1955, pp. 11-12] argues that
we must first take care not to commit ourselves to a search going
back to infinity, that is, in order to discover the best method for finding
the truth, there is no need of another method to discover such method;
nor of a third method for discovering the second, and so on to infinity.
By such proceedings, we should never arrive at the knowledge of the
truth, or, indeed, at any knowledge at all. The matter stands on the
same footing as the making of material tools, which might be argued
about in a similar way. For, in order to work iron, a hammer is needed,
and the hammer cannot be forthcoming unless it has been made; but in
order to make it, there was need of another hammer and other tools,
and so on to infinity. We might thus vainly endeavor to prove that men
have no power of working iron. But as men at first made use of the
instruments supplied by nature to accomplish very easy pieces of
workmanship, laboriously and imperfectly, and then, when these were
finished, wrought other things more difficult with less labor and
greater perfection; and so gradually mounted from the simplest
operations to the making of tools, and from the making of tools to the
making of more complex tools, and fresh feats of workmanship, till
they arrived at making, with small expenditure of labor, the vast
number of complicated mechanisms which they now possess. So, in
like manner, the intellect, by its native strength, makes for itself
intellectual instruments, whereby it acquires strength for performing
other intellectual operations, and from these operations gets again
fresh instruments, or the power of pushing its investigations further,
and thus gradually proceeds till it reaches the summit of wisdom.
The methodological current to which Binswanger belongs also
admits that the production of tools and that of creative work are, in
principle, not two separate processes in science, but two sides of the
same process which go hand in hand. Following Rickert, he defines
each science as the processing [Bearbeitung] of material, and therefore
for him two problems arise in every science – one with respect to the
material and the other concerning its processing. One cannot, however,
draw such a sharp dividing line, since the concept of the object of the
empirical science already contains a good deal of processing. And he
(Binswanger, 1922, pp. 7-8) distinguishes between the raw material,
the real object [wirklichen Gegenstand] and the scientific object
[wissenschafthichen Gegenstand]. The latter is created by science from
the real object via concepts. When we raise a third cluster of
problems – aboutthe relation between the material and its processing,
i.e., between the object and the method of science – the debate must
again focus on what is determined by what: the object by the method,
or vice versa. Some, like Stumpf, suppose that all differences in
method are rooted in differences between the objects. Others, like
Rickert, are of the opinion that various objects, both physical and
mental, require one and the same method. But, as we see, we do not
find grounds for a demarcation of the general from the special science
here either.
All this only indicates that we can give no absolute definition of the
concept of a general science and that it can only be defined relative to
the special science. From the latter it is distinguished not by its object,
nor by the method, goal, or result of the investigation. But for a
number of special sciences which study related realms of reality from
a single viewpoint it accomplishes the same work and by the same
method and with the same goal as each of these sciences accomplish
for their own material. We have seen that no science confines itself to
the simple accumulation of material, but rather that it subjects this
material to diverse and prolonged processing, that it groups and
generalizes the material, creates a theory and hypotheses which help to
get a wider perspective on reality than the one which follows from the
various uncoordinated facts. The general science continues the work of
the special sciences. When the material is carried to the highest degree
of generalization possible in that science, further generalization is
possible only beyond the boundaries of the given science and by
comparing it with the material of a number of adjacent sciences. This
is what the general science does. Its single difference from the special
sciences is that it carries out its work with respect to a number of
sciences. If it carried out the same work with respect to a single
science it would never come to the fore as an independent science, but
would remain a part of that single science. The general science can
therefore be defined as a science that receives its material from a
number of special sciences and carries out the further processing and
generalization of the material which is impossible within each of the
various disciplines.
The general science therefore stands to the special one as the theory
of this special science to the number of its special laws, i.e., according
to the degree of generalization of the phenomena studied. The general
science develops out of the need to continue the work of the special
sciences where these end. The general science stands to the theories,
laws, hypotheses and methods of the special sciences as the special
science stands to the facts of the reality it studies. Biology receives
material from various sciences and processes it in the way each special
science does with its own material. The whole difference is that
[general] biology begins where embryology, zoology, anatomy etc.
stop, that it unites the material of the various sciences, just as a
[special] science unites various materials within its own field.
This viewpoint can fully explain both the logical structure of the
general science and the factual, historical role of the general science. If
we accept the opposite opinion that the general science is part of logic,
it becomes completely inexplicable why it is the highly developed
sciences, which already managed to create and elaborate very refined
methods, basic concepts and theories, which produce a general science.
It would seem that new, young, beginning disciplines are more in need
of borrowing concepts and methods from another science. Secondly,
why does only a group of adjacent disciplines lead to a general science
and not each science on its own – why do botany, zoology and
anthropology lead to biology? Couldn’t we create a logic of just
zoology and just botany, like the logic of algebra? And indeed such
separate disciplines can exist and do exist, but this does not make them
general sciences, just as the methodology of botany does not become
biology.
Like the whole current, Binswanger proceeds from an idealistic
conception of scientific knowledge, i.e., from idealistic epistemic
premises and a formal logical construction of the system of sciences.
For Binswanger, concepts and real objects are separated by an
unbridgeable gap. Knowledge has its own laws, its own nature, its a
priori, which it projects unto the reality that is known. That is why for
Binswanger these a priori, these laws, this knowledge, can be studied
separately, in isolation from what is cognized by them. For him a
critique of scientific reason in biology, psychology, and physics is
possible, just like the critique of pure reason was possible for Kant.
Binswanger is prepared to admit that the method of knowing
determines reality, just as in Kant reason dictated the laws of nature.
For him the relations between sciences are not determined by the
historical development of these sciences and not even by the demands
of scientific experience, i.e., in the final analysis they are not
determined by the demands of the reality studied by this science, but
by the formal logical structure of the concepts.
In another philosophical system such a conception would be
unthinkable, i.e., when we reject these epistemological and formal
logical premises, the whole conception of the general science falls
immediately. As soon as we accept the realistic, objective, i.e., the
materialistic viewpoint in epistemology and the dialectical viewpoint
in logic and in the theory of scientific knowledge, such a theory
becomes impossible. With that new viewpoint we must immediately
accept that reality determines our experience, the object of science and
its method and that it is entirely impossible to study the concepts of
any science independent of the realities it represents.
Engels [1925/1978, p. 514] has pointed out many times that for
dialectical logic the methodology of science is a reflection of the
methodology of reality. He says that
The classification of sciences of which each analyzes a different
form of movement, or a number of movements that are connected and
merge into each other, is at the same time a classification, an ordering
according to the inherent order of these forms of movement themselves
and in this resides their importance.
Can it be said more clearly? In classifying the sciences we establish
the hierarchy of reality itself
The so-called objective dialectic reigns in all nature, and the
so-called subjective dialectic, dialectical thinking, is only a reflection
of the movement by opposition, that reigns in all nature [ibid., p. 481].
Here the demand to take account of the objective dialectic in
studying the subjective dialectic, i.e., dialectical thinking in some
science, is clearly expressed. Of course, by no means does this imply
that we close our eyes to the subjective conditions of this thinking. The
same Engels who established a correspondence between being and
thinking in mathematics says that “all laws of number are dependent
upon and determined by the system that is used. In the binary and
ternary system 2 x 2 does not = 4, but = 100 or = 11” [ibid., p. 523].
Extending this, we might say that subjective assumptions which follow
from knowledge will always influence the way of expressing the laws
of nature and the relation between the different concepts. We must
take them into account, but always as a reflection of the objective
dialectic.
We must, therefore, contrast epistemological critique and formal
logic as the foundations of a general science with a dialectic “which is
conceived of as the science of the most general laws of all movement.
This implies that its laws must be valid for both movement in nature
and human history and movement in thinking”[ibid., p. 530]. This
means that the dialectic of psychology – this is what we may now call
the general psychology in opposition to Binswanger’s definition of a
“critique of psychology” – is the science of the most general forms of
movement (in the form of behavior and knowledge of this movement),
i.e., the dialectic of psychology is at the same time the dialectic of man
as the object of psychology, just as the dialectic of the natural sciences
is at the same time the dialectic of nature.
Engels does not even consider the purely logical classification of
judgments in Hegel to be based merely on thinking, but on the laws of
nature. This he regards as a distinguishing characteristic of dialectical
logic.
What in Hegel seems a development of the judgment as a category
of thinking as such, now appears to be a development of our
knowledge of the nature of movement based on empirical grounds.
And this proves that the laws of thinking and the laws of nature
correspond necessarily with each other as soon as they are known
properly [ibid., p. 493]
The key to general psychology as a part of dialectics lies in these
words: this correspondence between thinking and being in science is at
the same time object, highest criterion, and even method, i.e., general
principle of the general psychology.
Chatper 6: The Objective Tendencies in development of a Science
General psychology stands to the special disciplines as algebra to arithmetic.
Arithmetic operates with specific, concrete quantities; algebra studies all kinds of
general forms of relations between qualities. Every arithmetical operation can,
consequently, be considered as a special case of an algebraic formula. From this it
obviously follows that for each special discipline and for each of its laws the question
as to which general formula they form a special case of is not at all indifferent. The
general science’s fundamentally guiding and supreme role, so to speak, does not
follow from the fact that it stands above the sciences, it does not come from above,
from logic, i.e., from the ultimate foundations of scientific knowledge, but from below,
from the sciences themselves which delegate the authorization of truth to the general
science. The general science, consequently, develops from the special position it
occupies with regard to the special ones: it integrates their sovereign ties, forms their
representative. If we graphically represent the system of knowledge which covers all
psychological disciplines as a circle, general science will correspond to the center of
the circumference.
Now let us suppose that we have various centers as in the case of a debate between
separate disciplines that aspire to become the center, or in the case of different ideas
claiming to be the central explanatory principle. It is obvious that to these will
correspond different circumferences and each new center will at the same time be a
peripheral point on the former circumference. Consequently, we get several
circumferences that intersect with each other. In our example this new position of
each circumference graphically represents the special area of knowledge that is
covered by psychology depending on the center, i.e., the general discipline.
Whoever takes the viewpoint of the general discipline, i.e., deals with the facts of the
special disciplines not on a footing of equality, but as the material of a science, just as
these disciplines themselves deals with the facts of reality, will immediately change
the viewpoint of critique for the viewpoint of investigation. Criticism is on the same
level as what is being criticized; it proceeds fully within the given discipline; its goal
is exclusively critical and not positive; it wishes to know only whether and to what
extent some theory is correct; it evaluates and judges, but does not investigate. A
criticizes B, but both occupy the same position as to the facts. Things change when A
begins to deal with B as B does with the facts, i.e., when he does not criticize B, but
investigates him. The investigation already belongs to general science, its tasks are
not critical, but positive. It does not wish to evaluate some theory, but to learn
something new about the facts themselves which are represented in the theory. While
science uses critique as a means, the course [of the investigation, Russian eds.] and
the result of this process nevertheless differ fundamentally from a critical examination.
Critique, in the final analysis, formulates an opinion about an opinion, albeit a very
solid and well-founded opinion. A general investigation establishes, ultimately,
objective laws and facts.
Only he who elevates his analysis from the level of the critical discussion of some
system of views to the level of a fundamental investigation by means of the general
science will understand the objective meaning of the crisis that is taking place in
psychology. He will see the lawfulness of the clash of ideas and opinions that is taking
place, which is determined by the development of the science itself and by the nature
of the reality it studies at a given level of knowledge. Instead of a chaos of
heterogeneous opinions, a motley discordance of subjective utterances, he will see an
orderly blueprint of the fundamental opinions concerning the development of the
science, a system of the objective tendencies which are inherent in the historical tasks
brought forward by the development of the science and which act behind the backs of
the various investigators and theorists with the force of a steel spring. Instead of
critically discussing and evaluating some author, instead of establishing that this
author is guilty of inconsistency and contradictions, he will devote a positive
investigation to the question what the objective tendencies in science require. And as a
result, instead of opinions about an opinion he will get an outline of the skeleton of
the general science as a system of defining laws, principles and facts.
Only such an investigator realizes the real and correct meaning of the catastrophe that
is taking place and has a clear idea of the role, place, and meaning of each different
theory or school. Rather than by the impressionism and subjectivism inevitable in
each criticism, he will be led by scientific reliability and veracity. For him (and this
will be the first result of the new viewpoint) the individual differences will vanish–he
will understand the role of personality in history. He will understand that to explain
reflexology’s claims to be a universal science from the personal mistakes, opinions,
particularities, and ignorance of its founders is as impossible as to explain the French
revolution from the corruption of the king or court. He will see what and how much in
the development of science depends upon the good and bad intention of its
practitioners, what can be explained from their intentions and what from this intention
itself should, on the contrary, be explained on the basis of the objective tendencies
operative behind the backs of these practitioners. Of course, the particularities of his
personal creativity and the entire weight of his scientific experience determined the
specific form of universalism which the idea of reflexology acquired in the hands of
Bekhterev. But in Pavlov [1928/1963, p. 41] as well, whose personal contribution and
scientific experience are entirely different, reflexology is the “ultimate science,” “an
omnipotent method,” which brings “full, true and permanent human happiness.” And
in their own way behaviorism and Gestalt theory cover the same route. Obviously,
rather than the mosaic of good and evil intentions among the investigators we should
study the unity in the processes of regeneration of scientific tissue in psychology,
which determines the intention of all the investigators.
Chapter 7: The unconscious. The Fusing of disparate theories
Precisely what the dependency of each psychological operation upon the general
formula means can be illustrated with any problem that transcends the boundaries of
the special discipline that raised it.
When Lipps [1897, p. 146] says about the unconscious that it is less
a psychological problem than the problem for psychology, he has in
mind that the unconscious is a problem of general psychology. By this
he wished to say, of course, no more than that this question will be
answered not as a result of this or that particular investigation, but as a
result of a fundamental investigation by means of the general science,
i.e., by comparing the widely varying data of the most heterogeneous
areas of science; by correlating the given problem with several of the
basic premises of scientific knowledge, on the one hand, and with
several of the most general results of all sciences, on the other; by
finding a place for this concept in the system of the basic concepts of
psychology; by a fundamental dialectical analysis of the nature of this
concept and the features of being that it corresponds to and reflects.
This investigation logically precedes any concrete investigation of
particular questions of subconscious life and determines the very
formulation of the problem in such investigations.
As Munsterberg [1920, p. v], defending the need for such an
investigation for another set of problems, splendidly put it: “In the end
it is better to get an approximately exact preliminary answer to a
question that is stated correctly than to answer with a precision to the
last decimal point a question that is stated inaccurately.” A correct
statement of a question is no less a matter of scientific creativity and
investigation than a correct answer – and it is much more crucial. The
vast majority of contemporary psychological investigations write out
the last decimal point with great care and precision in answer to a
question that is stated fundamentally incorrectly.
Whether we accept with Munsterberg [1920, pp. 158-163] that the
subconscious is simply physiological and not psychological; or
whether we agree with others that the subconscious consists of
phenomena that temporarily are absent from consciousness, like the
whole mass of potentially conscious reminiscences, knowledge and
habits; whether we call those phenomena subconscious that do not
reach the threshold of consciousness, or those of which we are
minimally conscious, which are peripheral in the field of
consciousness, automatic and unnoted; whether we find a suppression
of the sexual drive to be the basis of the subconscious, like Freud, or
our second ego, a special personality; finally, whether we call these
phenomena un-, sub-, or superconscious, or like Stern accept all of
these terms – it all fundamentally changes the character, quantity,
composition, nature, and properties of the material which we will
study. The question partially predetermines the answer.
It is this feeling of a system, the sense of a [common] style, the
understanding that each particular statement is linked with and
dependent upon the central idea of the whole system of which it forms
a part, which is absent in the essentially eclectic attempts at combining
the parts of two or more systems that are heterogeneous and diverse in
scientific origin and composition. Such are, for instance, the synthesis
of behaviorism and Freudian theory in the American literature;
Freudian theory without Freud in the systems of Adler and Jung; the
reflexological Freudian theory of Bekhterev and Zalkind; finally, the
attempts to combine Freudian theory and Marxism (Luria, 1925;
Fridman, 1925). So many examples from the area of the problem of
the subconscious alone! In all these attempts the tail of one system is
taken and placed against the head of another and the space between
them is filled with the trunk of a third. It isn’t that they are incorrect,
these monstrous combinations, they are correct to the last decimal
point, but the question they wish to answer is stated incorrectly. We
can multiply the number of citizens of Paraguay with the number of
kilometers from the earth to the sun and divide the product by the
average life span of the elephant and carry out the whole operation
irreproachably, without a mistake in any number, and nevertheless the
final outcome might mislead someone who is interested in the national
income of this country. What the eclectics do, is to reply to a question
raised by Marxist philosophy with an answer prompted by Freudian
metapsychology.
In order to show the methodological illegitimacy of such attempts,
we will first dwell upon three types of combining incompatible
questions and answers, without thinking for one moment that these
three types exhaust the variety of such attempts.
The first way in which any school assimilates the scientific products
of another area consists of the direct transposition of all laws, facts,
theories, ideas etc., the usurpation of a more or less broad area
occupied by other investigators, the annexation of foreign territory.
Such a politics of direct usurpation is common for each new scientific
system which spreads its influence to adjacent disciplines and lays
claim to the leading role of a general science. Its own material is
insufficient and after just a little critical work such a system absorbs
foreign bodies, submits them, filling the emptiness of its inflated
boundaries. Usually one gets a conglomerate of scientific theories,
facts, etc. which have been squeezed into the framework of the
unifying idea with horrible arbitrariness
Such is the system of Bekhterev’s reflexology. He can use anything:
even Vvedensky’s theory about the unknowability of the external ego,
i.e., an extreme expression of solipsism and idealism in psychology,
provided that this theory clearly confirms his particular claim about the
need for an objective method. That it breaches the general sense of the
whole system, that it undermines the foundations of the realistic
approach to personality does not matter to this author (we observe that
Vvedensky, too, fortifies himself and his theory with a reference to the
work of Pavlov, without understanding that by turning for help to a
system of objective psychology he extends a hand to his grave-digger).
But for the methodologist it is highly significant that such antipodes as
Vvedensky-Pavlov and Bekhterev – Vvedensky do not merely
contradict each other, but necessarily presuppose each other’s
existence and view the coincidence of theft conclusions as evidence
for “the reliability of these conclusions.” For this third person [the
methodologist, Russian eds.] it is clear that we are not dealing here
with a coincidence of conclusions which were reached fully
independently by representatives of different specialties, for example
the philosopher Vvedensky and the physiologist Pavlov, but with a
coincidence of the basic assumptions, starting points and philosophical
premises of dualistic idealism. This “coincidence” is presupposed from
the very start: Bekhterev presupposes Vvedensky – when the one is
right, the other is right as well.
Einstein’s principle of relativity and the principles of Newtonian
mechanics, incompatible in themselves, get on perfectly well in this
eclectic system. In Bekhterev’s “Collective reflexology” he absolutely
gathered a catalogue of universal laws. Characteristic of the
methodology of the system is the way imagination is given free reign,
the fundamental inertia of the idea which by direct communication,
omitting all intermediate steps, leads us from the law of the
proportional correlation of the speed of movement with the moving
force, established in mechanics, to the fact of the USA's involvement
in the great European war, and back again – from the experiment of a
certain Dr. Schwarzmann on the frequency limits of electrocutaneous
irritation leading to an association reflex to the “universal law of
relativity which obtains everywhere and which, as a result of
Einstein’s brilliant investigations, has been finally demonstrated in
regard to heavenly bodies.”
Needless to say, the annexation of psychological areas is carried out
no less categorically and no less boldly. The investigations of the
higher thought processes by the Wurzburg school, like the results of
the investigations of other representatives of subjective psychology,
“may be harmonized with the scheme of cerebral or association
reflexes.” Never mind that this very phrase strikes out all the
fundamental premises of his own system: for if we can harmonize
everything with the reflex schema and everything “is in perfect
accord” with reflexology – even what has been discovered by
subjective psychology – why take up arms against it? The discoveries
made in Wurzburg were made with a method which, according to
Bekhterev, cannot lead to the truth. However, they are in complete
harmony with the objective truth. How is that?
The territory of psychoanalysis is annexed just as carelessly. For
this it suffices to declare that “in Jung’s doctrine of complexes we find
complete agreement with the data of reflexology.” But one passage
higher it was said that this doctrine was based on subjective analysis,
which Bekhterev rejects. No problem: we live in the world of
pre-established harmony, of the miraculous correspondence, of the
amazing coincidence of theories based on false analyses and the data
of the exact sciences. To be more precise, we live in the world –
according to Blonsky (1925a,p. 226) – of “terminological revolutions.”
Our whole eclectic epoch is filled with such coincidences. Zalkind,
for example, annexes the same areas of psychoanalysis and the theory
of complexes in the name of the dominant. It turns out that the
psychoanalytic school developed the same concepts about the
dominant completely independently from the reflexological school,
but “in our terms and by another method.” The “complex orientation”
of the psychoanalysts, the “strategical set” of the Adlerians, these are
dominants as well, not in general physiological but clinical, general
therapeutic
formulations.
The
annexation
–
the
mechanical
transposition of bits of a foreign system into one’s own – in this case,
as always, seems almost miraculous and testifies to its truth. Such an
“almost miraculous” theoretical and factual coincidence of two
doctrines, which work with totally different material and by entirely
different methods, forms a convincing confirmation of the correctness
of the principal path that contemporary reflexology is following. We
remember that Vvedensky too saw in his coincidence with Pavlov a
testimony of the truth of his statements. And more: this coincidence
testifies, as Bekhterev more than once showed, to the fact that we may
arrive at the same truth by entirely different methods. Actually, this
coincidence testifies only to the methodological unscrupulousness and
eclecticism of the system within which such a coincidence is observed.
“He that toucheth pitch shall be defiled,” as the saying goes. He who
borrows from the psychoanalysts – Jung’s doctrine of complexes,
Freud’s catharsis, Adler’s strategical set – gets his share of the “pitch”
of these systems, i.e., the philosophical spirit of the authors.
Whereas the first method of transposition of foreign ideas from one
school into another resembles the annexation of foreign territory, the
second method of comparing foreign ideas is similar to a treaty
between two allied countries in which both retain their independence,
but agree to act together proceeding from their common interests. This
method is usually applied in the merger of Marxism and Freudian
theory. In so doing the author uses a method that by analogy with
geometry might be called the method of the logical superposition of
concepts. The system of Marxism is defined as being monistic,
materialistic, dialectic etc. Then the monism, materialism etc. of
Freud’s system is established; the superimposed concepts coincide and
the systems are declared to have fused. Very flagrant, sharp
contradictions which strike the eye are removed in a very elementary
way: they are simply excluded from the system, are declared to be
exaggerations, etc. Thus, Freudian theory is de-sexualized as
pansexualism obviously does not square with Marx’s philosophy. No
problem, we are told – we will accept Freudian theory without the
doctrine of sexuality. But this doctrine forms the very nerve, soul,
center of the whole system. Can we accept a. system without its center?
After all, Freudian theory without the doctrine of the sexual nature of
the unconscious is like Christianity without Christ or Buddhism with
Allah
It would be a historical miracle, of course, if a full-grown system of
Marxist psychology were to originate and develop in the West, from
completely different roots and in a totally different cultural situation.
That would imply that philosophy does not at all determine the
development of science. As we can see, they started from
Schopenhauer and created a Marxist psychology! But this would imply
the total fruitlessness of the attempt itself to merge Freudian theory
with Marxism, just as the success of Bekhterev’s coincidence would
imply the bankruptcy of the objective method: after all, if the data of
subjective analysis fully coincide with the data of objective analysis,
one may ask in what sense subjective analysis is inferior. If Freud,
without knowing it himself, thinking about other philosophical
systems and consciously siding with them, nevertheless created a
Marxist doctrine of the mind, then in the name of what, may one ask,
is it necessary to disturb this most fruitful delusion: after all, according
to these authors, we need not change anything in Freud. Why, then,
merge psychoanalysis with Marxism? In addition, the following
interesting question arises: how is it possible that this system which
entirely coincides with Marxism logically led to making the idea of
sexuality, which is obviously irreconcilable with Marxism, into its
cornerstone? Is not the method to a large extent responsible for the
conclusions arrived at with its help? And bow could a true method
which creates a true system, based on true premises, lead its authors to
a false theory, to a false central idea? One has to dispose of a good
deal of methodological carelessness not to see these problems which
inevitably arise in each mechanical attempt to move the center of any
scientific system – in the given case, from Schopenhauer’s doctrine of
the will as the basis of the world to Marx’s doctrine about the
dialectical development of matter.
But the worst is still to come. In such attempts one often simply
must close one’s eyes to the contradictory facts, pay no attention to
vast areas and main principles, and introduce monstrous distortions in
both of the systems to be merged. In so doing, one uses
transformations like those with which algebra operates, in order to
prove the identity of two expressions. But the transformation of the
systems to be merged operates with unities that are absolutely different
from the algebraic ones. In practice, it always leads to the distortion of
the essence of these systems.
In the article by Luria [1925, p. 55], for example, psychoanalysis is
presented as “a system of monistic psychology,” whose methodology
“coincides with the methodology” of Marxism. In order to prove this a
number of most naive transformations of both systems are carried out
as a result of which they “coincide.” Let us briefly look at these
transformations. First of all, Marxism is situated in the general
methodology of the epoch, alongside Darwin, Comte, Pavlov, and
Einstein, who together create the general methodological foundations
of the epoch. The role and importance of each of these authors is, of
course, deeply and fundamentally different, and by its very nature the
role of dialectical materialism is totally different from all of them. Not
to see this means to deduce methodology from the sum total of “great
scientific achievements”. As soon as one reduces all these names and
Marxism to a common denominator it is not difficult to unite Marxism
with any “great scientific achievement,” because this was presupposed:
the“coincidence” looked for is in the presupposition and not in the
conclusion. The“fundamental methodology of the epoch” consists of
the sum total of the discoveries made by Pavlov, Einstein, etc.
Marxism is one of these discoveries, which belong to the “group of
principles indispensable for quite a number of closely-related
sciences” Here, on the first page, that is, the argumentation might have
ended: after Einstein one would only have to mention Freud, for he is
also a “great scientific achievement” and, thus, a participant in the
“general methodological foundations of the epoch.” But one must have
much uncritical trust in scientific reputation to deduce the
methodology of an epoch from the sum total of famous names.
There is no unitary basic methodology of the epoch. What we have
is a system of fighting, deeply hostile, mutually exclusive,
methodological principles and eachtheory – whether by Pavlov or
Einstein – has its own methodological merit. To distill a general
methodology of the epoch and to dissolve Marxism in it means to
transform not only the appearance, but also the essence of Marxism.
But also Freudian theory is inescapably subjected to the same type
of transformations. Freud himself would be amazed to learn that
psychoanalysis is a systemof monistic psychology and that
“methodologically he carries on... historical materialism” [Fridman,
1925, p. 159]. Not a single psychoanalytic journal would, of course,
print the papers by Luria and Fridman. That is highly important. For a
very peculiar situation has evolved: Freud and his school have never
declared themselves to be monists, materialists, dialecticians, or
followers of historical materialism. But they are told: you are both the
first, and the second, and the third. You yourselves don’t know who
you are. Of course, one can imagine such a situation, it is entirely
possible. But then it is necessary to give an exact explanation of the
methodological foundations of this doctrine, as conceived of and
developed by its authors, and then a proof of the refutation of these
foundations and to explain by what miracle and on what foundations
psychoanalysis developed a system of methodology which is foreign
to its authors. Instead of this, the identity of the two systems is
declared
by
a
simple
formal-logical
superposition
of
the
characteristics – without a single analysis of Freud’s basic concepts,
without critically weighing and elucidating his assumptions and
starting points, without a critical examination of the genesis of his
ideas, even without simply inquiring how he himself conceives of the
philosophical foundations of his system
But, maybe, this formal-logical characterization of the two systems
is correct? We have already seen how one distills Marxism’s share in
the general methodology of the epoch, in which everything is roughly
and naively reduced to a common denominator: if both Einstein and
Pavlov and Marx belong to science, then they must have a common
foundation. But Freudian theory suffers even more distortions in this
process. I will not even mention how Zalkind (1924) mechanically
deprives it of its central idea. In his article it is passed over in silence,
which is also note worthy. But take the monism of psychoanalysis –
Freud would contest it. The article mentions that he turned to
philosophical monism, but where, in which words, in connection with
what? Is finding empirical unity in some group of facts really always
monism? On the contrary, Freud always accepted the mental, the
unconscious as a special force which cannot be reduced to something
else. Further, why is this monism materialistic in the philosophical
sense? After all, medical materialism which acknowledges the
influence of different organs etc. upon mental structures is still very far
from philosophical materialism. In the philosophy of Marxism this
concept has a specific, primarily epistemological sense and it is
precisely in his epistemology that Freud stands on idealist
philosophical grounds. For it is a fact, which is not refuted and not
even considered by the authors of the “coincidences,” that Freud’s
doctrine of the primary role of blind drives, of the unconscious as
being reflected in consciousness in a distorted fashion, goes back
directly to Schopenhauer’s idealistic metaphysics of the will and the
idea. Freud [1920/1973, pp. 49-50] himself remarks that in his extreme
conclusions he is in the harbor of Schopenhauer. But his basic
assumptions as well as the main lines of his system are connected with
the philosophy of the great pessimist, as even the simplest analysis can
demonstrate.
In its more “concrete” works as well, psychoanalysis displays not
dynamic,
but
highly
static,
conservative,
anti-dialectic
and
anti-historical tendencies. It directly reduces the higher mental
processes – both personal and collective ones – to primitive,
primordial, essentially prehistorical, prehuman roots, leaving no room
for history. The same key unlocks the creativity of a Dostoyevsky and
the totem and taboo of primordial tribes; the Christian church,
communism, the primitive horde – in psychoanalysis everything is
reduced to the same source. That such tendencies are present in
psychoanalysis is apparent from all the works of this school which
deal with problems of culture, sociology and history. We can see that
here it does not continue, but contradicts, the methodology of Marxism.
But about this one keeps silent as well.
Finally, the third point. Freud’s whole psychological system of
fundamental concepts goes back to Lipps [1903]: the concepts of the
unconscious, of the mental energy connected with certain ideas, of
drives as the basis of the mind, of the struggle between drives and
repression, of the affective nature of consciousness, etc. In other words,
Freud’s psychological roots lead back to the spiritualistic strata of
Lipps’ psychology. How is it possible to disregard this when speaking
about Freud’s methodology?
Thus, we see where Freud and his system have come from and
where they are heading for: from Schopenhauer and Lipps to Kolnay
and mass psychology.’ But to apply the system of psychoanalysis
while saying nothing about metapsychology, social psychology and
Freud’s theory of sexuality is to give it a quite arbitrary interpretation.
As a result, a person not knowing Freud would get an utterly false idea
of him from such an exposition of his system. Freud himself would
protest against the word “system” first of all. In his opinion, one of the
greatest merits of psychoanalysis and its author is that it consciously
avoids becoming a system. Freud himself rejects the “monism” of
psychoanalysis: he does not demand that the factors he discovered be
accepted as exclusive or primary. He does not at all attempt to “give an
exhaustive theory of the mental life of man,” but demands only that his
statements be used to complete and correct the knowledge which we
have acquired through whatever other way. In another place he says
that psychoanalysis is characterized by its technique and not by its
subject matter, in a third that psychological theory has a temporary
nature and will be replaced by an organic theory.
All this may easily delude us: it might seem that psychoanalysis
really has no system and that its data can serve to correct and complete
any system of knowledge, acquired in whatever way. But this is utterly
false. Psychoanalysis has no a priori, conscious theory-system. Like
Pavlov, Freud discovered too much to create an abstract system. But
like Molière’s hero who, without suspecting it, spoke prose all his life,
Freud, the investigator, created a system: introducing a new word,
harmonizing one term with another, describing a new fact, drawing a
new conclusion, he created, in passing and step by step, a new system.
This implies that the structure of his system is unique, obscure,
complex and very difficult to grasp. It is much easier to find one’s way
in methodological systems which are deliberate, clear, and free from
contradictions, which acknowledge their teachers and are unified and
logically structured. It is much more difficult to correctly evaluate and
reveal the true nature of unconscious methodologies which evolved
spontaneously, in a contradictory way, under various influences. But it
is precisely to the latter that psychoanalysis belongs. For this reason
psychoanalysis requires a very careful and critical methodological
analysis and not a naive superposition of the features of two different
systems
Ivanovsky (1923, p. 249) says that “For a person who is not
experienced in matters of scientific methodology all sciences seem to
share the same method.” Psychology suffered most of all from such a
misunderstanding. It was always counted as either biology or
sociology and rarely were psychological laws, theories, etc., judged by
the criterion of psychological methodology, i.e., with an interest in the
thought of psychological science as such, its theory, its methodology,
its sources, forms and foundations. That is why in our critique of
foreign systems, in the evaluation of their truth, we lack what is most
important: after all, it is only from an understanding of its
methodological basis that we can correctly assess the extent to which
knowledge has been corroborated and established beyond doubt
(Ivanovsky, 1923). And the rule that one must doubt everything, take
nothing on trust, ask each claim what it rests on and what is its source,
is, therefore, the first rule and methodology of science. It safeguards us
against an even grosser mistake – not only to consider the methods of
all sciences to be equal, but to imagine that the structure of each
science is uniform
The inexperienced mind imagines each separate
science, so to speak, in one plane: given that science is
reliable, indisputable knowledge, everything in it must
be reliable. Its whole content must be obtained and
proven by one and the same method which yields
reliable knowledge. In reality this is not true at all: each
science has its different facts (and groups of analogous
facts) which have been established beyond doubt, its
irrefutably established general claims and laws, but it
also has pre-suppositions, hypotheses which sometimes
have a temporary, provisional character and sometimes
indicate the ultimate boundaries of our knowledge (at
least for the given epoch); there are conclusions which
follow more or less indisputably from firmly
established theses; there are constructions which
sometimes broaden the boundaries of our knowledge,
sometimes form deliberately introduced ‘fictions’;
there are analogies, approximate generalizations etc.,
etc. Science has no homogeneous structure and the
understanding of this fact is of the greatest significance
for a person’s understanding of science. Each different
scientific thesis has its own individual degree of
reliability depending upon the way and degree of its
methodological
foundation,
and
science,
viewed
methodologically, does not represent a single solid
uniform surface, but a mosaic of theses of different
degrees of reliability” (ibid., p. 250).
That is why (1) merging the method of all sciences (Einstein,
Pavlov, Comte, Marx) and (2) reducing the entire heterogeneous
structure of the scientific system to one plane, to a “single solid
uniform surface,” comprise the main mistakes of the second way of
fusing two systems. To reduce personality to money; cleanliness,
stubbornness and a thousand other, heterogeneous things to anal
erotics (Luria,1925), is not yet monism. And with regard to its nature
and degree of reliability it is a fundamental error to mix up this thesis
with the principles of materialism. The principle that follows from this
thesis, the general idea behind it, its methodological meaning, the
method of investigation prescribed by it, are deeply conservative: like•
the convict to his wheelbarrow, the character in psychoanalysis is
chained to childhood erotics. Human life is in its inner essence
predetermined by childhood conflicts. It is all the overcoming of the
Oedipal conflict, etc. Culture and the life of mankind are again brought
close to primitive life. [But] it is a first indispensable condition for
analysis to be able to distinguish the first apparent meaning of a fact
from its real meaning. By no means do I want to say that everything in
psychoanalysis contradicts Marxism. I only want to say that I am in
principle not dealing with this question at all. I am only pointing out
how we should (methodologically) and should not (uncritically) fuse
two systems of ideas.
With an uncritical approach, everybody sees what he wants to see
and not what is: the Marxist finds monism, materialism, and dialectics
in psychoanalysis, which is not there; the physiologist, like Lenz (1922,
p. 69), holds that “psychoanalysis is a system which is psychological
in name only; in reality it is objective, physiological.” And the
methodologist Binswanger remarks in his work dedicated to Freud, as
the only one amongst the psychoanalysts it seems, that precisely the
psychological in his conception, i.e., the anti-physiological, constitutes
Freud’s merit in psychiatry. But he adds [1922, p. v] that “this
knowledge does not know itself yet, i.e., it has no insight into its own
conceptual foundations, its logos.”
That is why it is especially difficult to study knowledge that has not
yet become aware of itself and its own logos. This does by no means
imply, of course, that Marxists should not study the unconscious
because Freud’s basic concepts contradict dialectical materialism. On
the contrary, precisely because the area elaborated by psychoanalysis
is elaborated with inadequate means it must be conquered for Marxism.
It must be elaborated with the means of a genuine methodology, for
otherwise, if everything in psychoanalysis would coincide with
Marxism, psychologists might develop it in their quality as
psychoanalysts and not as Marxists. And for this elaboration one must
first take account of the methodological nature of each idea, each
thesis. And under this condition the most metapsychological ideas can
be interesting and instructive, for example, Freud’s doctrine of the
death drive.
In the preface which I wrote for the translation of Freud’s book on
this theme, I attempted to show that the fictitious construct of a death
drive – despite the whole speculative nature of this thesis, the not very
convincing nature of the factual confirmations (traumatic neurosis and
the repetition of unpleasant experiences in children’s play), its giddy
paradoxical nature and the contradiction of generally accepted
biological ideas, its conclusions which obviously coincide with the
philosophy of the Nirvana, despite all this and despite the whole
artificial nature of the concept – satisfies the need of modern biology
to master the idea of death, just like mathematics in its time needed the
concept of the negative number. I adduced the thesis that the concept
of life has been carried to great clarity in biology, science has mastered
it, it knows how to work with it, how to investigate and understand
living matter. But it cannot yet cope with the concept of death. Instead
of this concept we have a gaping hole, an empty spot. Death is merely
seen as the contradictory opposite of life, as not-life, in short, as
non-being. But death is a fact that has its positive sense as well, it is a
special type of being and not merely non-being. It is a specific
something and not absolutely nothing. And biology does not know this
positive sense of death. Indeed, death is a universal law for living
matter. One cannot imagine that this phenomenon would in no way be
represented in the organism, i.e., in the processes of life. It is hard to
believe that death would have no sense or just a negative sense.
Engels [1925/1978, p. 554] expresses a similar opinion. He refers to
Hegel’s opinion that only that philosophy can count as scientific that
considers death to be an essential aspect of life and understands that
the negation of life is essentially contained in life itself, so that life can
be understood in relation to its inevitable result which is continually
present in embryonic form: death. The dialectical understanding of life
entails no more than that. “To live means to die.”
It was precisely this idea that I defended in the mentioned preface to
Freud’s book: the need for biology to master the concept of death from
a fundamental viewpoint and to designate this still unknown entity
which no doubt exists – let it be with the algebraic “x” or the
paradoxical “death drive” – and which represents the tendency towards
death in the processes of the organism. Despite this I did not declare
Freud’s solution to this equation to be a highway in science or a road
for all of us, but an Alpine mountain track above the precipice for
those free of vertigo. I stated that science needs such books as well:
they do not reveal the truth, but teach us the search for truth, although
they have not yet found it. I also resolutely said that the importance of
this book does not depend upon the factual confirmation of its
reliability: in principle it asks the right question. And for the statement
of such questions, I said, one needs sometimes more creativity than for
the umpteenth standard observation in whatever science (see pp. 13-15
of Van der Veer and Valsiner, 1994).
And the judgment of one of the reviewers of this book showed a
complete lack of understanding of the methodological problem, a full
trust in the external features of ideas, a naive and uncritical fear of the
physiology of pessimism. He decided on the spot that if it is
Schopenhauer, it must be pessimism. He did not understand that there
are problems that one cannot approach flying, but that one must
approach on foot, limping, and that in such cases it is no shame to limp,
as Freud [1920/1973, p. 64] openly says. But he, who only sees
lameness here, is methodologically blind. For it would not be difficult
to show that Hegel is an idealist, it is proclaimed from the housetops.
But it needed genius to see in this system an idealism that stood
materialism on its head, i.e., to distinguish the methodological truth
(dialectics) from the factual falsehood, to see that Hegel went limping
towards the truth.
This is but a single example of the path towards the mastery of
scientific ideas: one must rise above their factual content and test their
fundamental nature. But for this one needs to have a buttress outside
these ideas. Standing upon these ideas with both feet, operating with
concepts gathered by means of them, it is impossible to situate oneself
outside of them. In order to critically regard a foreign system; one
must first of all have one’s own psychological system of principles. To
judge Freud by means of principles obtained from Freud himself
implies a vindication in advance. And such an attempt to appropriate
foreign ideas forms the third type of combining ideas to which we will
now turn.
Again it is easiest to disclose and demonstrate the character of the
new methodological approach with a single example. In Pavlov’s
laboratory it was attempted to experimentally solve the problem of the
transformation of trace-conditional stimulii and trace conditional
inhibitors into actual conditional stimuli. For this one must “banish the
inhibition” established through the trace reflex. How to do this? In
order to reach this goal, Pavlov resorted to an analogy with some of
the methods of Freud’s school. Trying to destroy the stable inhibitory
complexes, he exactly recreated the situation in which these complexes
were originally established. And the experiment succeeded. I consider
the methodological technique at the basis of this experiment to be an
example of the right approach to Freud’s theme and to claims by
others in general. Let us try to describe this technique. First of all, the
problem was raised in the course of Pavlov’s own investigations of the
nature of internal inhibition. The task was framed, formulated, and
understood in the light of his principles. The theoretical theme of the
experimental work and its significance were conceived of in the
concepts of Pavlov’s school. We know what a trace reflex is and we
also know what an actual reflex is. To transform the one into the other
means to banish inhibition etc., i.e., the whole mechanism of the
process we understand in entirely specific and homogeneous
categories. The value of the analogy with catharsis was merely
heuristic: it shortened the path of Pavlov’s experiments and led to the
goal in the shortest way possible. But it was only accepted as an
assumption that was immediately verified experimentally. And after
the solution of his own task the author came to the third and final
conclusion that the phenomena described by Freud can be
experimentally tested upon animals and should be analyzed in more
detail via the method of conditional salivary reflexes.
To verify Freud via Pavlov’s ideas is totally different from verifying
them via his own ideas; and this possibility as well was established not
through analysis, but through the experiment. What is most important
is that the author, when confronted with phenomena analogous to
those described by Freud’s school, did not for one moment step onto
foreign territory, did not rely on other people’s data, but used them to
carry through his own investigation. Pavlov’s discovery has its
significance, value, place and meaning in his own system, not in
Freud’s. The two circles touch at the point of intersection of both
systems, the point where they meet, and this one point belongs to both
at the same time. But its place, sense and value is determined by its
position in the first system. A new discovery was made in this
investigation, a new fact was found, a new trait was studied – but it
was all in the[framework of the] theory of conditional reflexes and not
in psychoanalysis. In this way each “almost miraculous” coincidence
disappeared!
One has only to compare this with the purely verbal way Bekhterev
[1932, p.413] comes to a similar evaluation of the idea of catharsis for
the system of re flexology, to see the deep difference between these
two procedures. Here the interrelation of the two systems is also first
of all based on catharsis, i.e.,
discharge of a ‘strangulated’ affect or an inhibited
mimetic-somatic impulse. Is not this the discharge of a
reflex which, when inhibited, oppresses the personality,
shackles and diseases it, while, when there is discharge
of the reflex (catharsis), naturally the pathological
condition disappears? Is not the weeping out of a
sorrow the discharge of an impeded reflex?
Here every word is a pearl. A mimetic-somatic impulse – what can
be more clear or precise? Avoiding the language of subjective
psychology, Bekhterev is not squeamish about philistine language,
which hardly makes Freud’s term any clearer. How did this inhibited
reflex “oppress” the personality, shackle it? Why is the wept-out
sorrow the discharge of an inhibited reflex? What if a person weeps in
the very moment of sorrow? Finally, elsewhere it is claimed that
thought is an inhibited reflex, that concentration is connected with the
inhibition of a nervous current and is accompanied by conscious
phenomena. Oh salutary inhibition! It explains conscious phenomena
in one chapter and unconscious ones in the next!
All this clearly indicates the theme with which we started this
section: in the problem of the unconscious one must distinguish
between a methodological and an empirical problem, i.e., between a
psychological problem and the problem for psychology. The uncritical
combination of both problems leads to a gross distortion of the whole
matter. The symposium on the unconscious showed that a fundamental
solution of this matter transcends the boundaries of empirical
psychology and is directly tied to general philosophical convictions.
Whether we accept with Brentano that the unconscious does not exist,
or with Munsterberg that it is simply physiology, or with Sehubert –
Soldern that it is an epistemologically indispensable category, or with
Freud that it is sexual – in all these cases our argumentation and
conclusions transcend the boundaries of empirical psychology.
Among the Russian authors it is Dale who emphasizes the
epistemological motives which led to the formation of the concept of
the unconscious. In his opinion it is precisely the attempt to defend the
independence of psychology as an explanatory science against the
usurpation of physiological methods and principles that is the basis of
this concept. The demand to explain the mental from the mental, and
not from the physical, that psychology in the analysis and description
of the facts should stay itself, within its own boundaries, even if this
implied that one had to enter the path of broad hypotheses – this is
what gave rise to the concept of the unconscious. Dale observes that
psychological constructions or hypotheses are no more than the
theoretical continuation of the description of homogeneous phenomena
in one and the same independent system of reality. The tasks of
psychology and theoretical-epistemological demands require that it
fight the usurpationist attempts of physiology by means of the
unconscious. Mental life proceeds with interruptions, it is full of gaps.
What happens with consciousness during sleep, with reminiscences
that we do not now recollect, with ideas of which we are not
consciously aware at the moment? In order to explain the mental from
the mental, in order not to turn to another domain of phenomena –
physiology – to fill the pauses, gaps and blanks in mental life, we must
assume that they continue to exist in a special form: as the
unconscious mental. Stern [1919, pp. 241-243] as well develops such a
conception of the unconscious as both an essential assumption and a
hypothetical continuation and complement to mental experience.
Dale distinguishes two aspects of the problem: the factual and the
hypothetical or methodological, which determines the epistemological
or methodological value of the category of the unconscious for
psychology. Its task is to clarify the meaning of this concept, the
domain of phenomena it covers, and its role for psychology as an
explanatory science. Following Jerusalem [33], for the author it is first
of all a category or a way of thinking which is indispensable in the
explanation of mental life. Apart from that, it is also a specific area of
phenomena. He is completely right in saying that the unconscious is a
concept created on the basis of indisputable mental experience and its
necessary hypothetical completion. Hence the very complex nature of
each statement operating with this concept: in each statement one must
distinguish what comes from the data of indisputable mental
experience, what comes from the hypothetical completion, and what is
the degree of reliability of both. In the critical works examined above,
the two things, both sides of the problem, have been mixed up:
hypothesis and fact, principle and empirical observation, fiction and
law, construction and generalization – it is all lumped together
Most important of all is the fact that the main question was left out
of consideration. Lenz and Luria assure Freud that psychoanalysis is a
physiological system. But Freud himself belongs to the opponents of a
physiological conception of the unconscious. Dale is completely right
in saying that this question of the psychological or physiological
nature of the unconscious is the primarily, most important phase of the
whole problem. Before we describe and classify the phenomena of the
unconscious for psychological purposes, we must know whether we
are operating with something physiological or with something mental.
We must prove that the unconscious in fact is a mental reality. In other
words, before we turn to the solution of the problem of the
unconscious as a psychological problem, we must first solve it as the
problem for psychology.
Chapter 8: The Biogenetic hypothesis. Borrowings from the natural
sciences
The need for a fundamental elaboration of the concepts of the general science – this
algebra of the particular sciences – and its role for the particular sciences is even more
obvious when we borrow from the area of other sciences. Here, on the one hand, it
would seem that we have the best conditions for transferring results from one science
into the system of another one, because the reliability, clarity and the degree to which
the borrowed thesis or law have been fundamentally elaborated are usually much
higher than in the cases we have described. We may, for example, introduce into the
system of psychological explanation a law established in physiology or embryology, a
biological principle, an anatomical hypothesis, an ethnological example, a historical
classification etc. The theses and constructions of these highly developed, firmly
grounded sciences are, of course, methodologically elaborated in an infinitely more
precise way than the theses of a psychological school which by means of newly
created and not yet systematized concepts is developing completely new areas (for
example, Freud’s school, which does not yet know itself). In this case we borrow a
more elaborated product, we operate with better-defined, exact, and clear unities; the
danger of error has diminished, the likelihood of success has increased.
On the other hand, as the borrowing here comes from other sciences,
the material turns out to be more foreign, methodologically
heterogeneous, and the conditions for appropriating it become more
difficult. This fact, that the conditions are both easier and more
difficult compared with what we examined above, provides us with an
essential method of variation in theoretical analysis which takes the
place of real variation in the experiment.
Let us dwell upon a fact which at first sight seems highly
paradoxical and which is therefore very suitable for analysis.
Reflexology, which in all areas finds such wonderful coincidences of
its data with the data of subjective analysis and which wishes to build
its system on the foundation of the exact natural sciences, is, very
surprisingly, forced to protest precisely against the transfer of natural
scientific laws into psychology.
After studying the method of genetic reflexology, Shchelovanov,
with an indisputable thoroughness quite unexpected for his school –
rejected the imitation of the natural sciences in the form of a transfer
of its basic methods into subjective psychology. Their application in
the natural sciences has produced tremendous results, but they are of
little value for the elaboration of the problems of subjective
psychology.
Herbart
and
Fechner
mechanically
transferred
mathematical analysis and Wundt the physiological experiment into
psychology. Preyer raised the problem of psychogenesis by analogy
with biology and then Hall and others borrowed the Muller-Haeckel
principle from biology and applied it in an uncontrolled way not only
as a methodological principle, but also as a principle for the
explanation of the “mental development” of the child. It would seem,
says the author, that we cannot object to the application of well tried
and fruitful methods. But their use is only possible when the problem
is correctly stated and the method corresponds to the nature of the
object under study. Otherwise one only gets the illusion of science (the
characteristic example is Russian reflexology). The veil of natural
science which was, according to Petzoldt, thrown over the most
backward metaphysics, saved neither Herbart nor Wundt: neither the
mathematical formulas nor the precision equipment saved an
imprecisely stated problem from failure.
We are reminded of Munsterberg and his remark about the last
decimal point given in the answer to an incorrectly stated question. In
biology, clarifies the author, the biogenetic law is a theoretical
generalization of masses of facts, but its application in psychology is
the result of superficial speculation, exclusively based upon an analogy
between different domains of facts (Does not reflexology do the same?
Without investigation of its own it borrows, using similar speculations,
the ready-made models for its own constructions from the living and
the dead – from Einstein and from Freud). And then, to crown this
pyramid of mistakes, the principle is not applied as a working
hypothesis, but as an established theory, as if it were scientifically
established as an explanatory principle for the given area of facts.
We will not deal with this matter, as does the author of this opinion,
in great detail. There is abundant, including Russian, literature on it.
We will examine it to illustrate the fact that many questions which
have been incorrectly stated by psychology acquire the outward
appearance of science due to borrowings from the natural sciences. As
a result of his methodological analysis, Shchelovanov comes to the
conclusion that the genetic method is in principle impossible in
empirical psychology and that because of this the relations between
psychology and biology become changed. But why was the problem of
development stated incorrectly in child psychology, which led to a
tremendous and useless expenditure of effort? In Shchelovanov’s
opinion, child psychology can yield nothing other than what is already
contained in general psychology. But general psychology as a unified
system does not exist, and these theoretical contradictions make a
child psychology impossible. In a very disguised form, imperceptible
to the investigator himself, the theoretical presuppositions fully
determine the whole method of processing the empirical data. And the
facts gathered in observation, too, are interpreted in accordance with
the theory which this or that author holds. Here is the best refutation of
the sham natural science empiricism. Thanks to this, it is impossible to
transfer facts from one theory to another. It would seem that a fact is
always a fact, that one and the same subject matter – the child – and
one and the same method – objective observation – albeit combined
with different objectives and starting points, allow us to transfer facts
from psychology to reflexology. The author is mistaken in only two
respects.
His first mistake resides in the assumption that child psychology got
its positive results only by applying general biological, but not
psychological principles, as in the theory of play developed by Groos
[1899]. In reality, this is one of the best examples not of borrowing,
but of a purely psychological, comparative-objective study. It is
methodologically impeccable and transparent, internally consistent
from the first collection and description of the facts to the final
theoretical generalizations. Groos gave biology a theory of play
created with a psychological method. He did not take it from biology;
he did not solve his problem in the light of biology, i.e., he did not set
himself general psychological goals as well. Thus, exactly the opposite
is correct: child psychology obtained valuable theoretical results
precisely when it did not borrow, but went its own way. The author
himself is constantly arguing against borrowing. Hall, who borrowed
from Haeckel, gave psychology a number of curious topics and
far-fetched senseless analogies, but Groos, who went his own way,
gave much to biology – not less than Haeckel’s law. Let me also
remind you of Stern’s theory of language, Buhler’s and Koffka’s
theory of children’s thinking, Buhler’s theory of developmental levels,
Thorndike’s theory of training: these are all psychological theories of
the purest water. Hence the mistaken conclusion: the role of child
psychology cannot be reduced, of course, to the gathering of factual
data and their preliminary classification, i.e., to the preparatory work.
But the role of the logical principles developed by Shchelovanov and
Bekhterev can and must precisely be reduced to this. After all, the new
discipline has no idea of childhood, no conception of development, no
research goal, i.e., it does not state the problem of child behavior and
personality, but only disposes of the principle of objective observation,
i.e., a good technical rule. However, using this weapon nobody has
drawn out any great truths.
The author’s second mistake is connected with this. The lack of
understanding of the positive value of psychology and the
underestimation of its role results from the most important and
methodologically childish idea that one can study only what is given in
immediate experience. His whole “methodological” theory is built
upon a single syllogism: (1) psychology studies consciousness; (2)
given in immediate experience is the consciousness of the adult; “the
empirical study of the phylogeneticand ontogenetic development of
consciousness is impossible”; (3) therefore, child psychology is
impossible.
But it is a gross mistake to suppose that science can only study what
is given in immediate experience. How does the psychologist study the
unconscious; the historian and the geologist, the past; the
physicist-optician, invisible beams, and the philologist – ancient
languages? The study of traces, influences, the method of
interpretation and reconstruction, the method of critique and the
finding of meaning have been no less fruitful than the method of direct
“empirical” observation. Ivanovsky used precisely the example of
psychology to explain this for the methodology of science. Even in the
experimental sciences the role of immediate experience becomes
smaller and smaller. Planck says that the unification of the whole
system of theoretical physics is reached due to the liberation from
anthropomorphic elements,
in
particular from
specific sense
perceptions. Planck [1919/1970, p. 118] remarks that in the theory of
light and in the theory of radiant energy in general, physics works with
such methods that:
the human eye is totally excluded, it plays the role of
an accidental, admittedly highly sensitive but very
limited reagent; for it only perceives the light beams
within a small area of the spectrum which hardly
attains the breadth of one octave. For the rest of the
spectrum the place of the eye is taken by other
perceiving and measuring instruments, such as, for
example, the wave detector, the thermo-element, the
bolometer, the radiometer, the photographic plate, the
ionization chamber. The separation of the basic
physical concept from the specific sensory sensation
was accomplished, therefore, in exactly the same way
as in mechanics where the concept of force has long
since lost its original link with muscular sensations.
Thus, physics studies precisely what cannot be seen with the eye.
For if we, like the author, agree with Stern [1914, p. 7] that childhood
is for us “a paradise lost forever,” that for us adults it is impossible to
“fully penetrate in the special properties and structure of the child’s
mind” as it is not given in direct experience, we must admit that the
light beams which cannot be directly perceived by the eye are a
paradise lost forever as well, the Spanish inquisition a hell lost forever,
etc., etc.. But the whole point is that scientific knowledge and
immediate perception do not coincide at all. We can neither experience
the child’s impressions, nor witness the French revolution, but the
child who experiences his paradise with all directness and the
contemporary who saw the major episodes of the revolution with his
own eyes are, despite that, farther from the scientific knowledge of
these facts than we are. Not only the humanities, but the natural
sciences as well, build their concepts in principle independently from
immediate experience. We are reminded of Engels’ words about the
ants and the limitations of our eye.
How do the sciences proceed in the study of what is not
immediately given? Generally speaking, they reconstruct it, they
re-create the subject of study through the method of interpreting its
traces or influences, i.e., indirectly. Thus, the historian interprets
traces – documents, memoirs, newspapers, etc. – and nevertheless
history is a science about the past, reconstructed by its traces, and not a
science about the traces of the past, it is about the revolution and not
about documents of the revolution. The same is true for child
psychology. Is childhood, the child’s mind, really inaccessible for us,
does it not leave any traces, does it not manifest or reveal itself? It is
just a matter of how to interpret these traces, by what method. Can
they be interpreted by analogy with the traces of the adult? It is,
therefore, a matter of finding the right interpretation and not of
completely refraining from any interpretation. After all, historians too
are familiar with more than one erroneous construct based upon
genuine documents which were falsely interpreted. What conclusion
follows from this? Is it really that history is “a paradise forever lost”?
But the same logic that calls child psychology a paradise lost would
compel us to say this about history as well. And if the historian, or the
geologist, or the physicist were to argue like the reflexologist, they
would say: as we cannot immediately experience the past of mankind
and the earth (the child’s mind) and can only immediately experience
the present (the adult’s consciousness) – which is why many falsely
interpret the past by analogy with the present or as a small present (the
child as a small adult) – history and geology are subjective, impossible.
The only thing possible is a history of the present (the psychology of
the adult person). The history of the past can only be studied as the
science of the traces of the past, of the documents etc. as such, and not
of the past as such (through the methods of studying reflexes without
any attempt at interpreting them).
This dogma – of immediate experience as the single source and
natural boundary of scientific knowledge – in principle makes or
breaks the whole theory of subjective and objective methods.
Vvedensky and Bekhterev grow from a single root: both hold that
science can only study what is given in self-observation, i.e., in the
immediate perception of the psychological. Some rely on the mental
eye and build a whole science in conformity with its properties and the
boundaries of its action. Others do not rely on it and only wish to study
what can be seen with the real eye. This is why I say that reflexology,
methodologically speaking, is built entirely according to the principle
that history should be defined as the science of the documents of the
past. Due to the many fruitful principles of the natural sciences,
reflexology proved to be a highly progressive current in psychology,
but as a theory of method it is deeply reactionary, because it leads us
back to the naive sensualistic prejudice that we can only study what
can be perceived and to the extent we perceive it.
Just as physics is liberating itself from anthropomorphic elements,
i.e., from specific sensory sensations and is proceeding with the eye
fully excluded, so psychology must work with the concept of the
mental: direct self-observation must be excluded like muscular
sensation in mechanics and visual sensation in optics. The subjectivists
believe that they refuted the objective method when they showed that
genetically speaking the concepts of behavior contain a grain of
self-observation – c.f. Chelpanov (1925), Kravkov (1922), Portugalov
(1925).[22] But the genetic origin of a concept says nothing about its
logical nature: genetically, the concept of force in mechanics also goes
back to muscular sensation.
The problem of self-observation is a problem of technique and not
of principle. It is an instrument amidst a number of other instruments,
as the eye is for physicists. We must use it to the extent that it is useful,
but there is no need to pronounce judgments of principle about it – e.g.,
about the limitations of the knowledge obtained with it, its reliability,
or the nature of the knowledge determined by it. Engels demonstrated
how little the natural construction of the eye determines the boundaries
of our knowledge of the phenomena of light. Planck says the same on
behalf of contemporary physics. To separate the fundamental
psychological concept from the specific sensory perception is
psychology’s next task. This sensation itself, self-observation itself,
must be explained (like the eye) from the postulates, methods, and
universal principles of psychology. It must become one of
psychology’s particular problems.
When we accept this, the question of the nature of interpretation, i.e.,
the indirect method, arises. Usually it is said that history interprets the
traces of the past, whereas physics observes the invisible as directly as
the eye does by means of its instruments. The instruments are the
extended organs of the researcher. After all, the microscope, telescope,
telephone etc. make the invisible visible and the subject of immediate
experience. Physics does not interpret, but sees.
But this opinion is false. The methodology of the scientific
instrument has long since clarified a new role for the instrument which
is not always obvious. Even the thermometer may serve as an example
of the introduction of a fundamentally new principle into the method
of science through the use of an instrument. On the thermometer we
read the temperature. It does not strengthen or extend the sensation of
heat as the microscope extends the eye; rather, it totally liberates us
from sensation when studying heat. One who is unable to sense heat or
cold may still use the thermometer, whereas a blind person cannot use
a microscope. The use of a thermometer is a perfect model of the
indirect method. After all, we do not study what we see (as with the
microscope) – the rising of the mercury, the expansion of the alcohol –
but we study heat and its changes, which are indicated by the mercury
or alcohol. We interpret the indications of the thermometer, we
reconstruct the phenomenon under study by its traces, by its influence
upon the expansion of a substance. All the instruments Planck speaks
of as means to study the invisible are constructed in this way. ‘To
interpret, consequently, means to re-create a phenomenon from its
traces and influences relying upon regularities established before (in
the present case – the law of the extension of solids, liquids, and gases
during heating). There is no fundamental difference whatsoever
between the use of a thermometer on the one hand and interpretation in
history, psychology, etc. on the other. The same holds true for any
science: it is not dependent upon sensory perception.
Stumpf mentions the blind mathematician Saunderson who wrote a
textbook of geometry; Shcherbina (1908) relates that his blindness did
not prevent him from explaining optics to sighted people. And, indeed,
all instruments mentioned by Planck can be adapted for the blind, just
like the watches, thermometers, and books for the blind that already
exist, so that a blind person might occupy himself with optics as well.
It is a matter of technique, not of principle.
Korniov (1922) beautifully demonstrated that (1) disagreement
about the procedural aspect of the design of experiments makes for
conflicts which lead to the formation of different currents in
psychology, just as the different philosophies about the chronoscope –
which resulted from the question as to in which room this apparatus
should be placed during the experiments – determined the question of
the whole method and system of psychology and divided Wundt’s
school from Kulpe’s; and (2) the experimental method introduced
nothing new into psychology. For Wundt it is a correction of
self-observation. For Ach the data of self-observation can only be
checked against other data of self-observation, as if the sensation of
heat can be checked only against other sensations. For Deichler the
quantitative estimations give a measure for the correctness of
introspection. In sum, experiment does not extend our knowledge, it
checks it. Psychology does not yet have a methodology of its
equipment and has not yet raised the question of an apparatus which
would – like the thermometer – liberate us from introspection rather
than check or amplify it. The philosophy of the chronoscope is a more
difficult matter than its technique. But about the indirect method in
psychology we will come to speak more than once.
Zelenyj (1923) is right in pointing out that in Russia the word
“method” means two different things: (1) the research methods, the
technology of the experiment; and (2) the epistemological method, or
methodology, which determines the research goal, the place of the
science, and its nature. In psychology the epistemological method is
subjective, although the research methods may be partially objective.
In physiology the epistemological method is objective, although the
research methods may be partially subjective as in the physiology of
the sense organs. Let us add that the experiment reformed the research
methods, but not the epistemological method. For this reason, he says
that the psychological method can only have the value of a diagnostic
device in the natural sciences.
This question is crucial for all methodological and concrete
problems of psychology. For psychology the need to fundamentally
transcend the boundaries of immediate experience is a matter of life
and death. The demarcation, separation of the scientific concept from
the specific perception, can take place only on the basis of the indirect
method. The reply that the indirect method is inferior to the direct one
is in scientific terms utterly false. Precisely because it does not shed
light upon the plentitude of experience, but only on one aspect, it
accomplishes scientific work: it isolates, analyzes, separates, abstracts
a single feature. After all, in immediate experience as well we isolate
the part that is the subject of our observation. Anyone who deplores
the fact that we do not share the ant’s immediate experience of
chemical beams is beyond help, says Engels, for on the other hand we
know the nature of these beams better than ants do. The task of science
is not to reduce everything to experience. If that were the case it would
suffice to replace science with the registration of our perceptions.
Psychology’s real problem resides also in the fact that our immediate
experience is limited, because the whole mind is built like an
instrument which selects and isolates certain aspects of phenomena.
An eye that would see everything, would for this very reason see
nothing. A consciousness that was aware of everything would be
aware of nothing, and knowledge of theself, were it aware of
everything, would be aware of nothing. Our knowledge is confined
between two thresholds, we see but a tiny part of the world. Our senses
give us the world in the excerpts, extracts that are important for us.
And in between the thresholds it is again not the whole variety of
changes which is registered, and new thresholds exist. Consciousness
follows nature in a saltatory fashion as it were, with blanks and gaps.
The mind selects the stable points of reality amidst the universal
movement. It provides islands of safety in the Heraclitean stream. It is
an organ of selection, a sieve filtering the world and changing it so that
it becomes possible to act. In this resides its positive role – not in
reflection (the non-mental reflects as well; the thermometer is more
precise than sensation), but in the fact that it does not always reflect
correctly, i.e., subjectively distorts reality to the advantage of the
organism.
If we were to see everything (i.e., if there were no absolute
thresholds) including all changes that constantly take place (i.e., if no
relative thresholds existed), we would be confronted with chaos
(remember how many objects a microscope reveals in a drop of water).
What would be a glass of water? And what a river? A pond reflects
everything; a stone reacts in principle to everything. But these
reactions equal the stimulation: causa aequat effectum. [34] The
reaction of the organism is “richer”: it is not like an effect, it expends
potential forces, it selects stimuli. Red, blue, loud, sour – it is a world
cut into portions. Psychology’s task is to clarify the advantage of the
fact that the eye does not perceive many of the things known to optics.
From the lower forms of reactions to the higher ones there leads, as it
were, the narrowing opening of a funnel.
It would be a mistake to think that we do not see what is for us
biologically useless. Would it really be useless to see microbes? The
sense organs show clear traces of the fact that they are in the first place
organs of selection. ‘Taste is obviously a selection organ for digestion,
smell is part of the respiratory process. Like the customs checkpoints
at the border, they test the stimuli coming from outside. Each organ
takes the world cum grano salis – with a coefficient of specification,
as Hegel says, [and] with an indication of the relation, where the
quality of one object determines the intensity and character of the
quantitative influence of another quality. For this reason there is a
complete analogy between the selection of the eye and the further
selection of the instrument: both are organs of selection (accomplish
what we accomplish in the experiment). So that the fact that scientific
knowledge transcends the boundaries of perception is rooted in the
psychological essence of knowledge itself.
From this it follows that as methods for judging scientific truth,
direct evidence and analogy are in principle completely identical. Both
must be subjected to critical examination; both can deceive and tell the
truth. The direct evidence that the sun turns around the earth deceives
us; the analogy upon which spectral analysis is built, leads to the truth.
On these grounds some have rightly defended the legitimacy of
analogy as a basic method of zoo-psychology. This is fully acceptable,
one must only point out the conditions under which the analogy will
be correct. So far the analogy in zoo-psychology has led to anecdotes
and curious incidents, because it was observed where it actually cannot
exist. It can, however, also lead to spectral analysis. That is why
methodologically speaking the situation in physics and psychology is
in principle the same. The difference is one of degree.
The mental sequence we experience is a fragment: where do all the
elements of mental life disappear and where do they come from? We
are compelled to continue the known sequence with a hypothetical one.
It was precisely in this sense that Høffding [1908, p. 92/114]
introduced this concept which corresponds with the concept of
potential energy in physics. This is why Leibnitz[26] introduced the
infinitely small elements of consciousness [cf. Høffding, 1908, p.
108].
We are forced to continue the life of consciousness
into the unconscious in order not to fall into absurdities
[ibid., p. 286].
However, for Høffding (ibid., p. 117) “the unconscious is a
boundary concept in science” and at this boundary we may “weigh the
possibilities” through a hypothesis, but:
a real extension of our factual knowledge is
impossible. ... Compared to the physical world, we
experience the mental world as a fragment; only
through a hypothesis can we supplement it.
But even this respect for the boundary of science seems to other
authors insufficient. About the unconscious it is only allowed to say
that it exists. By its very definition it is not an object for experimental
verification. To argue its existence by means of observations, as
Høffding attempts, is illegitimate. This word has two meanings, there
are two types of unconscious which we must not mix up – the debate
is about a two-fold subject: about the hypothesis and about the facts
that can be observed.
One more step in this direction, and we return to
where we started: to the difficulty that compelled us to
hypothesize an unconscious.
We can see that psychology finds itself here in a tragicomic
situation: I want to, but I cannot. It is forced to accept the unconscious
so as not to fall into absurdities. But accepting it, it falls into even
greater absurdities and runs back in horror. It is like a man who,
running from a wild animal and into an even greater danger, runs back
to the wild animal, the lesser danger – but does it really make any
difference from what he dies? Wundt views in this theory an echo of
the mystical philosophy of nature [Naturphilosophie] of the early 19th
century. With him Lange (1914, p. 251) accepts that the unconscious
mind is an intrinsically contradictory concept. The unconscious must
be explained physically and chemically and not psychologically, else
we allow “mystical agents,” “arbitrary constructions that can never be
verified,” to enter science.
Thus, we are back to Høffding: there is a physico-chemical
sequence, which in some fragmentary points is suddenly a nihilo
accompanied by a mental sequence. Please, be good enough to
understand and scientifically interpret the “fragment.” What does this
debate mean for the methodologist? We must psychologically
transcend the boundary of immediately perceived consciousness and
continue it, but in such a way as to separate the concept from sensation.
Psychology as the science of consciousness is in principle impossible.
As the science of the unconscious mind it is doubly impossible. It
would seem that there is no way out, no solution for this quadrature of
the circle. But physics finds itself in exactly the same position.
Admittedly, the physical sequence extends further than the mental one,
but this sequence is not infinite and without gaps either. It was science
that made it inprinciple continuous and infinite and not immediate
experience. It extended this experience by excluding the eye. This is
also psychology’s task.
Hence, interpretation is not only a bitter necessity for psychology,
but also a liberating and essentially most fruitful method of knowledge,
a salto vitale, which for bad jumpers turns into a salto mortale.
Psychology must develop its philosophy of equipment, just as physics
has its philosophy of the thermometer. In practice both parties in
psychology have recourse to interpretation: the subjectivist has in the
end the words of the subject, i.e., his behavior and mind are interpreted
behavior. The objectivist will inevitably interpret as well. The very
concept of reaction implies the necessity of interpretation, of sense,
connection, relation. Indeed, actio and reactio are concepts that are
originally mechanistic – one must observe both and deduce a law. But
in psychology and physiology the reaction is not equal to the stimulus.
It has a sense, a goal, i.e., it fulfills a certain function in the larger
whole. It is qualitatively connected with its stimulus. And this sense of
the reaction as a function of the whole, this quality of the interrelation,
is not given in experience, but found by inference. To put it more
easily and generally: when we study behavior as a system of reactions,
we do not study the behavioral acts in themselves (by the organs), but
in their relation to other acts – to stimuli. But the relation and the
quality of the relation, its sense, are never the subject of immediate
perception, let alone the relation between two heterogeneous
sequences – between stimuli and reactions. The following is extremely
important: the reaction is an answer. An answer can only be studied
according to the quality of its relation with the question, for this is the
sense of answer which is not found in perception but in interpretation.
This is the way everybody proceeds.
Bekhterev distinguishes the creative reflex. A problem is the
stimulus, and creativity is the response reaction or a symbolic reflex.
But the concepts of creativity and symbol are semantic concepts, not
experiential ones: a reflex is creative when it stands in such a relation
to a stimulus that it creates something new; it is symbolic when it
replaces another reflex. But we cannot see the symbolic or creative
nature of a reflex.
Pavlov distinguishes the reflexes of freedom and purpose, the food
reflex and the defense reflex. But neither freedom nor purpose can be
seen, nor do they have an organ like, for example, the organs for
nutrition; nor are they functions. They consist of the same movements
as the other ones. Defense, freedom, and purpose – they are the
meanings of these reflexes.
Kornilov distinguishes emotional reactions, selective, associative
reactions, the reaction of recognition, etc. It is again a classification
according to their meaning, i.e., on the basis of the interpretation of the
relation between stimulus and response.
Watson, accepting similar distinctions based on meaning, openly
says that nowadays the psychologist of behavior arrives by sheer logic
at the conclusion that there is a hidden process of thinking. By this he
is becoming conscious of his method and brilliantly refutes Titchener,
who defended the thesis that the psychologist of behavior, exactly
because of being a psychologist of behavior, cannot accept the
existence of a process of thinking when he is not in the situation to
observe it immediately and must use introspection to reveal thinking.
Watson demonstrated that he in principle isolates the concept of
thinking from its perception in introspection, just like the thermometer
emancipates us from sensation when we develop the concept of heat.
That is why he [1926, p. 301] emphasizes:
If we ever succeed in scientifically studying the
intimate nature of thought. ... then we will owe this to a
considerable extent to the scientific apparatus.
However even now the psychologist
is not in such a deplorable situation: physiologists as
well are often satisfied with the observation of the end
results and utilize logic. ... The adherent of the
psychology of behavior feels that with respect to
thinking he must keep to exactly the same position
[ibid., p. 302].
Meaning as well is for Watson an experimental problem. We find it
in what is given to us through thinking.
Thorndike (1925) distinguishes the reactions of feeling, conclusion,
mood, and cunning. Again [we are dealing with] interpretation.
The whole matter is simply how to interpret – by analogy with one’s
introspection, biological functions, etc. That is why Koffka [1925, pp.
10/13] is right when he states: There is no objective criterion for
consciousness, we do not know whether an action has consciousness
or not, but this does not make us unhappy at all. However, behavior is
such that the consciousness belonging to it, if it exists at all, must have
such and such a structure. Therefore behavior must be explained in the
same way as consciousness. Or in other words, put paradoxically: if
everybody had only those reactions which can be observed by all
others, nobody could observe anything,i.e., scientific observation is
based upon transcending the boundaries of the visible and upon a
search for its meaning which cannot be observed. He is right. He was
right [Koffka, 1924, pp. 152/160] when he claimed that behaviorism is
bound to be fruitless when it will study only the observable, when its
ideal is to know the direction and speed of the movements of each
limb, the secretion of each gland, resulting from a fixed stimulation.
Its area would then be restricted to the physiology of the muscles and
the glands. The description “this animal is running away from some
danger,” however insufficient it may be, is yet a thousand times more
characteristic for the animal’s behavior than a formula giving us the
movements of all its legs with their varying speeds, the curves of
breath, pulse, and so forth.
Köhler (1917) demonstrated in practice how we may prove the
presence of thinking in apes without any introspection and even study
the course and structure of this process through the method of the
interpretation of objective reactions. Kornilov (1922) demonstrated
how we may measure the energetic budget of different thought
operations using the indirect method: the dynamoscope is used by him
as a thermometer. Wundt’s mistake resided in the mechanical
application of equipment and the mathematical method to check and
correct. He did not use them to extend introspection, to liberate
himself from it, but to tie himself to it. In most of Wundt’s
investigations introspection was essentially superfluous. It was only
necessary to single out the unsuccessful experiments. In principle it is
totally unnecessary in Kornilov’s theory. But psychology must still
create its thermometer. Korniov’s research indicates the path.
We may summarize the conclusions from our investigation of the
narrow sensualist dogma by again referring to Engels’ words about the
activity of the eye which in combination with thinking helps us to
discover that ants see what is invisible to us.
Psychology has too long striven for experience instead of
knowledge. In the present example it preferred to share with the ants
their visual experience of the sensation of chemical beams rather than
to understand their vision scientifically.
As to the methodological spine that is supporting them there are two
scientific systems. Methodology is always like the backbone, the
skeleton in the animal’s organism. Very primitive animals, like the
snail and the tortoise, carry their skeleton on the outside and they can,
like an oyster, be separated from their skeleton. What is left is a poorly
differentiated fleshy part. Higher animals carry their skeleton inside
and make it into the internal support, the bone of each of their
movements. In psychology as well we must distinguish lower and
higher types of methodological organization.
This is the best refutation of the sham empiricism of the natural
sciences. It turns out that nothing can be transposed from one theory to
another. It would seem that a fact is always a fact. Despite the different
points of departure and the different aims one and the same object (a
child) and one and the same method (objective observation) should
make it possible to transpose the facts of psychology to reflexology.
The difference would only be in the interpretation of the same facts. In
the end the systems of Ptolemy and Copernicus rested upon the same
facts as well. [But] It turns out that facts obtained by means of
different principles of knowledge are different facts.
Thus, the debate about the application of the biogenetic principle in
psychology is not a debate about facts. The facts are indisputable and
there are two groups of them: the recapitulation of the stages the
organism goes through in the development of its structure as
established by natural science and the indisputable traits of similarity
between the phylo- and ontogenesis of the mind. It is particularly
important that neither is there any debate about the latter group.
Koffka [1925, pp.32], who contests this theory and subjects it to a
methodological analysis, resolutely declares that the analogies, from
which this false theory proceeds, exist beyond any doubt. The debate
concerns the meaning of these analogies and it turns out that it cannot
be decided without analyzing the principles of child psychology,
without having a general idea of childhood, a conception of the
meaning and the biological sense of childhood, a certain theory of
child development. It is quite easy to find analogies. The question is
how to search for them. Similar analogies may be found in the
behavior of adults as well.
Two typical mistakes are possible here: one is made by Hall,
Thorndike and Groos have brilliantly exposed it in critical analyses.
The latter [Groos, 1904/1921, p. 7] justly claims that the purpose of
any comparison and the task of comparative science is not only to
distinguish similar traits, but even more to search for the differences
within the similarity. Comparative psychology, consequently, must not
merely understand man as an animal, but much more as a non-animal.
The straightforward application of the principle led to a ubiquitous
search for similarity. A correct method and reliably established facts
led to monstrously strained interpretations and distorted facts when
applied uncritically. Children’s games have indeed traditionally
preserved many echoes of the remote past (the play with bows, round
dances). For Hall this is the repetition and expression in innocent form
of the animal and pre-historic stages of development. Groos considers
this to show a remarkable lack of critical judgment. The fear of cats
and dogs would be a remnant of the time when these animals were still
wild. Water would attract children because we developed from aquatic
animals. The automatic movements of the infant’s arms would be a
remnant of the movements of our ancestors who swam in the water,
etc..
The mistake resides, consequentiy, in the interpretation of the
child’s whole behavior as a recapitulation and in the absence of any
principle to verify the analogy and to select the facts which must and
must not be interpreted. It is precisely the play of animals which
cannot be explained in this way. “Can Hall’s theory explain the play of
the young tiger with its victim?” – asks Groos [1904/1921, p. 73]. It is
clear that this play cannot be understood as a recapitulation of past
phylogenetic development. It foreshadows the future activity of the
tiger and not a repetition of his past development. It must be explained
and understood in relation to the tiger’s future, in the light of which it
gets its meaning, and not in the light of the past of his species. The
past of the species comes out in a totally different sense: through the
individual’s future which it predetermines, but not directly and not in
the sense of a repetition.
What are the facts? This quasi-biological theory appears to be
untenable precisely in biological terms, precisely in comparison with
the nearest homogeneous analogue in the series of homogeneous
phenomena in other stages of evolution. When we compare the play of
a child with the play of a tiger, i.e., a higher mammal, and consider not
only the similarity, but the difference as well, we will lay bare their
common biological essence which resides exactly in their difference
(the tiger plays the chase of tigers; the child that he is a grown-up;
both practice necessary functions for their life to come – Groos’
theory). But despite all the seeming similarity in the comparison of
heterogeneous phenomena (play with water – aquatic life of the
amphibian – man) the theory is biologically meaningless.
Thorndike [1906] adds to this devastating argument a remark about
the different order of the same biological principles in onto- and
phylogencsis. Thus, consciousness appears very early in ontogenesis
and very late in phylogenesis. The sexual drive, on the other hand,
appears very early in phylogenesis and very late in ontogenesis. Stern
[1927, pp. 266-267], using similar considerations, criticizes the same
theory in its application to play.
Blonsky (1921) makes another kind of mistake. He defends – and
very convincingly – this law for embryonic development from the
viewpoint of biomechanics and shows that it would be miraculous if it
did not exist. The author points out the hypothetical nature of the
considerations (“not very conclusive”) leading to this contention (“it
may be like this”), i.e., he gives arguments for the methodological
possibility of a working hypothesis, but then, instead of proceeding to
the investigation and verification of the hypothesis, follows in Hall’s
footsteps and begins to explain the child’s behavior on the basis of
very intelligible analogies: he does not view the climbing of trees by
children as a recapitulation of the life of apes, but of primitive people
who lived amidst rocks and ice; the tearing off of wallpaper is an
atavism of the tearing off of the bark of trees etc. What is most
remarkable of all is that the error leads Blonsky to the same conclusion
as Hall: to the negation of play. Groos and Stern have shown that
exactly where it is easiest to find analogies between onto- and
phylogenesis is this theory untenable. And neither does Blonsky, as if
illustrating the irresistible force of the methodological laws of
scientific knowledge, search for new terms. He sees no need to attach a
“new term” (play) to the child’s activity. This means that on his
methodological path he first lost its meaning and then – with creditable
consistency – refrained from the term that expresses this meaning.
Indeed, if the activity, the child’s behavior, is an atavism, then the
term“play” is out of place. This activity has nothing in common with
the play of the tiger as Groos demonstrated. And we must translate
Blonsky’s declaration “I don’t like this term” in methodological terms
as “I lost the understanding and meaning of this concept.”
Only in this way, by following each principle to its ultimate
copclusions, by taking each concept in the extreme form toward which
it strives, by investigating each line of thinking to the very end, at
times completing it for the author, can we determine the
methodological nature of the phenomenon under investigation. That is
why a concept that is used deliberately, not blindly, in the science for
which it was created, where it originated, developed, and was carried
to its ultimate expression, is blind, leads nowhere when transposed to
another science. Such blind transpositions of the biogenetic principle,
the experiment, the mathematical method from the natural sciences,
created the appearance of science in psychology which in reality
concealed a total impotence in the face of the studied facts.
But to complete the sketch of the circle described by the meaning of
a principle introduced into a science in this way, we will follow its
further fate. The matter does not end with the detection of the
fruitlessness of the principle, its critique, the pointing out of curious
and strained interpretations at which schoolboys poke their finger. In
other words, the history of the principle does not end with its simple
expulsion from the area that does not belong to it, with its simple
rejection. After all, we remember that the foreign principle penetrated
into our science via a bridge of facts, via really existing analogues.
Nobody has denied this. While this principle became strengthened and
reigned, the number of facts upon which its false power rested
increased. They were partially false and partially correct. In its turn the
critique of these facts, the critique of the principle itself, draws still
other new facts into the scope of the science. The matter is not
confined to the facts: the critique must provide an explanation for the
colliding facts. The theories assimilate each other and on this basis the
regeneration of a new principle takes place.
Under the pressure of the facts and foreign theories, the newcomer
changes its face. The same happened with the biogenetic principle. It
was reborn and in psychology it figures in two forms (a sign that the
process of regeneration is not yet finished): (1) as a theory of utility,
defended by neo-Darwinism and the school of Thorndike, which finds
that individual and species are subject to the same laws – hence a
number of coincidences, but also a number of non-coincidences. Not
everything that is useful for the species in its early stage is useful for
the individual as well; (2) as a theory of synchronization, defended in
psychology by Koffka and the school of Dewey, in the philosophy of
history by Spengler. It is a theory which says that all developmental
processes have some general stages, some successive forms, in
common – from elementary to more complex and from lower to higher
levels.
Far be it from us to consider any of these conclusions the right one.
We are in general still far from a fundamental examination of the
question. For us it is important to follow the dynamics of the
spontaneous, blind reaction of a scientific body to a foreign, inserted
object. It is important for us to trace the forms of scientific
inflammation relative to the kind of infection in order to proceed from
pathology to the norm and to clarify the normal functions of the
different composite parts – the organs of science. This is the purpose
and meaning of our analyses, which seemingly sidetrack us, but
although we make no mention of it we continually hold to the
comparison (prompted by Spinoza) of the psychology of our days to a
severely diseased person. If we wish to formulate the aim of our last
digression from this viewpoint, the positive conclusion which we have
reached, the result of the analysis, we must determine it as follows:
previously – on the basis of the analysis of the unconscious – we
studied the nature, the action, the manner of the spreading of the
infection, the penetration of the foreign idea after the facts, its lording
over the organism, the disturbance of the organism’s functions; now –
on the basis of the analysis of the biogenesis – we were able to study
the counteraction of the organism, its struggle with the infection, the
dynamic tendency to resolve, throw out, neutralize, assimilate,
degenerate the foreign body, to mobilize forces against the contagion.
We studied – to stick to medical terms – the elaboration of antibodies
and the development of immunity. What remains is the third and final
step: to distinguish the phenomena of the disease from the reactions,
the healthy from the diseased, the processes of the infection from the
recovery. This we will do in the analysis of scientific terminology in
the third and final digression. After that we will directly proceed to the
statement of a diagnosis and prognosis for our patient – to the nature,
meaning and outcome of the present crisis.
Chapter 9: On Scientific Language
If one would like to get an objective and clear idea of the contemporary state of
psychology and the dimensions of its crisis, it would suffice to study the
psychological language, i.e., the nomenclature and terminology, the dictionary and
syntax of the psychologist. Language, scientific language in particular, is a tool of
thought, an instrument of analysis, and it suffices to examine which instruments a
science utilizes to understand the character of its operations. The highly developed
and exact language of contemporary physics, chemistry, and physiology, not to speak
of mathematics where it plays an extraordinary role, was developed and perfected
during the development of science and far from spontaneously, but deliberately under
the influence of tradition, critique, and the direct terminological creativity of scientific
societies and congresses. The psychological language of contemporaneity is first of all
terminologically insufficient: this means that psychology does not yet have its own
language. In its dictionary you will find a conglomerate of words of three kinds: (1)
the words of everyday language, which are vague, ambiguous, and adapted to
practical life (Lazursky levelled this criticism against faculty psychology; I succeeded
in showing that it is more true of the language of empirical psychology and of
Lazursky himself in particular; see Preface to Lazursky in this volume). Suffice it to
remember the touchstone of all translators–the visual sense (i.e., sensation) to realize
the whole metaphorical nature and inexactness of the practical language of daily life;
(2) the words of philosophical language. They too pollute the language of
psychologists, as they have lost the link with their previous meaning, are ambiguous
as a result of the struggle between the various philosophical schools, and are abstract
to a maximal degree. Lalande (1923) views this as the main source of the vagueness
and lack of clarity in psychology. The tropes of this language favor vagueness of
thought. These metaphors are valuable as illustrations, but dangerous as formulas. It
also leads to personifications through the ending -ism, of mental facts, functions,
systems and theories, between which small mythological dramas are invented; (3)
finally, the words and ways of speaking taken from the natural sciences which are
used in a figurative sense bluntly serve deception. When the psychologist discusses
energy, force, and even intensity, or when he speaks of excitation etc., he always
covers a non-scientific concept with a scientific word and thereby either deceives, or
once again underlines the whole indeterminate nature of the concept indicated by the
exact foreign term.
Lalande [1923, p. 52] correctly remarks that the obscurity of
language depends as much upon its syntax as upon its dictionary. In
the construction of the psychological phrase we meet no fewer
mythological dramas than in the lexicon. I want to add that the style,
the manner of expression of a science is no less important. In a word,
all elements, all functions of a language show the traces of the age of
the science that makes use of them, and determine the character of its
workings.
It would be mistaken to think that psychologists have not noticed
the mixed character, the inaccuracy, and the mythological nature of
their language. There is hardly any author who in one way or another
has not dwelt upon the problem of terminology. Indeed, psychologists
have pretended to describe, analyze and study very subtle things, full
of nuances, they have attempted to convey the unique mental
experience, the facts sui generis which occur only once, when science
wished to convey the experience itself, i.e., when the task of its
language was equal to that of the word of the artist. For this reason
psychologists recommended that psychology be learned from the great
novelists, spoke in the language of the impressionistic fine literature
themselves, and even the best, most brilliant stylists among the
psychologists were unable to create an exact language and wrote in a
figurative-expressive way. They suggested, sketched, described, but
did not record. This was the case for James, Lipps, and Binet.
The 6th International Congress of psychologists in Geneva (1909)
put this question on its agenda and published two reports–by Baldwin
and Claparède–on this topic, but did no more than establishing rules
for linguistical possibilities, although Claparêde tried to give a
definition of 40 laboratory terms. Baldwin’s dictionary in England and
the technical and critical dictionary of philosophy in France have
accomplished much, but despite this the situation becomes worse
every year and to read a new book with the help of the
above-mentioned dictionaries is impossible. The encyclopedia from
which I take this information views it as one of its tasks to introduce
solidity and stability into the terminology, but gives occasion to new
instability as it introduces a new system of terms [Dumas, 1923]. [36]
The language reveals as it were the molecular changes that the science
goes through. It reflects the internal processes that take shape–the
tendencies of development, reform, and growth. We may assume,
therefore, that the troubled condition of the language reflects a
troubled condition of the science. We will not deal any further with the
essence of this relation. We will take it as our point of departure for
the analysis of the contemporary molecular terminological changes in
psychology. Perhaps, we will be able to read in them the present and
future fate of the science. Let us first of all begin with those who are
tempted to deny any fundamental importance to the language of
science and view such debates as scholastic logomachy. Thus,
Chelpanov (1925) considers the attempt to replace the subjective
terminology by an objective one as a ridiculous pretension, utter
nonsense. The zoopsychologists (Beer, Bethe, Von UexkUll) have
used “photoreceptor” instead of “eye”, “stiboreceptor” instead of
“nose,” “receptor” instead of “sense organ” etc. (Chelpanov, 1925).
[37]
Chelpanov is tempted to reduce the whole reform carried out by
behaviorism to a play of words. He assumes that in Watson’s writings
the word “sensation” or “idea” is replaced by the word “reaction.” In
order to show the reader the difference between ordinary psychology
and the psychology of the behaviorist, Chelpanov (1925) gives
examples of the new way of expressing things:
In ordinary psychology it is said: ‘When someone’s optical nerve is
stimulated by a mixture of complementary light waves, he will become
conscious of the white color.’ According to Watson in this case we
must say: ‘He reacts to it as if it were a white color.’
The triumphant conclusion of the author is that the matter is not
changed by the words used. The whole difference is in the words. Is
this really true? For a psychologist of Chelpanov’s kind it is
definitively true. Who does not investigate nor discover anything new
cannot understand why researchers introduce new terms for new
phenomena. Who has no view of his own about the phenomena and
accepts indifferently both Spinoza, Husserl, Marx, and Plato, for such
a person a fundamental change of words is an empty pretension. Who
eclectically–in the order of appearance–assimilates all Western
European schools, currents and directions, is in need of a vague,
undefined, levelling, everyday language–”as is spoken in ordinary
psychology.” For a person who conceives of psychology only in the
form of a textbook it is a matter of life and death to preserve everyday
language, and as lots of empiricist psychologists belong to this type,
they speak in this mixed and motley jargon, in which the
consciousness of the white color is simply a fact which is in no need of
any further critique.
For Chelpanov it is a caprice, an eccentricity. But why is this
eccentricity so regular? Doesn’t it contain something essential?
Watson, Pavlov, Bekhterev, Kornilov, Bethe and Von Uexkull
(Chelpanov’s list may be continued ad libitum from any area of
science), Kohler, Koffka and others and still others demonstrated this
eccentricity. This means that there is some objective necessity in the
tendency to introduce new terminology.
We can say in advance that the word that refers to a fact at the same
time provides a philosophy of that fact, its theory, its system. When I
say: “the consciousness of the color” I have scientific associations of a
certain kind, the fact is included in a certain series of phenomena, I
attach a certain meaning to the fact. When I say: “the reaction to
white” everything is wholly different. But Chelpanov is only
pretending that it is a matter of words. For him the thesis “a reform of
terminology is not needed” forms the conclusion from the thesis “a
reform of psychology is not needed.” Never mind that Chelpanov gets
caught in contradictions: on the one hand Watson is only changing
words; on the other hand behaviorism is distorting psychology. It is
one of two things: either Watson is playing with words–then
behaviorism is a most innocent thing, an amusing joke, as Chelpanov
likes to put it when he reassures himself; or behind the change of
words is concealed a change of the matter–then the change of words is
not all that funny. A revolution always tears off the old names of
things–both in politics and in science.
But let us proceed to other authors who do understand the
importance of new words. It is clear to them that new facts and a new
viewpoint necessitate new words. Such psychologists fall into two
groups. Some are pure eclectics, who happily mix the old and new
words and view this procedure as some eternal law. Others speak in a
mixed language out of necessity. They do not coincide with any of the
debating parties and strive for a unified language, for the creation of
their own language.
We have seen that such outspoken eclectics as Thorndike equally
apply the term “reaction” to temper, dexterity, action, to the objective
and the subjective. As he is not capable of solving the question of the
nature of the studied facts and the principles of their investigation, he
simply deprives both the subjective and the subjective terms of their
meaning. “Stimulus-reaction” is for him simply a convenient way to
describe the phenomena. Others, such as Pillsbury [1917, pp. 4-14],
make eclecticism their principle: the debates about a general method
and viewpoint are of interest for the technically-minded psychologist.
Sensation and perception he explains in the terms of the structuralists,
actions of all kinds in those of the behaviorists. He himself is inclined
towards functionalism. The different terms lead to discrepancies, but
he prefers the use of the terms of many schools to those of a single
specific school. In complete accordance with this he explains the
subject matter of psychology with illustrations from everyday life, in
vague words, instead of giving formal definitions. Having given the
three definitions of psychology as the science of mind, consciousness,
or behavior, he concludes that they may very well be neglected in the
description of the mental life. It is only natural that terminology leaves
our author indifferent as well Koffka (1925) and others try to realize a
fundamental synthesis of the old and the new terminology. They
understand very well that the word is a theory of the fact it designates
and, therefore, they view behind two systems of terms two systems of
concepts. Behavior has two aspects–one that must be studied by
natural scientific observation and one that must be experienced and to
these correspond functional and descriptive concepts. The functional
objective concepts and terms belong to the category of natural
scientific ones, the phenomenal descriptive ones are absolutely foreign
to it (to behavior). This fact is often obscured by the language which
does not always have separate words for this or that kind of concept,
as everyday language is not scientific language.
The merit of the Americans is that they have fought against
subjective anecdotes in animal psychology. But we will not fear the
use of descriptive concepts when describing animal behavior. The
Americans have gone too far, they are too objective. What is again
highly remarkable: Gestalt theory, which is internally deeply dualistic,
reflecting and uniting two contradictory tendencies which, as will be
shown below, currently determine the whole crisis and its fate, wishes
in principle to preserve this dual language forever, for it proceeds from
the dual nature of behavior. However, sciences do not study what is
closely related in nature, but what is conceptually homogeneous and
similar. How can there be one science about two absolutely different
kinds of phenomena, which evidently require two different methods,
two different explanatory principles, etc.? After all, the unity of a
science is guaranteed by unity of the viewpoint on the subject. How
then can we build a science with two viewpoints? Once again a
contradiction in terms corresponds to a contradiction in principles.
Matters are slightly different with another group of mainly Russian
psychologists, who use various terms but view this as the attribute of a
period of transition. This “demi-saison,” as one psychologist calls it,
requires clothes that combine the properties of a fur coat and a summer
dress, warm and light at the same time. Thus, Blonsky holds that it is
not important how we designate the phenomena under study but bow
we understand them. We utilize the ordinary vocabulary for our speech
but to these ordinary words we attach a content that corresponds to the
science of the 20th century. It is not important to avoid the expression
“The dog is angry.” What is important is that this phrase is not the
explanation, but the problem (Blonsky, 1925). Strictly speaking, this
implies a complete condemnation of the old terminology: for there this
phrase was the explanation. But this phrase must be formulated in an
appropriate way and not with the ordinary vocabulary. This is the main
thing required to make it a scientific problem. And those whom
Blonsky calls the pedants of terminology appreciate much better than
he does that the phrase conceals a content given by the history of
science. However, like Blonsky many utilize two languages and do not
consider this a question of principle. This is the way Kornilov
proceeds, this is what I do, repeating after Pavlov: what does it matter
whether I call them mental or higher nervous [processes]? But already
these examples show the limits of such a bilingualism. The limits
themselves show again most clearly what our whole analysis of the
eclectics showed: bilingualism is the external sign of dual thinking.
You may speak in two languages as long as you convey dual things or
things in a dual light. Then it really does not matter what you call
them.
So, let us summarize. For empiricists it is necessary to have a
language that is colloquial, indeterminate, confused, ambiguous, vague,
in order that what is said can be reconciled with whatever you
like–today with the church fathers, tomorrow with Marx. They need a
word that neither provides a clear philosophical qualification of the
nature of the phenomenon, nor simply its clear description, because the
empiricists have no clear understanding and conception of their subject.
The eclectics, both those that are so by principle and those that adhere
to eclecticism only for the time being, are in need of two languages as
long as they defend an eclectic point of view. But as soon as they leave
this viewpoint and attempt to designate and describe a newly
discovered fact or explain their own viewpoint on a subject, they lose
their indifference to the language or the word. Kornilov (1922), who
made a new discovery, is prepared to turn the whole area to which he
assigns this phenomenon from a chapter of psychology into an
independent science–reactology. Elsewhere he contrasts the reflex
with the reaction and views a fundamental difference between the two
terms. They are based on wholly different philosophies and
methodologies. Reaction is for him a biological concept and reflex a
strictly physiological one. A reflex is only objective, a reaction is
subjective objective. This explains why a phenomenon acquires one
meaning when we call it a reflex and another when we call it a reaction.
Obviously, it makes a difference how we refer to the phenomena and
there is a reason for pedantry when it is backed by an investigation or a
philosophy. A wrong word implies a wrong understanding. It is not for
nothing that Blonsky notices that his work and the outline of
psychology by Jameson (1925)–this typical specimen of philistinism
and eclecticism in science–overlap. To view the phrase “the dog is
angry” as the problem is wrong if only because, as Shchelovanov
(1929) justly pointed out, the finding of the term is the end point and
not the starting point of the investigation. As soon as one or the other
complex of reactions is referred to with some psychological term all
further attempts at analysis are finished. If Blonsky would leave his
eclectic stand, like Kornilov, and acknowledge the value of
investigation or principle, he would find this out. There is not a single
psychologist with whom this would not happen. And such an ironic
observer of the “terminological revolutions” as Chelpanov suddenly
turns out to be an astonishing pedant: he objects to the name
“reactology.” With the pedantry of one of Chekhov’s gymnasium
teachers he preaches that this term causes misunderstanding, first
etymologically and second theoretically. The author declares with
aplomb that etymologically speaking the word is entirely incorrect–we
should say “reactiology” [reaktsiologija]. This is of course the summit
of linguistic illiteracy and a flagrant violation of all the terminological
principles of the 6th Congress on the international (Latin-Greek) basis
of terms. Obviously, Korniov did not form his term from the
home-bred “reaktsija,” but from reactio and he was perfectly right in
doing so. One wonders how Chelpanov would translate “reactiology”
into French, German, etc. But this is not what it is all about. It is about
something else: Chelpanov declares that this term is inappropriate in
Kornilov’s system of psychological views. But let us speak to the
point. The important thing is that the meaning of a term is accepted in
a system of views. It turns out that even reflexology conceived of in a
certain way has its raison d’être.
Let people not think that these trifles have no importance, because
they are too obviously confused, contradictory, incorrect, etc. Here
there is a difference between the scientific and the practical points of
view. Munsterberg explained that the gardener loves his tulips and
hates the weeds, but the botanist who describes and explains loves or
hates nothing and, from his point of view, cannot love or hate. For the
science of man, he says, stupidity is of no less interest than wisdom. It
is all indifferent material that merely claims to exist as a link in the
chain of phenomena. As a link in the chain of causal phenomena, this
fact—that terminology suddenly becomes an urgent question for the
eclectic psychologist who does not care about terminology unless it
touches his position—is a valuable methodological fact. It is as
valuable as the fact that other eclectics following the same path come
to the same conclusion as Kornilov: neither the conditional nor the
correlative reflexes appear sufficiently clear and understandable.
Reactions are the basis of the new psychology, and the whole
psychology developed by Pavlov, Bekhterev and Watson is called
neither reflexology nor behaviorism, but ‘psychologie de reaction,’ i.e.,
reactology. Let the eclectics come to opposite conclusions about a
specific thing. They are still related by the method, the process by
which they arrive at their conclusions.
We find the same regularity in all reflexologists—both investigators
and theoreticians. Watson [1914, p. 9] is convinced that we can write a
course in psychology without using the words “consciousness,”
“content,” “introspectively verified,” “imagery” etc. And for him this
is not a terminological matter, but one of principle: just as the chemist
cannot use the language of alchemy nor the astronomer that of the
horoscope. He explains this brilliantly with the help of one specific
case: he regards the difference between a visual reaction and a visual
image as extremely important because behind it lies the difference
between a consistent monism and a consistent dualism [1914, pp.
16-20]. A word is for him the tentacle by which philosophy
comprehends a fact. Whatever is the value of the countless volumes
written in the terms of consciousness, it can only be determined and
expressed by translating them into objective language. For according
to Watson consciousness and so on are no more than undefined
expressions. And the new textbook breaks with the popular theories
and terminology. Watson condemns “half-hearted psychology of
behavior” (which brings harm to the whole current) claiming that
when the theses of the new psychology will not preserve their clarity
its framework will be distorted, obscured, and it will lose its genuine
meaning. Functional psychology perished from such half-heartedness.
If behaviorism has a future then it must break completely with the
concept of consciousness. However, thus far it has not been decided
whether behaviorism will become the dominating system of
psychology or simply remain a methodological approach. And
therefore Watson (1926) too often takes the methodology of common
sense as the basis of his investigations. In the attempt to liberate
himself from philosophy he slips into the viewpoint of the “common
man,” understanding by this latter not the basic feature of human
practice but the common sense of the average American businessman.
In his opinion the common man must welcome behaviorism. Ordinary
life has taught him to act that way. Consequently, when dealing with
the science of behavior he will not feel a change of method or some
change of the subject (ibid.). This [viewpoint] implies the verdict on
all behaviorism. Scientific study absolutely requires a change of the
subject (i.e., its treatment in concepts) and the method. But behavior
itself is understood by these psychologists in its everyday sense and in
their arguments and descriptions there is much of the philistine way of
judgment. Therefore, neither radical nor half-hearted behaviorism will
ever find—either in style and language, or in principle and
method—the boundary between everyday and philistine understanding.
Having liberated themselves from the “alchemy” in language, the
behaviorists have polluted it with everyday, non-terminological speech.
This makes them akin to Chelpanov: the whole difference can be
attributed to the life style of the American or Russian philistine. The
reproach that the new psychology is a philistine psychology is
therefore partially justified.
This vagueness of language in the Americans, which Blonsky
considers a lack of pedantry, is viewed by Pavlov [1928/1963, pp.
213-214] as a failing. He views it as a
gross defect which prevents the success of the work,
but which, I have no doubt, will sooner or later be
removed. I refer to the application of psychological
concepts and classifications in this essentially objective
study of the behavior of animals. Herein lies the cause
of the fortuitous and conditional character of their
complicated methods, and the fragmentary and
unsystematic character of their results, which have no
well planned basis to rest on.
One could not express the role and function of language in scientific
investigation more clearly. And Pavlov’s entire success is first of all
due to the enormous consistency in his language. His investigations
led to a theory of higher nervous activity and animal behavior, rather
than a chapter on the functioning of the salivary glands, exclusively
because he lifted the study of salivary secretion to an enormously high
theoretical level and created a transparent system of concepts that lies
at the basis of the science. One must marvel at Pavlov’s principled
stand in methodological matters. His book introduces us into the
laboratory of his investigations and teaches us how to create a
scientific language. At first, what does it matter what we call the
phenomenon? But gradually each step is strengthened by a new word,
each new principle requires a term. He clarifies the sense and meaning
of the use of new terms. The selection of terms and concepts
predetermines the outcome of an investigation:
I cannot understand how the non-spatial concepts of
contemporary psychology can be fitted into the
material structure of the brain [ibid., p. 224].
When Thorndike speaks of a mood reaction and studies it, he creates
concepts and laws that lead us away from the brain. To have recourse
to such a method Pavlov calls cowardice. Partly out of habit, partly
from a “certain anxiety,” be resorted to psychological explanations.
But soon I understood that they were bad servants. For
me there arose difficulties when I could see no natural
relations between the phenomena. The succor of
psychology was only in words (the animal has
‘remembered,’ the animal ‘wished,’ the animal
‘thought’), i.e., it was only a method of indeterminate
thinking without a basis in fact (italics mine, L. V.)
[ibid., p. 237].
He regards the manner in which psychologists express themselves
as an insult against serious thinking.
And when Pavlov introduced in his laboratories a penalty for the use
of psychological terms this was no less important and revealing for the
history of the theory of the science than the debate about the symbol of
faith for the history of religion. Only Chelpanov can laugh about this:
the scientist does not fine for [the use of] an incorrect term in a
textbook or in the exposition of a subject, but in the laboratory–in the
process of the investigation. Obviously, such a fine was imposed for
the non-causal, non-spatial, indeterminate, mythological thinking that
came with that word and that threatened to blow up the whole cause
and to introduce–as in the ease of the Americans–a fragmentary,
unsystematic character and to take away the foundations.
Chelpanov (1925) does not suspect at all that new words may be
needed in the laboratory, in an investigation, that the sense [and]
meaning of an investigation are determined by the words used. He
criticizes Pavlov, stating that “inhibition” is a vague, hypothetical
expression and that the same must be said of the term “disinhibition.”
Admittedly, we don’t know what goes on in the brain during inhibition,
but nevertheless it is a brilliant, transparent concept. First of all, it is
well defined, i.e., exactly determined in its meaning and boundaries.
Secondly, it is honest, i.e., it says no more than is known. Presently the
processes of inhibition in the brain are not wholly clear to us, but the
word and the concept “inhibition” are wholly clear. Thirdly, it is
principled and scientific, i.e., it includes a fact into a system, underpins
it with a foundation, explains it hypothetically, but causally. Of course,
we have a clearer image of an eye than of an analyzer. Exactly because
of this the word “eye” doesn’t mean anything in science. The term
“visual analyzer” says both less and more than the word “eye.” Pavlov
revealed a new function of the eye, compared it with the function of
other organs, connected the whole sensory path from the eye to the
cortex, indicated its place in the system of behavior–and all this is
expressed by the new term. It is true that we must think of visual
sensations when we hear these words, but the genetic origin of a word
and its terminological meaning are two absolutely different things. The
word contains nothing of sensations; it can be adequately used by a
blind person. Those who, following Chelpanov, catch Pavlov making a
slip of the tongue, using fragments of a psychological language, and
find him guilty of inconsistency, do not understand the heart of the
matter. When Pavlov uses [words such as] happiness, attention, idiot
(about a dog), this only means that the mechanism of happiness,
attention etc. has not yet been studied, that these are the as yet obscure
spots of the system; it does not imply a fundamental concession or
contradiction.
But all this may seem incorrect as long as we do not take the
opposite aspect into account. Of course, terminological consistency
may become pedantry, “verbalism,” common place (Bekhterev’s
school). When does that occur? When the word is like a label stuck on
a finished article and is not born in the research process. Then it does
not define, delimit, but introduces vagueness and shambles in the
system of concepts.
Such a work implies the pinning on of new labels which explain
absolutely nothing, for it is not difficult, of course, to invent a whole
catalogue of names: the reflex of purpose, the reflex of God, the reflex
of right, the reflex of freedom, etc. A reflex can be found for
everything. The problem is only that we gain nothing but trifles. This
does not refute the general rule, but indirectly confirms it: new words
keep pace with new investigations.
Let us summarize. We have seen everywhere that the word, like the
sun in a drop of water, fully reflects the processes and tendencies in
the development of a science. A certain fundamental unity of
knowledge in science comes to light which goes from the highest
principles to the selection of a word. What guarantees this unity of the
whole scientific system? The fundamental methodological skeleton.
The investigator, insofar as he is not a technician, a registrar, an
executor, is always a philosopher who during the investigation and
description is thinking about the phenomena, and his way of thinking
is revealed in the words he uses. A tremendous discipline of thought
lies behind Pavlov’s penalty. A discipline of mind similar to the
monastic system which forms the core of the religious world view is at
the core of the scientific conception of the world. He who enters the
laboratory with his own word is deemed to repeat Pavlov’s example.
The word is a philosophy of the fact; it can be its mythology and its
scientific theory. When Lichtenberg said: “Es denkt, sollte man sagen,
so wie man sagt: es blitzt,” be was fighting mythology in language. To
say “cogito” is saying too much when it is translated as “I think.”
Would the physiologist really agree to say “I conduct the excitation
along my nerve”? To say “I think” or “It comes to my mind” implies
two opposite theories of thinking. Binet’s whole theory of the mental
poses requires the first expression, Freud’s theory the second and
Kulpe’s theory now the one, now the other. Høffding [1908, p. 106,
footnote 2] sympathetically cites the physiologist Foster who says that
the impressions of an animal deprived of [one of] its cerebral
hemispheres we must “either call sensations, or we must invent an
entirely new word for them,” for we have stumbled upon a new
category of facts and must choose a way to think about it–whether in
connection with the old category or in a new fashion.
Among the Russian authors it was Lange (1914, p. 43) who
understood the importance of terminology. Pointing out that there is no
shared system in psychology, that the crisis shattered the whole
science, he remarks that
Without fear of exaggeration it can be said that the
description of any psychological process becomes
different whether we describe and study it in the
categories of the psychological system of Ebbinghaus
or Wundt, Stumpf or Avenarius, Meinong or Binet,
James or E. Muller. Of course, the purely factual aspect
must remain the same. However, in science, at least in
psychology, to separate the described fact from its
theory, i.e., from those scientific categories by means
of which this description is made, is often very difficult
and even impossible, for in psychology (as, by the way,
in physics, according to Duhem) each description is
always
already
a
certain
theory.
...
Factual
investigations, in particular those of an experimental
character, seem to the superficial observer to be free
from those fundamental disagreements about basic
scientific
categories
which
divide
the
different
psychological schools.
But the very statement of the questions, the use of one or the other
psychological term, always implies a certain way of understanding
them which corresponds to some theory, and consequently the whole
factual result of the investigation stands or falls with the correctness or
falsity
of
the
psychological
system.
Seemingly
very
exact
investigations, observations, or measurements may, therefore, prove
false, or in any case lose their meaning when the meaning of the basic
psychological theories is changed. Such crises, which destroy or
depreciate whole series of facts, have occurred more than once in
science. Lange compares them to an earthquake that arises due to deep
deformations in the depths of the earth. Such was [the ease with] the
fall of alchemy. The dabbling that is now so widespread in science, i.e.,
the
isolation
of
the
technical
executive
function
of
the
investigation–chiefly the maintenance of the equipment according to a
well-known routine–from scientific thinking, is noticeable first of all
in the breakdown of scientific language. In principle, all thoughtful
psychologists
know
this
perfectly
well:
in
methodological
investigations the terminological problem which requires a most
complex analysis instead of a simple note takes the lion’s share.
Rickert regards the creation of unequivocal terminology as the most
important task of psychology which precedes any investigation, for
already in primitive description we must select word meanings which
“by generalizing simplify” the immense diversity and plurality of the
mental phenomena [Binswanger, 1922, p. 26]. Engels [1925/1978, p.
553] essentially expressed the same idea in his example from
chemistry:
In organic chemistry the meaning of some body and,
consequently, its name are no longer simply dependent
upon its composition, but rather upon its place in the
series to which it belongs. That is why its old name
becomes an obstacle for understanding when we find
that a body belongs to such a series and must be
replaced by a name that refers to this series (paraffin,
etc.).
What has been carried to the rigor of a chemical rule here exists as a
general principle in the whole area of scientific language.
Lange (1914, p. 96) says that
Parallelism is a word which seems innocent at first
sight. It conceals, however, a terrible idea–the idea of
the secondary and accidental nature of technique in the
world of physical phenomena.
This innocent word has an instructive history. Introduced by Leibniz
it was applied to the solution of the psychophysical problem which
goes back to Spinoza, changing its name many times in the process.
Høffding [1908, p. 91, footnote 1] calls it the identity hypothesis and
considers that it is the
only precise and opportune name ... The frequently
used term ‘monism’ is etymologically correct but
inconvenient, because it has often been used ... by a
more vague and inconsistent conception. Names such
as ‘parallelism’ and ‘dualism’ are inadequate, because
they ... smuggle in the idea that we must conceive of
the mental and the bodily as two completely separate
series of developments (almost as a pair of rails) which
is exactly what the hypothesis does not assume.
It is Wolff’s hypothesis which must be called dualistic, not
Spinoza’s.
Thus, a single hypothesis is now called (1) monism, now (2)
dualism, now (3) parallelism, and now (4) identity. We may add that
the circle of Marxists who have revived this hypothesis (as will be
shown below)–Plekhanov, and after him Sarabjanov, Frankfurt and
others–view it precisely as a theory of the unity, but not identity of the
mental and the physical. How could this happen? Obviously, the
hypothesis itself can be developed on the basis of different more
general views and may acquire different meanings depending on them:
some emphasize its dualism, others its monism etc. Haffding [1908, p.
96] remarks that it does not exclude a deeper metaphysical hypothesis,
in particular idealism. In order to become a philosophical world view,
hypotheses must be elaborated anew and this new elaboration resides
in the emphasis on now this and now that aspect. Very important is
Lange’s (1914, p. 76) reference:
We find psychophysical parallelism in the representatives of the
most diverse philosophical currents–the dualists (the followers of
Descartes [37]), the monists (Spinoza), Leibnitz (metaphysical
idealism), the positivists-agnostics (Bain, Spencer [38]), Wundt and
Paulsen (voluntaristic metaphysics).
Høffding [1908, p. 117] says that the unconscious follows from the
hypothesis of identity:
In this case we act like the philologist who via
conjectural critique [Konjekturalkritilc] supplements a
fragment of an ancient writer. Compared to the
physical world the mental world is for us a fragment;
only by means of a hypothesis can we supplement it.
This conclusion follows inevitably from [his] parallelism.
That is why Chelpanov is not all that wrong when he says that before
1922 he called this theory parallelism and after 1922 materialism. He
would be entirely right if his philosophy had not been adapted to the
season in a slightly mechanical fashion. The same goes for the word
“function” (I mean function in the mathematical sense). The formula
“consciousness is a function of the brain” points to the theory of
parallelism; “physiological sense” leads to materialism. When
Kornilov (1925) introduced the concept and the term of a functional
relation between the mind and the body, he regarded parallelism as a
dualistic hypothesis, but despite this fact and without noticing it
himself, he introduced this theory, for although he rejected the concept
of function in the physiological sense, its second sense remained.
Thus, we see that, beginning with the broadest hypotheses and
ending with the tiniest details in the description of the experiment, the
word reflects the general disease of the science. The specifically new
result which we get from our analysis of the word is an idea of the
molecular character of the processes in science. Each cell of the
scientific organism shows the processes of infection and struggle. This
gives us a better idea of the character of scientific knowledge. It
emerges as a deeply unitary process. Finally, we get an idea of what is
healthy or sick in the processes of science. What is true of the word is
true of the theory. The word can bring science further, as long as it (1)
occupies the territory that was conquered by the investigation, i.e., as
long as it corresponds to the objective state of affairs; and is in keeping
with the right basic principles, i.e., the most general formulas of this
objective world.
We see, therefore, that scientific research is at the same time a study
of the fact and–of the methods used to know this fact. In other words,
methodological work is done in science itself insofar as this science
moves forward and reflects upon its results. The choice of a word is
already a methodological process. That methodology and experiment
are worked out simultaneously can be seen with particular ease in the
case of Pavlov. Thus, science is philosophical down to its ultimate
elements, to its words. It is permeated, so to speak, by methodology.
This coincides with the Marxist view of philosophy as “the science of
sciences,” a synthesis that penetrates science. In this sense Engels
[1925/1978, p. 480] remarked that:
Natural scientists may say what they want, but they are
ruled by philosophy. ... Not until natural science and
the science of history have absorbed dialectics will all
the philosophical fuss ... become superfluous and
disappear in the positive science.
The experimenters in the natural sciences imagine that they free
themselves from philosophy when they ignore it, but they turn out to
be slaves of the worst philosophy, which consists of a medley of
fragmentary and unsystematic views, since investigators cannot move
a single step forwards without thinking, and thinking requires logical
definitions. The question of how to deal with methodological
problems–”separately from the sciences themselves” or by introducing
the methodological investigation in the science itself (in a curriculum
or an investigation)–is a matter of pedagogical expediency. Frank
(1917/1964, p. 37) is right when he says that in the prefaces and
concluding chapters of all books on psychology one is dealing with
problems of philosophical psychology. It is one thing, however, to
explain a methodology–”to establish an understanding of the
methodology” – this is, we repeat, a matter of pedagogical technique.
It is another thing to carry out a methodological investigation. This
requires special consideration.
Ultimately the scientific word aspires to become a mathematical
sign, i.e., a pure term. After all, the mathematical formula is also a
series of words, but words which have been very well defined and
which are therefore conventional in the highest degree. This is why all
knowledge is scientific insofar as it is mathematical (Kant). But the
language of empirical psychology is the direct antipode of
mathematical language. As has been shown by Locke, Leibnitz and all
linguistics, all words of psychology are metaphors taken from the
spatial world.
Chapter 10: Interpretations of the Crisis in Psychology and its Meaning
We proceed to the positive formulations. From the fragmentary analyses of the
separate elements of a science we have learned to view it as a complex whole which
develops dynamically and lawfully. In which stage of development is our science at
this moment, what is the meaning and nature of the crisis it experiences and what will
be its outcome? Let us proceed to the answer to these questions. When one is
somewhat acquainted with the methodology (and history) of the sciences, science
loses its image of a dead, finished, immobile whole consisting of ready-made
statements and becomes a living system which constantly develops and moves
forward, and which consists of proven facts, laws, suppositions, structures, and
conclusions which are continually being supplemented, criticized, verified, partially
rejected, interpreted and organized anew, etc. Science commences to be understood
dialectically in its movement, i.e., from the perspective of its dynamics, growth,
development, evolution. It is from this point of view that we must evaluate and
interpret each stage of development. Thus, the first thing from which we proceed is
the acknowledgement of a crisis. What this crisis signifies is the subject of different
interpretations. What follows are the most important kinds of interpretation of its
meaning.
First of all, there are psychologists who totally deny the existence of
a crisis. Chelpanov belongs among them, as do most of the Russian
psychologists of the old school in general (only Lange and Frank have
seen what is being done in science). In the opinion of such
psychologists everything is all right in our science, just as in
mineralogy. The crisis came from outside. Some persons ventured to
reform our science; the official ideology required its revision. But for
neither was there any objective basis in the science itself. It is true, in
the debate one had to admit that a scientific reform was undertaken in
America as well, but for the reader it was carefully–and perhaps
sincerely–concealed that not a single psychologist who left his trace in
science managed to avoid the crisis. This first conception is so blind
that it is of no further interest to us. It can be fully explained by the
fact that psychologists of this type are essentially eclectics and
popularizers of other persons’ ideas. Not only have they never engaged
in the research and philosophy of theft science, they have not even
critically assessed each new school. They have accepted everything:
the WUrzburg school and Husserl’s phenomenology, Wundt’s and
Titchener’s experimentalism and Marxism, Spencer and Plato. When
we deal with the great revolutions that take place in science, such
persons are outside of it not only theoretically. In a practical sense as
well they play no role whatever. The empiricists betrayed empirical
psychology while defending it. The eclectics assimilated all they could
from ideas that were hostile to them. The popularizers can be enemies
to no one, they will popularize the psychology that wins. Now
Chelpanov is publishing much about Marxism. Soon he will be
studying reflexology, and the first textbook of the victorious
behaviorism will be compiled by him or a student of his. On the whole
they are professors and examiners, organizers and “Kulturträger,” but
not a single investigation of any importance has emerged from their
school.
Others see the crisis, but evaluate it very subjectively. The crisis has
divided psychology into two camps. For them the borderline lies
always between the author of a specific view and the rest of the world.
But, according to Lotze, even a worm that is half crushed sets off its
reflection against the whole world. This is the official viewpoint of
militant behaviorism. Watson (1926) thinks that there are two
psychologies: a correct one–his own–and an incorrect one. The old one
will die of its halfheartedness. The biggest detail he sees is the
existence of halfhearted psychologists. The medieval traditions with
which Wundt did not want to break wined the psychology without a
soul. As you see, everything is simplified to an extreme. There is no
particular problem in turning psychology into a natural science. For
Watson this coincides with the point of view of the ordinary person,
i.e., the methodology of common sense. Bekhterev, on the whole,
evaluates the epochs in psychology in the same way: everything before
Bekbterev was a mistake, everything after Bekhterev is the truth.
Many psychologists assess the crisis likewise. Since it is subjective, it
is the easiest initial naive viewpoint. The psychologists whom we
examined in the chapter on the unconscious [41] also reason this way:
there is empirical psychology, which is permeated by metaphysical
idealism–this is a remnant; and there is a genuine methodology of the
era, which coincides with Marxism. Everything which is not the first
must be the sec6nd, as no third possibility is given.
Psychoanalysis is in many respects the opposite of empirical
psychology. This already suffices to declare it to be a Marxist system!
For these psychologists the crisis coincides with the struggle they are
fighting. There are allies and enemies, other distinctions do not exist.
The objective-empirical diagnoses of the crisis are no better: the
severity of the crisis is measured by the number of schools that can be
counted. Allport, in counting the currents of American psychology,
defended this point of view (counting schools): the school of James
and the school of Titchener, behaviorism and psychoanalysis. The
units involved in the elaboration of the science are enumerated side by
side, but not a single attempt is made to penetrate into the objective
meaning of what each school is defending and the dynamic relations
between the schools.
The error becomes more serious when one begins to view this
situation as a fundamental characteristic of a crisis. Then the boundary
between this crisis and any other, between the crisis in psychology and
any other science, between every particular disagreement or debate
and a crisis, is erased. In a word, one uses an anti-historical and
anti-methodological approach which usually leads to absurd results.
Portugalov (1925, p. 12) wishes to argue the incomplete and relative
nature of rcflexology and not only slips into agnosticism and
relativism of the purest order, but ends up with obvious nonsense. “In
the chemistry, mechanics, electrophysics and electrophysiology of the
brain everything is changing dramatically and nothing has yet been
clearly and definitely demonstrated.” Credulous persons believe in
natural science, but “when we stay in the realm of medicine, do we
really believe, with the hand on our heart, in the unshakable and stable
force of natural science . . .and does natural science itself . . .believe in
its unshakable, stable, and genuine character?”
There follows an enumeration of the theoretical changes in the
natural sciences which are, moreover, lumped together. A sign of
equality is put between the lack of solidity or stability of a particular
theory and the whole of natural science, and what constitutes the
foundation of the truth of natural science–the change of its theories
and views–is passed off as the proof of its impotence. That this is
agnosticism is perfectly dear, but two aspects deserve to be mentioned
in connection with what follows: (1) in the whole chaos of views that
serve to picture the natural sciences as lacking a single firm point, it is
only . . . subjective child psychology based upon introspection which
turns out to be unshakable; (2) amidst all the sciences which
demonstrate the unreliability of the natural sciences, geometry is listed
alongside optics and bacteriology. It so happens that
Euclid said that the sum of the angles of a triangle
equals two right angles; Labachevsky dethroned Euclid
and demonstrated that the sum of the angles of a
triangle is less than two right angles, and Riemann
dethroned Lobachevsky and demonstrated that the sum
of the angles of a triangle is more than two right angles
(ibid., p. 13).
We will still have more than one occasion to meet the analogy
between geometry and psychology, and therefore it is worthwhile to
memorize this model of a-methodological thinking: (1) geometry is a
natural science; (2) Linné, Cuvier, and Darwin “dethroned” each other
in the same way as Euclid, Lobachevsky, and Riemann did; finally (3)
Lobachevsky dethroned Euclid and demonstrated that... [42]. But even
people with only elementary knowledge of the subject know that here
we are not dealing with the knowledge of real triangles, but with ideal
forms in mathematical, deductive systems, that these three theses
follow from three different assumptions and do not contradict each
other, just like other arithmetical counting systems do not contradict
the decimal system. They co-exist and this determines their whole
meaning and methodological nature. But what can be the value for the
diagnosis of the crisis in an inductive science of a viewpoint which
regards each two consecutive names as a crisis and each new opinion
as a refutation of the truth?
Kornilov’s (1925) diagnosis is closer to the truth. He views a
struggle between two currents–reflexology and empirical psychology
and theft synthesis–Marxist psychology.
Already Frankfurt (1926) had advanced the opinion that reflexology
cannot be viewed as a united whole, that it consists of contradictory
tendencies and directions. This is even more true of empirical
psychology. A unitary empirical psychology does not exist at all. In
general, this simplified schema was created more as a program for
operations, critical understanding, and demarcation than for an
analysis of the crisis. For the latter it lacks reference to the causes,
tendency, dynamics, and prognosis of the crisis. It is a logical
classification of viewpoints present in the USSR and no more than
that.
Thus, there has been no theoiy of the crisis in anything so far
discussed, but only subjective communiqués compiled by the staffs of
the quarreling parties. Here what is important is to beat the enemy;
nobody will waste his time studying him.
Still closer to a theory of the crisis comes Lange (1914, p. 43), who
already presents an embryonic description of it. But he has more
feeling for than understanding of the crisis. Not even his historical
information is to be trusted. For him the crisis commenced with the
fall of associationism, i.e., he takes an accidental circumstance for the
cause. Having established that “presently some general crisis is taking
place” in psychology, he continues: “It consists of the replacement of
the previous associationism by a new psychological theory.” This is
incorrect if only because associationism never was a generally
accepted psychological system which formed the core of our science,
but to the present day remains one of the fighting currents which has
become much stronger lately and has been revived in reflexology and
behaviorism. The psychology of Mill, Bain, and Spencer was never
more than what it is now. It has fought faculty psychology (Herbart)
like it is doing now. To see the root of the crisis in associationism is to
give a very subjective assessment. Lange himself views it as the root
of the rejection of the sensualistic doctrine. But today as well Gestalt
theory views associationism as the main flaw of all psychology,
including the newest.
In reality, it is not the adherents and opponents of this principle who
are divided by some basic trait, but groups that evolved upon much
more fundamental grounds. Furthermore, it is not entirely correct to
reduce it to a struggle between the views of individual psychologists: it
is important to lay bare what is shared and what is contradictory
behind these various opinions. Lange’s false understanding of the
crisis ruined his own work. In defending the principle of a realistic,
biological psychology, he fights Ribot and relies upon Husserl and
other extreme idealists, who reject the possibility of psychology as a
natural science. But some things, and not the least important ones, he
established correctly. These are his correct propositions:
(1) There is no generally accepted system of our science. Each of
the expositions of psychology by eminent authors is based upon an
entirely different system. All basic concepts and categories are
interpreted in various ways. The crisis touches upon the very
foundations of the science.
(2) The crisis is destructive, but wholesome. It reveals the growth of
the science, its enrichment, its force, not its impotence or bankruptcy.
The serious nature of the crisis is caused by the fact that the territory of
psychology lies between sociology and biology, between whith Kant
wanted to divide it.
(3) Not a single psychological work is possible without first
establishing the basic principles of this science. One should lay the
foundations before starting to build.
(4) Finally, the common goal is to elaborate a new theory–a
“renewed system of the science.”
However, Lange’s understanding of this goal is entirely incorrect.
For him it is “the critical evaluation of all contemporary currents and
the attempt to reconcile them” (Lange, 1914, p. 43). And he tried to
reconcile what cannot be reconciled: Husserl and biological
psychology; together with James he attacked Spencer and with Dilthey
be renounced biology. For him the idea of a possible reconciliation
followed from the idea that “a revolution took place” “against asso
ciationism and physiological psychology” (ibid., p. 47) and that all
new currents are connected by a common starting point and goal. That
is why he gives a global characteristic of the crisis as an earthquake, a
swampy area, etc. For him “a period of chaos has commenced” and the
task is reduced to the “critique and logical elaboration” of the various
opinions engendered by a common cause. This is a picture of the crisis
as it was sketched by the participants in the struggle of the 1870s.
Lange’s personal attempt is the best evidence for the struggle between
the real operative forces which determine the crisis. He regards the
combination of subjective and objective psychology as a necessary
postulate of psychology, rather than as a topic of discussion and a
problem. As a result he introduces this dualism into his whole system.
By contrasting his realistic or biological understanding of the mind
with Natorp’s [1904] idealistic conception, he in fact accepts the
existence of two psychologies, as we will see below.
But the most curious thing is that Ebbinghaus, whom Lange
considers to be an associationist, i.e., a pre-critical psychologist,
defines the crisis more correctly. In his opinion the relative
imperfection of psychology is evident from the fact that the debates
concerning almost all of the most general of its questions have never
come to a halt. In other sciences there is unanimity about all the
ultimate principles or the basic views which must be at the basis of
investigation, and if a change takes place it does not have the character
of a crisis. Agreement is soon reestablished. In psychology things are
entirely different, in Ebbinghaus’ [1902, p. 9] opinion. Here these
basic views are constantly subjected to vivid doubt, are constantly
being contested.
Ebbinghaus considers the disagreement to be a chronic phenomenon.
Psychology lacks clear, reliable foundations. And in 1874 the same
Brentano, with whose name Lange would have the crisis start,
demanded that instead of the many psychologies, one psychology
should be created. Obviously, already at that time there existed not
only many currents instead of a single system, but many psychologies.
Today as well this is a most accurate diagnosis of the crisis. Now, too,
metbodologists claim that we are at the same point as Brentano was
[Binswanger, 1922, p. 6]. This means that what takes place in
psychology is not a struggle of views which may be reconciled and
which are united by a common enemy and purpose. It is not even a
struggle between currents or directions within a single science, but a
struggle between different sciences. There arc many psychologies–this
means that it is different, mutually exclusive and really existing types
of science that are fighting. Psychoanalysis, intentional psychology,49
reflexology–all these are different types of science, separate
disciplines which tend to turn into a general psychology, i.e., to the
subordination and exclusion of the other disciplines. We have seen
both the meaning and the objective features of this tendency toward a
general science. There can be no bigger mistake than to take this
struggle for a struggle of views. Binswanger (1922, p. 6) begins by
mentioning Brentano’s demand and Windelband’s remark that with
each representative psychology begins anew. The cause of this he sees
neither in a lack of factual material, which has been gathered in
abundance, nor in the absence of philosophical-methodological
principles, of which we also have enough, but in the lack of
cooperation between philosophers and empiricists in psychology:
“There is hardly a single science where theorists and practitioners took
such diverse paths.” Psychology lacks a methodology–this is the
author’s conclusion, and the main thing is that we cannot create a
methodology now. We cannot say that general psychology has already
fulfilled its duties as a branch of methodology. On the contrary,
wherever you look, imperfection, uncertainty, doubt, contradiction
reign. We can only talk of the problems of general psychology and not
even of that, but of an introduction to the problems of general
psychology [ibid., p. 5]. Binswanger sees in psychologists a “courage
and will toward (the creation of a new) psychology.” In order to
accomplish this they must break with the prejudices of centuries, and
this shows one thing: that to this day, the general psychology has not
been created. We must not ask, with Bergson, what would have
happened if Kepler, Galileo,and Newton had been psychologists, but
what can still happen despite the fact that they were mathematicians
[ibid., p. 21].
Thus, it may seem that the chaos in psychology is entirely natural
and that the meaning of the crisis which psychology became aware of
is as follows: there aist many psychologies which have the tendency to
create a single psychology by developing a general psychology. For
the latter purpose it is not enough to have a Galileo, i.e., a genius who
would create the foundations of the science. This is the general opinion
of European methodology as it had evolved toward the end of the
nineteenth century. Some, mainly French, authors hold this opinion
even today. In Russia, Vaguer (1923)–almost the only psychologist
who has dealt with methodological questions–has always defended it.
He expresses the same opinion on the occasion of his analysis of the
Annés Psychologiques, i.e., a synopsis of the international literature.
This is his conclusion: thus, we have quite a number of psychological
schools, but not a unified psychology as an independent area of
psychology [sic]. From the fact that it doesn’t exist does not follow
that it cannot exist (ibid.). The answer to the question where and how
it may be found can only be given by the history of science.
This is how biology developed. In the seventeenth century two
naturalists lay the foundation for two areas of zoology: Buffon for the
description of animals and their way of life, and Linné for their
classification. Gradually, both sections engendered a number of new
problems, morphology appeared, anatomy, etc. The investigations
were isolated from each other and represented as it were different
sciences, which were in no way connected but for the fact that they
both studied animals. The different sciences were at enmity, attempted
to occupy the prevailing position as the mutual contacts increased and
they could not remain apart. The brilliant Lamarck succeeded in
integrating the uncoordinated pieces of knowledge into one book,
which he called “Philosophy of Zoology.” He united his investigations
with those of others, Buffon and Linné included, summarized the
results, harmonized them with each other, and created the area of
science which ‘freviranus called general biology. A single and abstract
science was created from the uncoordinated disciplines, which, since
the works of Darwin, could stand on its own feet. It is the opinion of
Vagner that what was done with the disciplines of biology before their
combination into a general biology or abstract zoology at the
beginning of the nineteenth century is now taking place in the field of
psychology at the beginning of the twentieth century. This belated
synthesis in the form of a general psychology must repeat Lamarck’s
synthesis, i.e., it must be based on an analogous principle. Vaguer sees
more than a simple analogy in this. For him psychology must traverse
not a similai but the same path. Biopsychology is part of biology. It is
an abstraction of the concrete schools or their synthesis, the
achievements of all of these schools form its content. It cannot have,
and neither has general biology, its own special method of
investigation. Each time it makes use of the method of a science that is
its composite part. It takes account of the achievements, verifying
them from the point of view of evolutionwy theoty and indicating their
corresponding places in the general system (Vaguer, 1923). This is the
expression of a more or less general opinion.
Some details in Vaguer call forth doubt. In his understanding,
general psychology (1) now forms a part of biology, is based upon the
theory of evolution (its basis) etc. Consequently, it is in no need of its
own Lamarck and Darwin, or their discoveries, and can realize its
synthesis on the basis of already present principles; (2) now still must
develop in the same way general biology developed, which is not
included in biology as its part, but exists side by side with it. Only in
this way can we understand the analogy, which is possible between
two similar independent wholes, but not between the fate of a whole
(biology) and its part (psychology).
Vagner’s (ibid., p. 53) statement that biopsychology provides
“exactly what Marx requires from psychology” causes another
embarrassment. In general it can be said that Vagner’s formal analysis
is, evidently, as irreproachably correct as his attempt to solve the
essence of the problem, and to outline the content of general
psychology
is
methodologically
untenable,
even
simply
underdeveloped (part of biology, Marx). But the latter does not interest
us now. Let us turn to the formal analysis. Is it correct that the
psychology of our days is going through the same crisis as biology
before Lamarck and is heading for the same fate?
To put it this way is to keep silent about the most important and
decisive aspect of the crisis and to present the whole picture in a false
light. Whether psychology is beading for agreement or rupture,
whether a general psychology will develop from the combination or
separation of the psychological disciplines, depends on what these
disciplines bring with them–parts of the future whole, like systematics,
morphology and anatomy, or mutually exclusive principles of
knowledge. It also depends on what is the nature of the hostility
between the disciplines–whether the contradictions which divide
psychology are soluble, or whether they are irreconcilable. And it is
precisely this analysis of the specific conditions under which
psychology proceeds to the creation of a general science that we do not
find in Vagner, Lange and the others. Meanwhile, European
methodology has already reached a much higher degree of
understanding of the crisis and has shown which and how many
psychologies exist and what are the possible outcomes. But before we
turn to this point we must first quit radically with the
misunderstanding that psychology is following the path biology
already took and in the end will simply be attached to it as its part. To
think about it in this way is to fail to see that sociology edged its way
between the biology of man and animals and tore psychology into two
parts (which led Kant to divide it over two areas). We must develop
the theory of the crisis in such a way as to be able to answer this
question.
Chapter 11: Bankruptcy of the idea of creating an empirical psychology
There is one fact that prevents all investigators from seeing the genuine state of affairs
in psychology. This is the empirical character of its constructions. It must be torn off
from psychology’s constructions like a pellicle, like the skin of a fruit, in order to see
them as they really are. Usually empiricism is taken on trust, without further analysis.
Psychology with all its diversity is treated as some fundamental scientific unity with a
common basis. All disagreements are viewed as secondary phenomena which take
place within this unity. But this is a false idea, an illusion. In reality, empirical
psychology as a science of general principle – even one general principle – does not
exist, and the attempts to create it have led to the defeat and bankruptcy of the very
idea of creating an empirical psychology. The same persons who lump together many
psychologies according to some common feature which contrasts with their own, e.g.,
psychoanalysis, reflexology, behaviorism (consciousness – the unconscious,
subjectivism – objectivism, spiritualism – materialism), do not see that within such an
empirical psychology the same processes take place which take place between it and a
branch that breaks away. They do not see that the development of these branches
themselves is subject to more general tendencies which are being operative in and can,
in consequence, only be properly understood on the basis of the whole field of science.
It is the whole of psychology which should be lumped together. What does the
empiricism of contemporary psychology mean? First of all, it is a purely negative
concept both according to its historical origin and its methodological meaning, and
this is not a sufficient basis to unite something. Empirical means first of all
“psychology without a soul” (Lange), psychology without any metaphysics
(Vvedensky), psychology based on experience (Høffding). It is hardly necessary to
explain that these are essentially negative definitions as well. They do not say a word
about what psychology is dealing with, what is its positive meaning.
However, the objective meaning of this negative definition is now
completely different from what it used to be. Once it concealed
nothing – the task of the science was to liberate itself from something,
the term was a slogan for that. Now it conceals the positive definitions
(which each author introduces in his science) and the genuine
processes taking place in the science. It was a temporary slogan and
could not be anything else in principle. Now the term “empirical”
attached to psychology designates the refusal to select a certain
philosophical principle, the refusal to clarify one’s ultimate premises,
to become aware of one’s own scientific nature. As such this refusal
has its historical meaning and cause – we will dwell upon it below –
but about the nature of the science it says essentially nothing, it
conceals it. The Kantian thinker Vvedensky (1917, p. 3) expressed this
most clearly, but all empiricists subscribe to his formula. Høffding, in
particular, says the same. All more or less lean towards one side –
Vvedensky provides the ideal balance: “Psychology must formulate all
its conclusions in such a way that they will be equally acceptable and
equally binding for both materialism, spiritualism, and psychophysical
monism.”
From this formula alone it is evident that empiricism formulates its
tasks in such a way as to reveal their impossibility. Indeed, on the
basis of empiricism, i.e., completely discarding basic premises, no
scientific knowledge whatever is logically and historically possible.
Natural science, which psychology wishes to liken through this
definition, was by its nature, its undistorted essence, always
spontaneously materialistic. All psychologists agree that natural
science, like, of course, all human praxis, does not solve the problem
of the essence of matter and mind, but starts from a certain solution to
it, namely the assumption of an objective reality which exists outside
of us, in conformity with certain laws, and which can be known. And
this is, as Lenin has frequently pointed out, the very essence of
materialism. The existence of natural science qua science is due to the
ability to distinguish in our experience between what exists objectively
and independently and what exists subjectively. This is not at variance
with the different philosophical interpretations or whole schools in
natural science which think idealistically. Natural science qua science
is in itself, and independently from its proponents, materialistic.
Psychology proceeded as spontaneously, despite the different ideas of
its proponents, from an idealistic conception.
In reality, there is not a single empirical system of psychology. All
transcend the boundaries of empiricism and this we can understand as
follows: from a purely negative idea one can deduce nothing. Nothing
can be born from “abstinence,” as Vvedensky has it. In reality, all the
systems were rooted in metaphysics and their conclusions were
overstated. First Vvedensky himself with his theory of solipsism, i.e.,
an extreme manifestation of idealism.
Whereas psychoanalysis openly speaks about metapsychology, each
psychology without a soul concealed its soul, the psychology without
any metaphysics – its metaphysics. The psychology based on
experience included what was not based on experience. In short, each
psychology had its metapsychology. It might not consciously realize it,
but this made no difference. Chelpanov (1924), who more than anyone
else in the current debate seeks shelter under the word “empirical” and
wants to demarcate his science from the field of philosophy, finds,
however, that it must have its philosophical “superstructure” and
“substructure.” It turns out that there are philosophical concepts which
must be examined before one turns to the study of psychology and a
study which prepares psychology he calls the substructure. This does
not prevent him from claiming on the next page that psychology must
be freed from all philosophy. However, in the conclusion he once
more acknowledges that it is precisely the methodological problems
which are the most acute problems of psychology.
It would be wrong to think that from the concept of empirical
psychology we can learn nothing but negative characteristics. It also
points to positive processes which take place in our science and which
are concealed by this name. With the word “empirical” psychology
wants to join the natural sciences. Here all agree. But it is a very
specific concept and we must examine what it designates when applied
to psychology. In his preface to the encyclopedia, Ribot [1923, p. ix]
says (heroically trying to accomplish the agreement and unity of which
Lange and Vaguer spoke and in so doing showing its impossibility)
that psychology forms part of biology, that it is neither materialistic
nor spiritualistic, else it would lose all right to be called a science. In
what, then, does it differ from other parts of biology? Only in that it
deals with phenomena which are ‘spirituels’ and not physical.
What a trifle! Psychology wanted to be a natural science, but one
that would deal with things of a very different nature from those
natural science is dealing with. But doesn’t the nature of the
phenomena studied determine the character of the science? Are history,
logic, geometry, and history of the theater really possible as natural
sciences? And Chelpanov, who insists that psychology should be as
empirical as physics, mineralogy etc., naturally does not join Pavlov
but immediately starts to vociferate when the attempt is made to
realize psychology as a genuine natural science. What is he hushing up
in his comparison? He wants psychology to be a natural science about
(1) phenomena which are completely different from physical
phenomena, and (2) which are conceived in a way that is completely
different from the way the objects of the natural sciences are
investigated. One may ask what the natural sciences and psychology
can have in common if the subject matter and the method of acquiring
knowledge are different. And Vvedensky (1917, p. 3) says, after he
has explained the meaning of the empirical character of psychology:
“Therefore, contemporary psychology often characterizes itself as a
natural science about mental phenomena or a natural history of mental
phenomena.” But this means that psychology wants to be a natural
science about unnatural phenomena. It is connected with the natural
sciences by a purely negative feature – the rejection of metaphysics –
and not by a single positive one.
James explained the matter brilliantly. Psychology is to be treated as
a natural science – that was his main thesis. But no one did as much as
James to prove that the mental is “not natural scientific.” He explains
that all the natural sciences accept some assumptions on faith – natural
science proceeds from the materialistic assumption, in spite of the fact
that further reflection leads to idealism. Psychology does the same – it
accepts other assumptions. Consequently, it is similar to natural
science only in that it uncritically accepts some assumptions; the
assumptions themselves are contrary [see pp. 9 – 10 of Burkhardt,
1984].
According to Ribot, this tendency is the main trait of the psychology
of the 19th century. Apart from this he mentions the attempts to give
psychology its own principle and method (which it was denied by
Comte) and to put it in the same relation to biology as biology
occupies with respect to physics. But in fact the author acknowledges
that what is called psychology consists of several categories of
investigations which differ according to their goal and method. And
when the authors, in spite of this, attempted to beget a system of
psychology and included Pavlov and Bergson, they demonstrated that
this task cannot be realized. And in his conclusion Dumas [1924, p.
1121] formulates that the unity of the 25 authors consisted in the
rejection of ontological speculation.
It is easy to guess what such a viewpoint leads to: the rejection of
ontological speculations, empirism, when it is consistent, leads to the
rejection of methodologically constructive principles in the creation of
a system, to eclecticism; insofar as it is inconsistent, it leads to a
hidden, uncritical, vague methodology. Both possibilities have been
brilliantly demonstrated by the French authors. For them Pavlov’s
psychology of reactions is just as acceptable as introspective
psychology if only they are in different chapters of the book. In their
manner of describing the facts and stating the problems, even in their
vocabulary, the authors of the book show tendencies of associationism,
rationalism, Bergsonism, and synthesism. It is further explained that
Bergson’s conception is applied in some chapters, the language of
associationism and atomism in others, behaviorism in still others, etc.
The “L'Étaité” wants to be impartial, objective, and complete. If it has
not always been successful, Dumas [1924, p. 1156] concludes, at least
the difference of opinion testifies to intellectual activity and ultimately
in that sense it represents its time and country. We couldn’t agree
more.
This disagreement – we have seen how far it goes – only convinces
us of the fact that an impartial psychology is impossible today, leaving
aside the fatal dualism of the “élaité de psychologie” for which
psychology is now part of biology, now stands to it as biology itself
stands to physics.
Thus, the concept of empirical psychology contains an insoluble
methodological contradiction. It is a natural science about unnatural
things, a tendency to develop with the methods of natural science, i.e.,
proceeding from totally opposite premises, a system of knowledge
which is contrary to them. This had a fatal influence upon the
methodological construction of empirical psychology and broke its
back.
Two psychologies exist – a natural scientific, materialistic one and a
spiritualistic one. This thesis expresses the meaning of the crisis more
correctly than the thesis about the existence of many psychologies. For
psychologies we have two, i.e., two different, irreconcilable types of
science, two fundamentally different constructions of systems of
knowledge. All the rest is a difference in views, schools, hypotheses:
individual,
very
complex,
confused,
mixed,
blind,
chaotic
combinations which are at times very difficult to understand. But the
real struggle only takes place between two tendencies which lie and
operate behind all the struggling currents.
That this is so, that two psychologies, and not many psychologies,
make up the meaning of the crisis, that all the rest is a struggle within
each of these two psychologies, a struggle which has quite another
meaning and operational field, that the creation of a general
psychology is not a matter of agreement, but of a rupture – all this
methodology realized long ago and nobody contests it. (The difference
of this thesis from Kornilov’s three directions resides in the whole
range of the meaning of the crisis: (1) the concepts of materialistic
psychology and reflexology do not coincide (as he says); (2) the
concepts of empirical and idealistic psychology do not coincide (as he
says), (3) our evaluation of the role of Marxist psychology differs.)
Finally, here we are dealing with two tendencies which show up in the
struggle between the multitude of concrete currents and within them.
Nobody contests that the general psychology will not be a third
psychology added to the two struggling parties, but one of them.
That the concept of empiricism contains a methodological conflict
which a self-reflective theory must solve in order to make
investigation possible – this idea was made well known by
Munsterberg [1920]. In his capital methodological work he declared
that this book does not conceal the fact that it wants to be a militant
book, it defends idealism against naturalism. It wants to guarantee an
unlimited right for idealism in psychology. He lays the theoretical
epistemological foundations of empirical psychology and declares that
this is the most important thing the psychology of our day needs. Its
main concepts have been gathered haphazardly, its logical means of
acquiring knowledge have been left to the instinct. Münsterberg’s
theme is the synthesis of Fichte’s ethical idealism with the
physiological psychology of our day, for the victory of idealism does
not reside in its dissociating itself from empirical investigation, but in
finding a place for it in its own area. Munsterberg showed that
naturalism and idealism are irreconcilable, that is why he talks about a
book of militant idealism, says of general psychology that it is bravery
and a risk – and not about agreement and unification. And
Munsterberg [ibid., p. 10] openly advanced the idea of the existence of
two sciences, arguing that psychology finds itself in the strange
position that we know incomparably more about psychological facts
than we ever did, but much less about the question as to what
psychology actually is.
The unity of external methods cannot conceal from us that the
different psychologists are talking about a totally different psychology.
This internal disturbance can only be understood and overcome in the
following way.
The psychology of our day is struggling with the prejudice that only
one type of psychology exists. ... The concept of psychology involves
two totally different scientific tasks, which must be distinguished in
principle and for which we can best use special designations since, in
reality, there are two kinds of psychology [ibid., p. 10].
In contemporary science all sorts of forms and types of mixing two
sciences into a seeming unity are represented. What these sciences
have in common is their object, but this does not say anything about
these sciences themselves. Geology, geography, and agronomics all
study the earth, but their construction, their principle of scientific
knowledge differs. We may through description change the mind into
a chain of causes and actions and may picture it as a combination of
elements – objectively and subjectively. If we carry both conceptions
to the extreme and give them a scientific form we will get two
“fundamentally different theoretical disciplines One is causal, the
other is teleological and intentional psychology” [ibid., pp. 12-13].
The existence of two psychologies is so obvious that it is accepted
by all. The disagreement is only about the precise definition of each
science. Some emphasize some nuances, others emphasize others. It
would be very interesting to follow all these oscillations, because each
of them testifies to some objective tendency, to a striving toward one
or the other pole, and the scope, the range of contradictions shows that
both types of science, like two butterflies in one cocoon, still exist in
the form of as yet undifferentiated tendencies.
But now we are not interested in the contradictions, but in the
common factor that lies behind them. We are confronted with two
questions: what is the common nature of both sciences and what are
the causes which have led to the bifurcation of empiricism into
naturalism and idealism?
All agree that precisely these two elements lie at the basis of the two
sciences, that, consequently, one is natural scientific psychology, and
the other is idealistic psychology, whatever the different authors may
call them. Following Munsterberg all view the difference not in the
material or subject matter, but in the way of acquiring knowledge, in
the principle. The question is whether to understand the phenomena in
terms of causality, in connection with and having fundamentally the
same meaning as all other phenomena, or intentionally, as spiritual
activity, which is oriented towards a goal and exempt from all material
connections. Dilthey [1894/1977, pp. 37-41], who calls these sciences
explanatory and descriptive psychology, traces the bifurcation to
Wolff, who divided psychology into rational and empirical psychology,
i.e., to the very origin of empirical psychology. He shows that the
division has always been present during the whole course of
development of the science and again became explicit in the school of
Herbart (1849) and in the works of Waitz. The method of explanatory
psychology is identical to that of natural science. Its postulate – there
is not a single mental phenomenon without a physical one – leads to its
bankruptcy as an independent science and its affairs are transferred
into the hands of physiology (ibid.). Descriptive and explanatory
psychology do not have the same meaning as systematics and
explanation – its two basic parts according to Binswanger (1922) as
well – have in the natural sciences.
Contemporary psychology – this doctrine of a soul without a soul –
is intrinsically contradictory, is divided into two parts. Descriptive
psychology does not
seek explanation, but description and
understanding. What the poets, Shakespeare in particular, presented in
images, it makes the subject of analysis in concepts. Explanatory,
natural scientific psychology cannot lie at the basis of a science about
the mind, it develops a deterministic criminal law, does not leave any
room for freedom, cannot be reconciled with the problem of culture. In
contrast, descriptive psychology
will become the foundation of the human studies, as
mathematics is that of the natural sciences [Dilthey,
1894/1977, p. 74].
Stout [1909, pp. 2-6] openly refuses to call analytic psychology a
physical science. It is a positive science in the sense that it investigates
matter of fact, reality, what is and is not a norm, not what ought to be.
It stands next to mathematics, the natural sciences, theory of
knowledge. But it is not a physical science. Between the mental and
the physical there is such a gulf that there is no means of tracing their
connections. No science of matter stands to psychology in a relation
analogous to that in which chemistry and physics stand to biology, i.e.,
in a relation of more general to more special, but in principle
homogeneous, principles. Binswanger [1922, p. 22] divides all
problems of methodology into those due to a natural scientific and
those due to a non-natural scientific concept of the mind. He openly
and clearly explains that there are two radically different psychologies.
Referring to Sigwart he calls the struggle against natural psychology
the source of the split. This leads us to the phenomenology of
experiencing, the basis of Husserl’s pure logic and empirical, but
non-natural scientific psychology (Pfander Jaspers).
Bleuler defends the opposite position. He rejects Wundt’s opinion
that psychology is not a natural science and, following Rickert, he
calls it a generalizing psychology, although he has in mind what
Dilthey called explanatory or constructive psychology.
We will not thoroughly examine the question as to how psychology
as a natural science is possible and the concepts by means of which it
is constructed – all this belongs to the debate within one psychology
and it forms the subject of the positive exposition in the next part of
our work. What is more, we also leave open another question –
whether psychology really is a natural science in the exact sense of the
word. Following the European authors we use this word to designate
the materialistic nature of this kind of knowledge as clearly as possible.
Insofar as Western European psychology did not know or hardly knew
the problems of social psychology, this kind of knowledge was
thought to coincide with natural science. But to demonstrate that
psychology is possible as a materialistic science is still a special and
very deep problem, which does not, however, belong to the problem of
the meaning of the crisis as a whole.
Almost all Russian authors who have written anything of
importance about psychology accept the division – from hearsay, of
course – which shows the extent to which these ideas are generally
accepted in European psychology. Lange (1914), who mentions the
disagreement between Windelband and Rickert on the one hand (who
regard psychology as a natural science) and Wundt and Dilthey on the
other, is inclined with the latter authors to distinguish two sciences. It
is remarkable that he criticizes Natorp as an exponent of the idealistic
conception of psychology and contrasts him with a realistic or
biological understanding. However, according to Munsterberg, Natorp
has from the very beginning demanded the same thing he did, i.e., a
subjectivating and an objectivating science of the mind, i.e., two
sciences.
Lange merged both viewpoints into a single postulate and
expounded both irreconcilable tendencies in his book, considering that
the meaning of the crisis resides in the struggle with associationism.
He explains Dilthey and Munsterberg with real sympathy and states
that “two different psychologies resulted.” Like Janus, psychology
showed two different faces: one turned to physiology and natural
science, the other to the sciences of the spirit, history, sociology; one
science about causal effects, the other about values (ibid., p. 63). It
would seem that what remains is to opt for one of the two, but Lange
unites them.
Chelpanov proceeded in the same way. In his current polemics he
implores us to believe him that psychology is a materialistic science,
refers to James as his witness and does not with a single word mention
that in the Russian literature the idea of two sciences belongs to him.
This deserves further reflection.
Following Dilthey, Stout, Meinong, and Husserl he explains the
idea of the analytic method. Whereas the inductive method is
distinctive of natural scientific psychology, descriptive psychology is
characterized by the analytic method which leads to the knowledge of
a priori ideas. Analytic psychology is the basic psychology. It must
precede the development of child psychology, zoopsychology, and
objective experimental psychology and provide the foundation for all
types of psychological investigation. This does not look like the
relation of mineralogy to physics, or like the complete separation of
psychology from philosophy and idealism.
To show what kind of jump Chelpanov made in his psychological
views since 1922, one must not dwell upon his general philosophical
statements and accidental phrases, but upon his theory of the analytic
method. Chelpanov protests against mixing the tasks of explanatory
psychology with those of descriptive psychology and explains that
they are absolutely contradictory. In order not to leave any doubt about
the question as to which psychology he~ regards as of primary
importance, he connects it with Husserl’s phenomenology, with his
theory of ideal essences, and explains that Husserl’s eidos or essence
is basically equivalent to Plato’s ideas. For Husserl, phenomenology
stands to descriptive psychology as mathematics does to physics.
Phenomenology and mathematics are, like geometry, sciences about
essences, about ideal possibilities; descriptive psychology and physics
are about facts. Phenomenology makes explanatory and descriptive
psychology possible.
Despite Husserl’s opinion, for Chelpanov phenomenology and
analytic psychology partially overlap and the phenomenological
method is completely identical with the analytic method. Chelpanov
explains Husserl’s refusal to regard eidetic psychology and
phenomenology as being identical in the following way. By
contemporary psychology he understands only empirical, i.e.,
inductive psychology, despite the fact that it also contains
phenomenological truths. Thus, there is no need to separate
phenomenology from psychology. The phenomenological method
must be laid at the basis of the objective experimental methods, which
Chelpanov timidly defends against Husserl. This is the way it was, this
is the way it will be, the author concludes.
How can we square this with his claim that psychology is only
empirical, excludes idealism by its very nature and is independent
from philosophy? We can summarize. Whatever the division in
question is called, whatever shades of meaning in each term are
emphasized, the basic essence of the question remains the same and it
can be reduced to two propositions.
1. In psychology empiricism indeed proceeded just as spontaneously
from idealistic premises as natural science did from materialistic ones,
i.e., empirical psychology was idealistic in its foundation.
2. For certain reasons (to be considered below), in the era of the crisis
empiricism split into idealistic and materialistic psychology.
Munsterberg (1920, p. 14), too, interprets the difference in
terminology as unity of meaning. We can speak of causal and
intentional psychology, or about the psychology of the spirit and the
psychology of consciousness, or about understanding and explanatory
psychology. But the only thing of principal importance is that we
recognize the dual nature of psychology. Elsewhere Munsterberg
[1920, pp. vii-viii] contrasts the psychology of the contents of
consciousness with the psychology of the spirit, the psychology of
contents with the psychology of acts, and the psychology of sensations
with intentional psychology.
We have basically reached an opinion which established itself in our
science long ago: psychology has a deeply dualistic nature which
pervades its whole development. We have, thus, arrived at an
indisputably historic situation. The history of the science does not
belong to our tasks and we may leave aside the question as to the
historical roots of dualism and confine ourselves to pointing out this
fact and explaining the proximate causes which led to the exacerbation
and bifurcation of dualism in the crisis. It is, essentially, the fact that
psychology is attracted to two poles, this intrinsic presence of a
“psychoteleology” and a “psychobiology,” which Dessoir [1911, p.
230] called the singing in two voices of contemporary psychology, and
which in his opinion will never cease.
Chapter 12: The Driving Forces of the Crisis
Now we must briefly dwell upon the proximate causes or driving forces of the crisis.
Which factors lead us to the crisis, the rupture, and which passively
experience it as an inevitable evil? Naturally, we will dwell here only
upon the driving forces within our science, leaving all others aside. We
are justified in doing so, because the external – social and
ideological – causes and phenomena are, one way or the other,
represented in the final analysis by forces within the science, and they
act through them. It is our intention, therefore, to analyse the
proximate causes lying within the science and to refrain from a deeper
analysis.
Let us say right away that the main driving force of the crisis in its
final phase is the development of applied psychology as a whole.
The attitude of academic psychology toward applied psychology has
up until not remained somewhat disdainful as if it had to do with a
semi-exact science. Not everything is well in this area of psychology,
there is no doubt about that, but nevertheless there can be no doubt for
an observer who takes a bird-eye's view, i.e., the methodologist, that
the leading role in the development of our science belongs to applied
psychology. It represents everything of psychology which is
progressive, sound, which contains a germ of the future. It provides
the best methodological works. It is only by studying this area that one
can come to an understanding of the meaning of what is going on and
the possibility of a genuine psychology.
The center has shifted in the history of science: what was at the
periphery became the center of the circle. One can say about applied
psychology what can be said about philosophy which was rejected by
empirical psychology: “the stone which the builders rejected is
become the head stone of the corner.”
We can elucidate this by referring to three aspects. The first is
practice. Here psychology was first (through industrial psychology,
psychiatry, child psychology, and criminal psychology) confronted
with a highly developed – industrial, educational, political, or
military – practice. This confrontation compels psychology to reform
its principles so that they may withstand the highest test of practice. It
forces us to accommodate and introduce into our science the supply of
practical psychological experiences and skills which has been gathered
over thousands of years; for the church, the military, politics, and
industry, insofar as they have consciously regulated and organised the
mind, base themselves on an experience which is enormous, although
not well ordered from the scientific viewpoint (every psychologist
experienced the reforming influence of applied science). For the
development of psychology, applied psychology plays the same role as
medicine did for anatomy and physiology and technique for the
physical sciences. The importance of the new practical psychology for
the whole science cannot be exaggerated. The psychologist might
dedicate a hymn to it.
A psychology which is called upon to confirm the truth of its
thinking in practice, which attempts not so much to explain the mind
but to understand and master it, gives the practical disciplines a
fundamentally different place in the whole structure of the science than
the former psychology did. There practice was the colony of theory,
dependent in all its aspects on the metropolis. Theory was in no way
dependent on practice. Practice was the conclusion, the application, an
excursion beyond the boundaries of science, an operation which lay
outside science and came after science, which began after the scientific
operation was considered completed. Success or failure had practically
no effect on the fate of the theory. Now the situation is the opposite.
Practice pervades the deepest foundations of the scientific operation
and reforms it from beginning to end. Practice sets the tasks and serves
as the supreme judge of theory, as its truth criterion. It dictates how to
construct the concepts and how to formulate the laws.
This leads us directly to the second aspect, to methodology.
However strange and paradoxical it may seem at first glance, it is
precisely practice as the constructive principle of science which
requires a philosophy, i.e. a methodology of science. This does not in
any way contradict the frivolous, “light-hearted” (in the words of
Munsterberg) relation of psychotechnics to its principles. In reality,
both the practice and the methodology of psychotechnics are often
amazingly helpless, weak, superficial, and at times ludicrous.
Psychotechnic diagnoses are vacuous and remind us of the physician's
reflections about medicine in Moliere. The methodology of
psychotechnics is invented ad hoc each time and lacks critical sense. It
is often called picnic psychology, i.e., it is something light, temporary,
half-serious. All this is true. But it does not for one moment change the
fundamental state of affairs, that it is exactly this psychology which
will create an iron methodology. As Munsterberg says, not only the
general part, but also the examination of particular questions will force
us time and again to investigate the principles of psychotechnics.
That is why I assert: despite the fact that it has compromised itself
more than once, that its practical meaning is very close to zero and
the theory often ludicrous, its methodological meaning is enormous
The principle and philosophy of practice is – once again – the stone
which the builders rejected and which became the head stone of the
corner. Here we have the whole meaning of the crisis.
Binswanger says that we do not expect to get the solution to the
most general question – the supreme question of all psychology, the
problem which includes all problems of psychology, the question of
subjectivating
and
objectivating
psychology
–
from
logic,
epistemology, or metaphysics, but from methodology, i.e., the theory
of scientific method. We would say: from the methodology of
psychotechnics, i.e., the philosophy of practice. The practical and
theoretical value of Binet's measuring scale or other psychotechnic
tests may be obviously insignificant, the test bad in itself, but as an
idea, a methodological principle, a task, a perspective it is enormous.
The most complex contradictions of psychological methodology are
transferred to the grounds of practice and only there can they be solved.
There the debate stops being fruitless, it comes to an end. “Method”
means “way,” we view it as a means of knowledge acquisition. But in
all its points the way is determined by the goal to which it leads. That
is why practice reforms the whole methodology of the science.
The third aspect of the reforming role of psychotechnics may be
understood from the first two. It is that psychotechnics is a one-sided
psychology, it instigates a rupture and creates a real psychology.
Psychiatry too transcends the boundaries of idealistic psychology. One
cannot treat or cure relying on introspection. One can hardly carry this
idea to a more absurd consequence than when applying it to psychiatry.
Psychotechnics also realised, as was observed by Spiel'rejn, that it
cannot separate psychological functions from physiological ones, and
it is searching for an integral concept. About psychologists who
demand inspiration from teachers, I have written that hardly any one of
them would entrust the control of a ship to the captain's inspiration or
the management of a factory to the engineer's enthusiasm. Each of
them would select a professional sailor and an experienced technician.
And these highest possible requirements for the science, this most
serious practice, will revive psychology. Industry and the military,
education and treatment will revive and reform the science. Husserl's
eidetic psychology, which is not interested in the truth of its claims, is
not fit for the selection of tram-drivers. Neither is the contemplation of
essences fit for that goal, even values are without interest. But all this
will not in the least protect it against a catastrophe. The goal of such a
psychology is not Shakespeare in concepts, as it was for Dilthey, but
in one word – psychotechnics, i.e., a scientific theory which would
lead to the subordination and mastery of the mind, to the artificial
control of behaviour.
And it is Munsterberg, this militant idealist, who lays the
foundations for psychotechnics, i.e., a materialistic psychology in the
highest sense of the word. Stern, no less enthusiastic about idealism, is
elaborating a methodology for differential psychology and reveals with
fatal precision the untenability of idealistic psychology.
How could it happen that extreme idealists play into the hands of
materialism? It shows that the two struggling tendencies are deeply
and with objective necessity rooted in the development of psychology;
how little they coincide with what the psychologist says about himself,
i.e., with his subjective philosophical convictions; how inexpressibly
complex the picture of the crisis is; in what mixed forms both
tendencies meet; what tortuous, unexpected, paradoxical zigzags the
front line in psychology makes, frequently within one and the same
system, frequently within one term. Finally, it shows that the struggle
between the two psychologies does not coincide with the struggle
between the many conceptions and psychological schools, but stands
behind them and determines them. It shows how deceptive the
external forms of the crisis are and that we need to take account of the
genuine meaning behind them.
Let us turn to Munsterberg. The question of causal psychology's
legitimacy is of decisive importance for psychotechnics.
This one-sided causal psychology only now comes
into its own . . . explanatory psychology is the answer
to an unnatural, artificial question; mental life requires
understanding,
not
explanation.
Psychotechnics,
however, which can only work with a causal
psychology, testifies to the necessity of such an
artificial statement of the question and legitimatise it.
The genuine meaning of explanatory psychology is
only revealed in psychotechnics and, thus, the whole
system of the psychological sciences culminates in it.
It is difficult to demonstrate the objective force of this tendency and
the non-coincidence of the philosopher's convictions with the objective
meaning of his work more clearly: materialistic psychology is
unnatural, says the idealist, but I am forced to work with precisely
such a psychology.
Psychotechnics is oriented toward action, practice – and there we
act in a way which is fundamentally different from purely theoretical
understanding and explanation. That is why psychotechnics cannot
hesitate in the selection of the psychology it needs (not even when it is
elaborated by consistent idealists). It is dealing exclusively with causal,
objective
psychology.
Non-causal
psychology plays
no
role
whatsoever for psychotechnics.
It is precisely this situation that is of decisive importance for all
psychotechnical sciences. It is consciously one-sided. It is the only
empirical science in the full sense of the word. It is – inevitably – a
comparative science. The link with physical processes is for this
science so fundamental that it is a physiological psychology. It is an
experimental science. And its general formula is:
We proceeded from the assumption that the only
psychology relevant for psychotechnics must be a
descriptive-explanatory science. We may now add that,
on top of that, it must be an empirical, comparative
science which takes physiology into account, and
which, finally, is experimental [Munsterberg].
This means that psychotechnics introduces a revolution in the
development of the science and marks an era in its development. From
this viewpoint Munsterberg says that empirical psychology hardly
originated before the second half of the 19th century. Even in the
schools which rejected metaphysics and studied the facts research was
guided by another interest. Application of the experiment was
impossible as long as psychology did not become a natural science.
But along with the introduction of the experiment there evolved a
paradoxical situation which would be unthinkable in the natural
sciences: equipment equivalent to the first steam engine or the
telegraph was well known in the laboratories, but not applied in
practice. Education and law, trade and industry, social life and
medicine were uninfluenced by this movement. To this very day it is
considered a profanation of the investigation to connect it with practice
and it is advised to wait until psychology has completed its theoretical
system. But the experience of the natural sciences tells us another story.
Medicine and technique did not wait until anatomy and physics
celebrated their ultimate triumphs. It is not only that life needs
psychology and practices it in different forms everywhere: we must
also expect an upsurge in psychology from this contact with life.
Of course, Munsterberg would not be an idealist if he accepted this
situation as it is and did not retain a special area for the unlimited
rights of idealism. He merely transfers the debate to another area when
he accepts the untenability of idealism in the area of a causal
psychology that feeds on practice. He explains this “epistemological
tolerance” [ibid.] and deduces it from an idealistic understanding of
the essence of science which does not seek for the distinction
“between true and false concepts, but between those suited or not
suited for certain ultimate hypothetical [gedankliche] goals” [ibid.]. He
believes that a temporary truce between psychologists can be
established as soon as they leave the battlefield of psychological
theory [ibid.].
Munsterberg's work is a striking example of the internal discord
between a methodology determined by science and a philosophy
determined by a world view, precisely because he is a methodologist
who is consistent to the very end and a philosopher who is consistent
to the very end, i.e., a contradictory thinker to the very end. He
understands that in being a materialist in causal psychology and an
idealist in teleological psychology he arrives at some sort of
double-entry bookkeeping which inevitably must be unscrupulous,
because the entries on the one side are different from those on the
other side. For in the end only one truth is conceivable. But for him the
truth is not life itself, but the logical elaboration of life, and the latter
can vary, as it is determined by many viewpoints [ibid.] He
understands that empirical science does not require the rejection of an
epistemological point of view, but a certain theory, but in various
sciences different epistemological viewpoints are possible. In the
interest of practice we express the truth in one language, in another in
the interests of the mind [Geist].
When natural scientists have differences of opinion these do not
touch upon the fundamental assumptions of the science.
It is no problem at all for a botanist to communicate
about his subject with all other plant researchers. No
botanist bothers to stop to answer the question what it
actually means that plants live in space and time and
are ruled by causal laws [ibid.].
But the nature of psychological material does not allow us to
separate the psychological propositions from philosophical theories to
the extent that other empirical sciences have managed to do that. The
psychologist fundamentally deceives himself when he imagines that
his laboratory work can lead him to the solution of the basic questions
of his science; they belong to philosophy.
The psychologist who does not want to join the
philosophical debate about fundamental questions must
simply tacitly accept one or the other epistemological
theory as the basis of his particular investigations
[ibid.].
It was exactly epistemological tolerance and not a rejection of
epistemology which led Munsterberg to the idea of two psychologies,
one of which contradicts the other, but both of which can be accepted
by the philosopher. After all, tolerance does not stand for atheism. In
the mosque he is a Mohammedan, but in the cathedral a Christian.
There is only one fundamental misunderstanding that may arise: that
the idea of a dualistic psychology leads to the partial acceptance of the
rights of causal psychology, that the dualism is transferred into
psychology itself, which is divided into two phases; that Munsterberg
proclaimed tolerance also within causal psychology. But this is
absolutely not the case. This is what he [ibid.] says:
The
fundamental
question
as
to
whether
a
psychology that thinks along teleological lines may
really exist alongside a causal psychology, whether in
scientific psychology we can and should deal with
apperception, task awareness, affect, will, or thought in
a
teleological
fashion,
does
not
concern
the
psychotechnician, for he knows that we can always
somehow handle these events and mental performances
in the language of causal psychology and that
psychotechnics can only deal with this causal
conception.
Thus, the two psychologies do not overlap, do not supplement each
other, but they serve two truths, one in the interest of practice, the
other in the interest of mind [Geist]. Double-entry bookkeeping is
practiced in Munsterberg's world view, but not in psychology. The
materialist will fully accept Munsterberg's conception of causal
psychology and will reject dualism in science. The idealist will reject
dualism as well and will fully accept the conception of a teleological
psychology. Munsterberg himself proclaims epistemological tolerance
and accepts both sciences, but elaborates one of them as materialist
and the other as idealist. Thus, the debate and the dualism exist beyond
the boundaries of causal psychology. It is not part of anything and in
itself does not form part of any science.
This instructive example of the fact that in science idealism is
forced to find its grounds in materialism is fully confirmed by the
example of any other thinker.
Stern followed the same path. He was led to objective psychology
through the problems of differential investigation, which is likewise
one of the main reasons for the new psychology. We do not investigate
thinkers, however, but their fate, i.e., the objective processes that stand
behind them and control them. And these are not revealed through
induction, but through analysis. In the words of Engels, one steam
engine demonstrates the law of transformation of energy no less
convincingly than 100,000 engines. We add as a mere curiosity that in
the preface to the translation of Munsterberg the Russian idealistic
psychologists list among his merits that he meets the aspiration of the
psychology of behaviour and the requirements of an integral approach
of man without pulverising man's psychophysical organisation into
atoms. What the great idealists accomplish as a tragedy, the small ones
repeat as a farce.
We can summarise. We view the cause of the crisis as its driving
force, which is therefore not only of historical interest, but also of
primary – methodological – importance, as it not only led to the
development of the crisis, but continues determining its further course
and fate. This cause lies in the development of applied psychology,
which has led toward the reform of the whole methodology of the
science on the basis of the principle of practice, i.e., towards its
transformation into a natural science. This principle is pressing
psychology heavily and pushing it to split into two sciences. It
guarantees the right development of materialistic psychology in the
future. Practice and philosophy are becoming the head stone of the
corner.
Many psychologists have viewed the introduction of the experiment
as a fundamental reform of psychology and have even equated
experimental and scientific psychology. They predicted that the future
would belong solely to experimental psychology and have viewed this
epithet as a most important methodological principle. But in
psychology the experiment remained on the level of a technical device,
it was not utilised in a fundamental way and it led, in the case of Ach
for instance, to its own negation. Nowadays many psychologists see a
way out in methodology, in the correct formation of principles. They
expect salvation from the other end. But their work is fruitless as well.
Only a fundamental rejection of the blind empiricism which is trailing
behind immediate introspectional experience and which is internally
split into two parts; only the emancipation from introspection, its
exclusion just like the exclusion of the eye in physics; only a rupture
and the selection of a single psychology will provide the way out of
the crisis. The dialectic unity of methodology and practice, applied to
psychology from two sides, is the fate and destiny of one of the
psychologies. A complete severance from practice and the
contemplation of ideal essences is the destiny and fate of the other. A
complete rupture and separation is their common destiny and fate. This
rupture began, continues, and will be completed along the lines of
practice.
Chapter 13: Two Psychologies
However obvious the historical and methodological dogma about the growing gap
between the two psychologies as the formula for the dynamics of the crisis may seem
after our analysis, it is disputed by many. In itself this is of no concern to us. The
tendencies we found seem to us to express the truth, because they exist objectively
and do not depend on the views of some author. On the contrary, they themselves
determine these views insofar as they become psychological views and are involved
in the process of the science’s development.
That is why we should not be surprised to find that different views
exist on this account. From the very beginning we have not set
ourselves the task to investigate views, but what these views are aimed
at. It is this that distinguishes a critical investigation of the views of
some author from the methodological analysis of the problem itself.
But we must nevertheless pay attention to one thing: we are not
entirely indifferent as to views; we must be able to explain them, to
lay bare their objective, their inner logic. To put it more simply, we
must be able to present each struggle between views as a complex
expression of the struggle between the two psychologies. On the whole,
this is a critical task which should be based on the present analysis and
it should show for the most important psychological currents what the
dogma found by us can yield toward understanding them. But to show
its possibility, to establish the fundamental course of the analysis,
forms part of our present task.
This can be done most easily by analysing those systems which
openly side with one or the other tendency or even merge them. But it
is much more difficult and therefore more attractive to demonstrate it
for those systems which in principle place themselves outside the
struggle, outside these two tendencies, which seek a way out in a third
tendency and seemingly reject our dogma about the existence of only
two paths for psychology. They say there is a third way: the two
struggling tendencies may be merged, or one of them may be subjected
to the other, or both may be totally removed and a new one created, or
both may be subjected to a third one, etc. For the confirmation of our
dogma it is in principle extremely important to show where this third
way leads, as the dogma stands or falls with it.
Following the method we adopted we will examine how both
objective tendencies operate in the conceptual systems of the adherents
of a third way. Are they bridled or do they remain masters of the
situation? In short, who is leading, the horse or the horseman?
First of all, we will clearly distinguish between conceptions and
tendencies. A conception may identify itself with a certain tendency
and nevertheless not coincide with it. Thus, behaviourism is right
when it asserts that a scientific psychology is only possible as a natural
science. This does not mean, however, that it has realised psychology
as a natural science, that it has not compromised this idea. For each
conception the tendency is a task and not something given. To realize
what the task is does not yet imply the ability to solve it. Different
conceptions may exist on the basis of one tendency, and in one
conception both tendencies may be represented to different degrees.
With this precise demarcation in mind we may proceed to the
systems which advocate a third way. Very many of them exist.
However, the majority belong either to blind men who unconsciously
mix the two ways up, or to deliberate eclectics who run from path to
path. Let us pass them by; we are interested in principles, not in their
distortions. There are three of these fundamentally pure systems:
Gestalt theory, personalism, and Marxist psychology. Let us examine
them from the point of view that fits our goal. All three schools share
the conviction that psychology as a science is neither possible on the
basis of empirical psychology, nor on the basis of behaviourism and
that there is a third way which stands above these two ways and which
allows us to realize a scientific psychology which does not reject either
of the two approaches but unites them into a single whole. Each
system solves this task in its own way and each has its own fate, but
together they exhaust all logical possibilities of a third way, as if it
were a methodological experiment especially designed for this
purpose.
Gestalt theory solves this problem by introducing the basic concept
of structure (Gestalt), which combines both the functional and the
descriptive side of behaviour, i.e., it is a psychophysical concept. To
combine both aspects in the subject matter of one science is only
possible if one finds something fundamental which both have in
common and makes this common factor the subject of study. For if we
accept mind and body as two different things which are separated by
an abyss and do not coincide in a single aspect, then, naturally, a
single science about these two absolutely distinct things will be
impossible. This is the crux of the whole methodology of the new
theory. The Gestalt principle is equally applicable to the whole of
nature. It is not only a property of the mind; the principle has a
psychophysical character. It is applicable to physiology, physics and in
general to all real sciences. Mind is only part of behaviour, conscious
processes are part-processes of larger wholes [Koffka, 1924].
Wertheimer (1925) is even clearer about this. The formula of the
whole Gestalt theory can be reduced to the following: what takes
place in a part of some whole is determined by the internal structural
laws of this whole. “This is Gestalt theory, no more and no less.” The
psychologist Kohler [1920] showed that in principle the same
processes take place in physics. Methodologically this is a striking fact
and for Gestalt theory it is a decisive argument. The investigative
principle is identical for the mental, organic, and non-organic. This
means that psychology is connected with the natural sciences, that
psychological investigation is possible on the basis of physical
principles. Gestalt theory does not view the mental and physical as
absolutely heterogenous things which are combined in a meaningless
way, but instead asserts their connection. They are parts of one whole.
Only persons belonging to recent European culture can divide the
mental and the physical as we do. A person is dancing. Do we really
have a sum-total of muscular movements on the one hand and joy and
inspiration on the other? The two sides are structurally similar.
Consciousness brings nothing fundamentally new which would require
other investigative methods. Where is the boundary between
materialism and idealism? There are psychological theories and even
many textbooks which, despite the fact that they only talk about the
elements of consciousness, are more devoid of mind and sense and are
more torpid and materialistic than a growing tree.
What does all this mean? Only that Gestalt theory realises a
materialistic
psychology
insofar
as
it
fundamentally
and
methodologically consistently lays down its system. This is seemingly
in contradiction with Gestalt theory’s doctrine about phenomenal
reactions, about introspection, but only seemingly, because for these
psychologists the mind is the phenomenal part of behaviour, i.e., in
principle they choose one of the two ways and not a third one.
Another question is whether this theory advances its view
consistently, whether it does not run against contradictions in its
conceptions, whether the means to realize this third way have been
chosen correctly. But this does not interest us here, only the
methodological system of principles. And we can add to this that
everything in the conceptions of Gestalt theory which does not
coincide with this tendency is a manifestation of the other tendency.
When the mind is described in the same concepts as physics we have
the way of natural scientific psychology.
It is easy to show that Stern [1919] in his theory of personalism
follows the opposite path of development. In his wish to avoid the two
ways and to defend a third, he in reality also defends only one of the
two ways. the way of idealistic psychology. He proceeds from the
assumption that we do not have a psychology, but many psychologies.
In order to preserve the subject of psychology in the perspective of
both tendencies he introduces the concept of psychophysically neutral
acts and functions and ends up with the following hypothesis: the
mental and the physical go through identical levels of development.
The division is secondary, it arises from the fact that the personality
may appear before itself and before others. The basic fact is the
existence
of
the
psychophysically
neutral
person
and
his
psychophysically neutral acts. Thus, unity is reached by the
introduction of the concept of the psychophysically neutral act.
Let us consider what is in reality hidden behind this formula. It turns
out that Stern follows a road opposite to the one known to us from
Gestalt theory. For him the organism and even anorganic systems are
also psychophysical neutral persons. Plants, the solar system, and man
must in principle be understood identically, by extending the
teleological principle to the non-mental world. We are faced with a
teleological psychology. Once again a third way proved to be one of
the two well-known ways. Once again we are talking about
personalism’s methodology; about the question what a psychology
created according to these principles would look like. What it is in
reality is another question. In reality, Stern is forced, like Munsterberg,
to be an adherent of causal psychology in differential psychology. In
reality, he provides a materialist conception of consciousness, i.e.,
within his system that same struggle is still going on which is well
known to us and which he, unsuccessfully, wished to overcome.
The third system which attempts to defend a third way is the system
of Marxist psychology which is developing before our eyes. It is
difficult to analyse, because it does not yet have its own methodology
and attempts to find it ready-made in the haphazard psychological
statements of the founders of Marxism, not to mention the fact that to
find a ready-made formula of the mind in the writings of others would
mean to demand “science before science itself.” It must be remarked
that the heterogeneity of the material, its fragmentary nature, the
change of meaning of phrases taken out of context and the polemical
character of the majority of the pronouncements – correct in their
contradiction of a false idea, but empty and general as a positive
definition of the task – do not allow us to expect of this work anything
more than a pile of more or less accidental citations and their Talmudic
interpretation. But citations, even when they have been well ordered,
never yield systems.
Another formal shortcoming of such work is the mixing up of two
goals in these investigations. For it is one thing to examine the Marxist
doctrine from the historical-philosophical point of view and quite
another one to investigate the problems themselves which these
thinkers stated. If they are combined, a double disadvantage results:
some particular author is used to solve the problem, the problem is
stated only on a scale and in a context which fits this author, who is
dealing with it in passing and for quite another reason. The distorted
statement of the question deals with its accidental aspects, does not
touch on its core, does not develop it in a way which the essence of the
question requires.
The fear of verbal contradiction leads to a confusion of
epistemological and methodological viewpoints, etc.
But neither can the second goal – the study of the author – be
attained via this road, because the author is willy-nilly being
modernised, is drawn into the present debate, and, most importantly, is
grossly distorted by arbitrarily combining into a system citations found
in different places. We might put it as follows: they are looking, firstly,
in the wrong place; secondly, for the wrong thing; thirdly, in the
wrong manner.
In the wrong place, because neither in Plekhanov nor in any of the
other Marxists can one find what one is looking for, for not only do
they not have an accomplished methodology of psychology, they do
not even have the beginnings of one. For them this problem never
arose, and their utterances concerning this theme have first of all a
non-psychological
character.
They
do
not
even
have
an
epistemological theory about the way to know the mental. As if it were
really such a simple matter to create so much as a hypothesis about the
psychophysical relation! Plekhanov would have inscribed his name in
the history of philosophy next to that of Spinoza had he himself
created some psychophysical theory. He could not do that, because he
himself never dealt with psychophysiology and science could not yet
give occasion to the construction of such a hypothesis.
Behind Spinoza’s hypothesis was the whole of Galileo’s physics.
Translated into philosophical language, it expressed the whole
fundamentally generalised experience of physics
which first
discovered the unity and regularity of the world. And what in
psychology might have engendered such a theory? Plekhanov and
others were always interested in their local goals: polemics,
explanation, in general, a goal tied to a specific context, not an
independent, generalised idea elevated to the level of a theory.
For the wrong thing, because what is needed is a methodological
system of principles by means of which the investigation can be
started and what they are looking for is a fundamental answer, the still
vague scientific end point of many years of joint research. If we
already had the answer, there would be no need to build a Marxist
psychology. The external criterion for the formula we seek must be its
methodological suitability. Instead, they are looking for a pompous
ontological formula which is as empty and cautious as possible and
avoids any solution. What we need is a formula which would serve us
in research. What they are searching for is a formula which we must
serve, which we must prove. As a result they stumble upon formulas –
such as negative concepts, etc. – which paralyse the investigation.
They do not show how we can realize a science proceeding from these
accidental formulas.
In the wrong manner, because their thinking is fettered by
authoritarian principles. They study not methods but dogmas. They do
not come any further than stating that two formulas are logically
equivalent. They do not approach the matter in a critical, free and
investigative way.
But all these three flaws follow from a common cause: a
misunderstanding of the historical task of psychology and the meaning
of the crisis. The next section is specially dedicated to this matter.
Here I state everything necessary to make the boundary between
conceptions and a system clearer, to relieve the system from the
responsibility for the sins of the conceptions. We will call it a falsely
understood system. We are all the more justified in doing this as this
understanding itself did not realize where it would lead to.
The new system lays the concept of reaction – as distinct from the
reflex and the mental phenomenon – at the basis of the third way in
psychology. The integral act of the reaction includes both the
subjective and the objective aspect. However, in contrast with Gestalt
theory and Stern, the new theory refrains from methodological
assumptions which unite both parts of the reaction into one concept.
Neither viewing fundamentally the same structures in the mind as in
physics, nor finding goals, entelechy and personality in anorganic
nature, e.g., neither the way of Gestalt theory, nor the way of Stern,
lead to the goal.
Following Plekhanov, the new theory accepts the doctrine of
psychophysical parallelism and the complete irreducibility of the
mental to the physical. Such a reduction it regards as crude, vulgar
materialism. But how can there be one science about two categories of
being which are fundamentally, qualitatively heterogeneous and
irreducible to each other? How can they merge into the integral act of
the reaction? We have two answers to these questions. Kornilov, by
seeing a functional relation between them, immediately destroys any
unity: it is two different things that can stand in a functional relation to
each other. Psychology cannot be studied with the concepts of reaction,
for within the reaction we find two functionally independent elements
which cannot be unified. This is not solving the psychophysical
problem, but moving it into each element. Therefore it makes any
research impossible, just as it has impeded psychology as a whole. At
the time it was the relation of the whole area of the mind to the whole
area of physiology which was unclear. Now the same insolubility is
entangled in each separate reaction. What does this solution of the
problem offer, methodologically speaking? Instead of solving it
problematically (hypothetically) at the start of the investigation one
must solve it experimentally, empirically in each separate case. But
this is impossible. And how can there be one science with two
fundamentally different methods of knowledge acquisition (not
research methods: Kornilov regards introspection as the only adequate
way to know the mind and not just as a technical device)? It is clear
that methodologically the integral nature of the reaction remains a pia
desiderata and in reality such a concept leads to two sciences with two
methods which study two different aspects of reality.
Frankfurt (1926) provides a different answer. Following Plekhanov,
he becomes entangled in a hopeless and insoluble contradiction. He
wishes to prove the material nature of the non-material mind and to
link two ways of science for psychology which cannot be linked. The
outline of his argumentation is as follows: the idealists view matter as
another form of existence of the mind; the mechanistic materialists
view the mind as another form of being of matter. The dialectical
materialist preserves both parts of the antinomy. For him the mind is
(1) a special property amidst many other properties which is
irreducible to movement; (2) an internal state of moving matter; (3) the
subjective side of a material process. The contradictory nature and the
heterogeneity of these formulas will be revealed in the systematic
exposition of the concepts of psychology. There I hope to show how
the juxtaposition of ideas plucked from absolutely different contexts
distorts their meaning. Here we deal exclusively with the
methodological aspect of the question: can there be one science about
two fundamentally different kinds of being? They have nothing in
common, cannot be unified. But perhaps there is an unequivocal link
between them that allows us to combine them? No. Plekhanov (cf.
Frankfurt, 1926) clearly says that Marxism does not accept “the
possibility of explaining or describing one kind of phenomenon by
means of ideas or concepts ‘developed’ to explain or describe another
kind.” Frankfurt (ibid.) says that “Mind is a special property which we
can describe or explain by means of special concepts or ideas.” Once
again the same – different concepts. But this means that there are two
sciences, one about behaviour as a unique form of human movement,
the other about the mind as non-movement. Frankfurt also talks about
physiology in a narrow and a broad sense – including the mind. But
will this be physiology? Is our wish sufficient to make a science
appear according to our fiat? Let them show us so much as a single
example of one science about two different kinds of being which are
being explained and described by means of different concepts, or let
them show us the possibility of such a science.
There are two points in this argumentation which categorically show
that such a science is impossible.
1. Mind is a special quality or property of matter, but a quality is not
part of a thing, but a special capacity. But matter has many qualities,
mind is just one of them. Plekhanov compares the relation between
mind and movement with the relations between the properties of
growth and combustibility of wood, with the hardness and shine of ice.
But why, then, are there only two parts in the antinomy? There should
be as many as there are qualities, i.e., many, infinitely many.
Obviously, notwithstanding Chernychevsky, all qualities have
something in common. There is a general concept under which all the
qualities of matter can be subsumed: both the shine of ice and its
hardness, both the fact that wood is easy to burn and the way it grows.
If not, there would be as many sciences as there are qualities: one
science about the shine of ice, another about its hardness. What
Chernychevsky says is simply absurd as a methodological principle.
After all, also within the mind we find different qualities: pain
resembles lust in the same way as shine resembles hardness – once
again a special property.
The whole matter is that Plekhanov is operating with a general
concept of the mind under which a multitude of the most
heterogeneous qualities are subsumed, and that movement, under
which all other qualities are subsumed, is also such a general concept.
Obviously, mind stands in principle in another relation to movement
than qualities do to each other: both shine and hardness are in the end
movement; both pain and lust are in the end mind. Mind is not one of
many properties, but one of two. But this means that in the end there
are two principles and not one or many. Methodologically this means
that the dualism of the science is completely preserved. This becomes
particularly clear from the second point.
2. The mental does not influence the physical, according to
Plekhanov (1922). Frankfurt (1926) clarifies that it influences itself
mediately, via physiology, it exerts its influence in a peculiar way. If
we combine two right-angled triangles, their forms will combine into a
new form – a square. The forms themselves do not exert influence “as
a second, ‘formal’ aspect of the combination of our material triangles.”
We observe that this is an exact statement of the famous
Schattentheorie, the theory of shadows: two men shake hands and their
shadows do the same. According to Frankfurt the shadows “influence”
each other via the body.
But this is not the methodological problem. Does the author
understand that, for a materialist, he arrived at a monstrous
formulation of the nature of our science? Really, what sort of science
about shadows, forms and mirror reflections is this?
The author half understands what he arrived at, but does not see
what it implies. Is a natural science about forms as such really possible,
a science which uses induction, the concept of causality? It is only in
geometry that we study abstract forms. The final word has been said:
psychology is possible as geometry. But exactly this is the highest
expression of Husserl’s eidetic psychology. Dilthey’s descriptive
psychology as mathematics of the spirit is like that and so are
Chelpanov’s
phenomenology,
Stout’s,
Meinong’s,
and
Schmidt-Kovazhik’s analytic psychology. What unites them all with
Frankfurt is the whole fundamental structure. They are using the same
analogy.
1. The mind must be studied as geometrical forms, outside causality.
Two triangles do not engender a square, the circle knows nothing of
the pyramid. No relation of the real world may be transferred to the
ideal world of forms and mental essences: they can only be described,
analysed, classified, but not explained. Dilthey [1894] regards it as the
main property of the mind that its parts are not linked by the law of
causality:
Representations contain no sufficient ground for
going over into feelings; one could imagine a purely
representational creature who would be, in the midst of
a battle’s tumult, an unconcerned spectator indifferent
about his own destruction. Feelings contain no
sufficient ground for being transformed into volitional
processes. One could imagine the same creature whose
awareness of the surrounding combat would be
accompanied by feelings of fear and terror, yet without
movements of defence resulting from these feelings.
Precisely because these concepts are a-deterministic, non-causal and
non-spatial precisely because they have been formed like geometrical
abstractions, Pavlov rejects their suitability for science: they are
incompatible with the material construction of the brain. Following
Pavlov, we say that, precisely because they are geometrical, they are
not fit for real science.
But how can there be a science which combines the geometrical
method with the scientific-inductive one? Dilthey [ibid.] understood
perfectly well
that
materialism
and
explanatory
psychology
presuppose each other. Materialism is “in all its nuances, an
explanatory psychology. Every theory which depends on the system of
physical processes and merely incorporates mental facts into that
system, is a materialism.” Exactly the wish to defend the independence
of the mind and all the sciences of the mind, the fear of transferring to
this world the causality and necessity which reign in nature, leads to
the fear of explanatory psychology. “No explanatory psychology . . . is
capable of serving as the basis of the human studies” [ibid.]. This
signifies that the sciences of the mind must not be studied
materialistically. Oh, if Frankfurt only understood what it really
implies to demand a psychology as geometry! To accept a special
link – “efficacy” – instead of the physical causality of the mind, to
reject explanatory psychology, means no more and no less than to
reject the concept of regularity in the whole field of the mind. This is
what the debate is about. The Russian idealists understand this
perfectly well. For them Dilthey’s thesis about psychology is a thesis
that contrasts with the mechanistic conception of the historical
process.
2. The second feature of the psychology at which Frankfurt arrived
resides in its method, in the nature of the knowledge of this science. If
the mind cannot be linked with natural processes, if it is non-causal,
then it cannot be studied inductively, by observing real facts and
generalising them. It must be studied by the method of speculation,
through the direct contemplation of the truth in these Platonic ideas or
mental essences. There is no place for induction in geometry; what has
been proved for one triangle, has been proved for all of them. It does
not study real triangles, but ideal abstractions – the different properties
which have been abstracted from things are carried to the extreme and
studied in their ideally pure form. For Husserl, phenomenology stands
to psychology as mathematics to natural science. But according to
Frankfurt it would be impossible to realize geometry and psychology
as natural sciences. Their method is different. Induction is based on the
repeated
observation
of
facts
and
their
empirically-based
generalisation. The analytical (phenomenological) method is based on
a single immediate contemplation of the truth. This deserves reflection.
We must know exactly with which science we want to break all ties.
This theory about induction and analysis involves an essential
misunderstanding which we must lay bare.
Analysis is applied entirely systematically in both causal
psychology and the natural sciences. And there we often deduce a
general regularity from a single observation. The domination of
induction and mathematical elaboration and the underdevelopment of
analysis substantially damaged the case of Wundt and experimental
psychology as a whole.
What is the difference between one analysis and the other, or, not to
make
a
mistake,
between
the
analytical
method
and
the
phenomenological one? When we know this we can add to our map
the last characteristic distinguishing the two psychologies.
The method of analysis in the natural sciences and in causal
psychology consists of the study of a single phenomenon, a typical
representative of a whole series, and the deduction of a proposition
about the whole series on the basis of that phenomenon. Chelpanov
(1917) clarifies this idea by giving the example of the study of the
properties of different gases. Thus, we assert something about the
properties of all gases after we conducted an experiment with only one
type of gas. When we arrive at such a conclusion we assume that the
gas we experimented upon has the same properties as all other gases.
According to Chelpanov, in such an inference the inductive and the
analytical method are simultaneously present.
Is this really true, i.e., is it really possible to merge the geometrical
method with the natural scientific one, or do we have here a simple
mixture of terms, with Chelpanov using the word analysis in two
entirely distinct senses? The question is too important to ignore. We
must not only distinguish the two psychologies, we must set apart their
methods as deeply and as far as possible as they cannot have methods
in common. Apart from the fact that we are interested in that part of
the method which after the separation falls to the lot of descriptive
psychology, because we want to know it exactly – apart from all this,
we do not wish to concede one bit of the territory that belongs to us in
the process of division. As we will see below, the analytical method is
in principle too important for the development of the whole of social
psychology, to render it without striking a blow.
When our Marxists explain the Hegelian principle in Marxist
methodology they rightly claim that each thing can be examined as a
microcosm, as a universal measure in which the whole big world is
reflected. On this basis they say that to study one single thing, one
subject, one phenomenon until the end, exhaustively, means to know
the world in all its connections. In this sense it can be said that each
person is to some degree a measure of the society, or rather class, to
which he belongs, for the whole totality of social relationships is
reflected in him.
From this alone we see that knowledge gained on the path from the
special to the general is the key to all social psychology. We must
reconquer the right for psychology to examine what is special, the
individual as a social microcosm, as a type, as an expression or
measure of the society. But about this we must only speak when we
are face to face with causal psychology. Here we must exhaust the
theme of the division.
What is undoubtedly correct in Chelpanov’s example is that analysis
in physics does not contradict induction, since it is precisely due to
analysis that a single observation can lead to a general conclusion.
Indeed, what justifies us in extending our conclusion about one gas to
all others? Obviously, it is only because we elaborated the concept of
gas per se through previous inductive observations and established the
extension and content of this concept. Further, because we study the
given particular gas not as such, but from a special viewpoint. We
study the general properties of a gas realised in it. It is exactly this
possibility, i.e., this viewpoint that in the particular, the special can be
separated from the general, which we owe to analysis.
Thus, analysis is in principle not opposed to induction, but related to
it. It is its highest form which contradicts its essence (repetition). It
rests on induction and guides it. It states the question. It lies at the
basis of each experiment. Each experiment is an analysis in action,
as each analysis is an experiment in thought. That is why it would be
correct to call it an experimental method. Indeed, when I am
experimenting, I am studying A, B, C . . ., i.e., a number of concrete
phenomena, and I assign the conclusions to different groups: to all
people, to school-aged children, to activity, etc. The analysis suggests
to what extent the conclusions may be generalised, i.e., it distinguishes
in A, B, C . . . the characteristics that a given group has in common.
But even more: in the experiment I always observe just one feature of
a phenomenon, and this is again the result of analysis.
Let us now turn to the inductive method in order to clarify the
analysis. Let us examine a number of applications of this method.
Pavlov is studying the activity of the salivary gland in dogs. What
gives him the right to call his experiments the study of the higher
nervous activity of animals? Perhaps, he should have verified his
experiments on horses, crows, etc., on all, or at least the majority of
animals, in order to have the right to draw these conclusions? Or,
perhaps, he should have called his experiments “a study of salivation
in dogs”? But it is precisely the salivation of dogs per se which Pavlov
did not study and his experiments have not for one bit increased our
knowledge of dogs as such and of salivation as such. In the dogs he
did not study the dog, but an animal in general, and in salivation a
reflex in general, i.e., in this animal and in this phenomenon he
distinguished what they have in common with all homogeneous
phenomena. That is why his conclusions do not just concern all
animals, but the whole of biology as well. The established fact that
Pavlov’s dogs salivated to signals given by Pavlov immediately
became a general biological principle – the principle of the
transformation of inherited experience into personal experience. This
proved
possible
because
Pavlov
maximally
abstracted
the
phenomenon he studied from the specific conditions of the particular
phenomenon. He brilliantly perceived the general in the particular.
What did the extension of his conclusions rest upon? Naturally, on
the following: we extend our conclusions to something which has to
do with the same elements and we rely upon similarities established in
advance (the class of hereditary reflexes in all animals, the nervous
system, etc.). Pavlov discovered a general biological law while
studying dogs. But in the dog he studied what forms the basis of any
animal.
This is the methodological path of any explanatory principle. In
essence, Pavlov did not extend his conclusions, and the degree of their
extension was determined in advance. It was implied in the very
statement of the problem. The same is true for Ukhtomsky. He studied
several preparations of frogs. If he had generalised his conclusions to
all frogs this would have been induction. But he talks about the
dominant as a principle of psychology applicable to the heroes of
“War and Peace,” and this he owes to analysis. Sherrington studied the
scratching and flexive reflexes of the hind leg in many cats and dogs,
but he established the principle of the struggle for the motor path
which lies at the basis of the personality. But neither Ukhtomsky nor
Sherrington added anything to the study of frogs or cats as such.
It is, of course, a very special task to find the precise factual
boundaries of a general principle in practice and the degree to which it
can be applied to different species of the given genus. Perhaps the
conditional reflex has its highest boundary in the behaviour of the
human infant and its lowest in invertebrates and is found in absolutely
different forms beyond these extremes. Within these limits it is more
applicable to the dog than to a chicken and to what extent it is
applicable to each of them can be exactly ascertained. But all this is
already induction, the study of the specifically particular in relation to
a principle and on the basis of analysis. There is no end to this process.
We can study the application of a principle to different breeds, ages,
sexes of the dog; further, to an individual dog, still further, to a
particular day or hour of the dog’s life, etc. The same is true of the
dominant and the general motor path.
I have tried to introduce such a method into conscious psychology
and to deduce the laws of the psychology of art on the basis of the
analysis of one fable, one short story, and one tragedy. In doing so I
proceeded from the idea that the well-developed forms of art provide
the key to the underdeveloped ones, just as the anatomy of man
provides the key to the anatomy of the ape. I assumed that
Shakespeare’s tragedy explains the enigmas of primitive art and not
the other way around. Further, I talk about all art and do not verify
my conclusions on music, painting, etc. What is even more: I do not
verify them on all or the majority of the types of literature. I take one
short story, one tragedy. Why am I entitled to do so? I have not
studied the fable, the tragedy, and still less a given fable or a given
tragedy. I have studied in them what makes up the basis of all art – the
nature and mechanism of the aesthetic reaction. I relied upon the
general elements of form and material which are inherent in any art.
For the analysis I selected the most difficult fables, short stories and
tragedies, precisely those in which the general laws are particularly
evident. I selected the monsters among the tragedies etc. The analysis
presupposes that one abstracts from the concrete characteristics of the
fable as such, as a specific genre, and concentrates the forces upon the
essence of the aesthetic reaction. That is why I say nothing about the
fable as such. And the subtitle “An analysis of the aesthetic reaction”
itself indicates that the goal of the investigation is not a systematic
exposition of a psychological theory of art in its entire volume and
width of content (all types of art, all problems, etc.) and not even the
inductive investigation of a specific number of facts, but precisely the
analysis of the processes in their essence.
The objective-analytical method, therefore, is similar to the
experiment. Its meaning is broader than its field of observation.
Naturally, the principle of art as well is dealing with a reaction which
in reality never manifested itself in a pure form, but always with its
“coefficient of specification.”
To find the factual boundaries, levels and forms of the applicability
of a principle is a matter of factual research. Let history show which
feelings in which eras, via which forms have been expressed in art.
My task was to show how this proceeds in general. And this is the
common methodological position of contemporary art theory: it
studies the essence of a reaction knowing that it will never manifest
itself in exactly that form. But the type, norm or limit will always be
part of the concrete reaction and determine its specific character. Thus,
a purely aesthetic reaction never occurs in art. In reality it will be
combined with the most complex and diverse forms of ideology
(morals, politics, etc.). Many even think that the aesthetic aspects are
no more essential in art than coquetry in the reproduction of the
species. It is a facade, Vorlust, a lure, and the meaning of the act lies in
something else (Freud and his school). Others assume that historically
and psychologically art and aesthetics are two intersecting circles
which have a common and a separate surface (Utitz) This is all true,
but it does not change the veracity of a principle, because it is
abstracted from all this. It only says that the aesthetical reaction is
like this. It is another matter to find the boundaries and sense of the
aesthetic reaction itself within art.
Abstraction and analysis does all this. The similarity with the
experiment resides in the fact that here, too, we have an artificial
combination of phenomena in which the action of a specific law must
manifest itself in the purest form. It is like a snare for nature, an
analysis in action. In analysis we create a similar artificial combination
of phenomena, but then through abstraction in thought. This is
particularly clear in its application to art constructions. They are not
aimed at scientific, but at practical goals and rely upon the action of
some specific psychological or physical law. Examples are a machine,
an anecdote, lyrics, mnemonics, a military command. Here we have a
practical experiment. The analysis of such cases is an experiment with
finished phenomena. Its meaning comes close to that of pathology –
this experiment arranged by nature itself – to its own analysis. The
only difference is that disease causes the loss or demarcation of
superfluous traits, whereas we here have the presence of necessary
traits, a selection of them – but the result is the same.
Each lyrical poem is such an experiment. The task of the analysis is
to reveal the law that forms the basis of nature’s experiment. But also
when the analysis does not deal with a machine, i.e., a practical
experiment, but with any phenomenon, it is in principle similar to the
experiment. It would be possible to prove how infinitely much our
equipment complicates and refines our research, how much more
intelligent, stronger and more perspicuous it makes us. Analysis does
the same.
It may seem that analysis, like experiment, distorts reality by
creating artificial conditions for observation. Hence the demand that
the experiment should be realistic and natural. If this idea goes further
than a technical demand – not to scare off what we are searching for –
it leads to absurdity. The strength of analysis is in abstraction, just as
the strength of experiment is in its artificiality. Pavlov’s experiments
are the best specimen: for the dogs it is a natural experiment – they
are fed etc.; for the scientist it is the summit of artificiality – salivation
takes place when a specific area is scratched, which is an unnatural
combination. Likewise, we need destruction in the analysis of a
machine, mental or real damage to the mechanism, and in the [analysis
of the] aesthetic form we need deformation.
If we remember what was said above about the indirect method,
then it is easy to observe that analysis and experiment presuppose
indirect study. From the analysis of the stimuli we infer the
mechanism of the reaction, from the command, the movements of the
soldiers, and from the form of the fable the reactions to it.
Marx [1867] says essentially the same when he compares
abstraction with a microscope and chemical reactions in the natural
sciences. The whole of Das Kapital is written according to this method.
Marx analyses the “cell” of bourgeois society – the form of the
commodity value – and shows that a mature body can be more easily
studied than a cell. He discerns the structure of the whole social order
and all economical formations in this cell. He says that “to the
uninitiated its analysis may seem the hair-splitting of details. We are
indeed dealing with details, but such details as microscopic anatomy is
also dealing with.” He who can decipher the meaning of the cell of
psychology, the mechanism of one reaction, has found the key to all
psychology.
That is why analysis is a most potent tool in methodology. Engels
explains to the “all-inductionists” that “no induction whatever might
ever explain the process of induction. This could only be
accomplished by the analysis of this process.” He further gives
mistakes of induction which are frequently encountered. Elsewhere he
compares both methods and finds in thermodynamics an example
which shows that the pretensions of induction to be the only or most
fundamental form of scientific discovery are ill-founded.
The steam engine formed the convincing proof of the
fact that one can use heat to accomplish mechanical
movements. One hundred thousand steam engines
would not prove this more convincingly than a single
engine . . . Sadi Carnot was the first to study it
seriously. But not through induction. He studied the
steam engine, analysed it, found that the relevant
process does not appear in it in a pure form but was
concealed by all sorts of incidental processes, removed
these inessentials which are indifferent for the essential
process, and construed an ideal steam engine . . . which,
to be sure, is as imaginary as, for example, a
geometrical line or plane, but fulfils the same service as
these mathematical abstractions: it represents the
process in a pure, independent, and undistorted form
[ibid.].
It would be possible to show how and when such an analysis is
possible in the methods of investigation of this applied branch of
methodology. But we can also generally say that analysis is the
application of methodology to the knowledge of a fact, i.e., it is an
evaluation of the method used and of the meaning of the obtained
phenomena. In this sense it can be said that analysis is always inherent
in investigation, otherwise induction would turn into registration.
How does this analysis differ from Chelpanov’s analysis? By four
characteristics: (1) the analytical method is aimed at the knowledge of
realities and strives for the same goal as induction. The
phenomenological method does not at all presuppose the existence of
the essence it strives to know. Its subject matter can be pure phantasy,
deprived of any existence; (2) the analytical method studies facts and
leads to knowledge which has the trustworthiness of a fact. The
phenomenological method obtains apodictic truths which are
absolutely trustworthy and universally valid; (3) the analytical method
is a special case of empirical knowledge, i.e., factual knowledge,
according to Hume. The phenomenological method is a priori, it is not
a kind of experience or factual knowledge; (4) via the study of new
special facts the analytical method, which relies on facts which have
been studied and generalised before, ultimately leads to new relative
and factual generalisations which have a boundary, a variable degree
of
applicability,
limitations
and
even
exceptions.
The
phenomenological method does not lead to knowledge of the general,
but of the idea, the essence. The general is known through induction,
the essence by intuition. It exists outside time and reality and is not
related to any temporal or real thing.
We see that the difference is as big as a difference between two
methods can be. One method – let us call it the analytical method – is
the method of the real, natural sciences, the other – the
phenomenological, a priori one – is the method of the mathematical
sciences and of the pure science of the mind.
Why does Chelpanov call it the analytical method and assert that it
is identical to the phenomenological one? Firstly, it is a plain mistake
which the author himself tries to sort out several times. Thus, he points
out that the analytical method is not identical to normal analysis in
psychology. It yields knowledge of another kind than induction – we
are reminded of the precise distinctions, all of them established by
Chelpanov. Thus, there are two types of induction which have nothing
in common but their name. This general term is confusing and we
must distinguish its two meanings.
Further, it is clear that the analysis in the case of a gas, which the
author adduces as a possible counterargument against the theory which
says that the main feature of the “analytical” method is that it
examines phenomena just once, is a natural scientific and not a
phenomenological analysis. The author is simply mistaken when he
sees a combination of analysis and induction here. It is analysis, but of
another kind. Not one of the four points distinguishing both methods
leaves any doubt about the fact that: (1) it is aimed at real facts, not at
“ideal possibilities”; (2) it has only factual and not apodictic validity;
(3) it is a posteriori; (4) it leads to generalisations which have
boundaries and degrees, not to the contemplation of essences
[Wesensschau]. In general, it results from experience, from induction
and not from intuition.
That we are dealing with a mistake and a mixture of terms is
absolutely
clear
from
the
absurd
attempt
to
combine
the
phenomenological and the inductive method in one experiment. This is
what Chelpanov does in the case of gases. It is as if we partly tried to
prove Pythagoras’ theorem and partly completed it with the study of
real triangles. It is absurd. But behind the mistake is some dimension:
the psychoanalysts have taught us to be sensitive to and suspicious
about mistakes. Chelpanov belongs to the harmonisers: he sees the
dualism of psychology, but unlike Husserl he does not accept
psychology’s complete separation from phenomenology. For him
psychology is partly phenomenology. Within psychology there are
phenomenological truths and they are the fundamental core of the
science. But at the same time Chelpanov sympathises with the
experimental psychology which Husserl slighted with contempt.
Chelpanov wishes to combine what cannot be combined and his story
about the gases is the only one where he combines the analytical
(phenomenological) method with induction in physics in the study of
real gases. And this mixture he conceals with the general term
“analytical.”
The split of the dual analytical method into a phenomenological and
an inductive-analytical one leads us to the ultimate points upon which
the bifurcation of the two psychologies rests – their epistemological
premises. I attach great importance to this distinction, see it as the
crown and center of the whole analysis, and at the same time for me it
is now as obvious as a simple scale. Phenomenology (descriptive
psychology) proceeds from a radical distinction between physical
nature and mental being. In nature we distinguish phenomena in being.
“In other words, in the mental sphere there is no distinction between
phenomenon [Erscheinung] and being [Sein], and while nature is
existence [Dasein] which manifests itself in the phenomena,” this
cannot be asserted about mental being (Husserl, 1910). Here
phenomenon and being coincide. It is difficult to give a more precise
formulation of psychological idealism. And this is the epistemological
formula of psychological materialism: “The difference between
thinking and being has not been destroyed in psychology. Even
concerning thinking one must distinguish the thinking of thinking and
the thinking as such” [Feuerbach]. The whole debate is in these two
formulas.
We must be able to state the epistemological problem for the mind
as well and to find the distinction between being and thinking, as
materialism teaches us to do in the theory of knowledge of the external
world. The acceptance of a radical difference between the mind and
physical nature conceals the identification of phenomenon and being,
mind and matter, within psychology, the solution of the antinomy by
removing one part – matter – in psychological knowledge. This is
Husserl’s idealism of the purest water. Feuerbach’s whole materialism
is expressed in the distinction of phenomenon and being within
psychology and in the acceptance of being as the real object of study.
I venture to prove for the whole council of philosophers – idealists
as well as materialists – that the essence of the divergence of idealism
and materialism in psychology lies precisely here, and that only
Husserl’s and Feuerbach’s formulas give a consistent solution of the
problem in the two possible variants and that the first is the formula of
phenomenology and the second that of materialistic psychology. I
venture, proceeding from this comparison, to cut the living tissue of
psychology, cutting it as it were into two heterogeneous bodies which
grew together by mistake. This is the only thing which corresponds
with the objective order of things, and all debates, all disagreements,
all confusion merely result from the absence of a clear and correct
statement of the epistemological problem.
From this it follows that by only accepting from empirical
psychology its formal acceptance of the mind, Frankfurt also accepts
its whole epistemology and all its conclusions – he is forced to resort
to phenomenology. It follows that by demanding a method for the
study of the mind which corresponds to its qualitative nature, he is
demanding a phenomenological method, although he does not realize
it himself. His conception is the materialism of which Høffding [1908]
is entirely justified in saying that it is “a miniature dualistic
spiritualism.” Precisely “miniature,” i.e., with the attempt to reduce,
quantitatively diminish the reality of the non-material mind, to leave
0.001 of influence for it. But the fundamental solution in no way
depends on a quantitative statement of the question. It is one of two
things: either god exists, or he does not; either the spirits of dead
people manifest themselves, or they do not; either mental (spiritistic –
for Watson) phenomena are non-material, or they are material.
Answers which have the form “god exists, but he is very small,” or
“the spirits of dead people do not manifest themselves, but tiny parts
of them very rarely visit spiritists,” or “the mind is material, but
distinct from all other matter,” are humorous. Lenin wrote of the
“bogostroiteli” [”God-builders”] that they differ little from the
“bogoiskateli” [”Godseekers”] [56]: what is important is to either
accept or reject deviltry in general; to assume either a blue or a yellow
devil does not make a big difference.
When one mixes up the epistemological problem with the
ontological one by introducing into psychology not the whole
argumentation but its final results, this leads to the distortion of both.
In Russia the subjective is identified with the mental and later it is
proved that the mental cannot be objective. Epistemological
consciousness as part of the antinomy “subject-object” is confused
with empirical, psychological consciousness and then it is asserted that
consciousness cannot be material, that to assume this would be
Machism. And as a result one ends up with neoplatonism, in the sense
of infallible essences for which being and phenomenon coincide. They
flee from idealism only to plunge into it headlong. They dread the
identification of being with consciousness more than anything else and
end up in psychology with their perfectly Husserlian identification.
We must not mix up the relation between subject and object with the
relation between mind and body, as Høffding [1908] splendidly
explains. The distinction between mind [Geist] and matter is a
distinction in the content of our knowledge. But the distinction
between subject and object manifests itself independently from the
content of our knowledge.
Both mind and body are for us objective, but
whereas mental objects [geistigen Objekte] are by their
nature related to the knowing subject, the body exists
only as an object for us. The relation between subject
and
object
is
an
epistemological
problem
[Erkenntnisproblem], the relation between mind and
matter is an ontological problem [Daseinsproblem].
This is not the place to give both problems a precise demarcation
and basis in materialistic psychology, but to indicate the possibility of
two solutions, the boundary between idealism and materialism, the
existence of a materialistic formula. For distinction, distinction to the
very end, is psychology’s task today. After all, many “Marxists” are
not able to indicate the difference between theirs and an idealistic
theory of psychological knowledge, because it does not exist.
Following Spinoza, we have compared our science to a mortally ill
patient who looks for an unreliable medicine. Now we see that it is
only the surgeon’s knife which can save the situation. A bloody
operation is immanent. Many textbooks we will have to rend in twain,
like the veil in the temple [58], many phrases will lose their head or
legs, other theories will be slit in the belly We are only interested in
the border, the line of the rupture, the line which will be described by
the future knife.
And we assert that this line will lie in between the formulas of
Husserl and Feuerbach. The thing is that in Marxism the problem of
epistemology with regard to psychology has not been stated at all and
the task of distinguishing the two problems about which Høffding is
talking did not arise. The idealists, on the other hand, elaborated this
idea with great clarity. And we claim that the viewpoint of our
“Marxists” is Machism in psychology: it is the identification of being
and consciousness. It is one of two things: either the mind is directly
given to us in introspection, and then we side with Husserl; or we must
distinguish subject and object, being and thinking in it, and then we
side with Feuerbach. But what does this imply? It implies that my joy
and my introspectional comprehension of this joy are different things.
There is a citation from Feuerbach that is very popular in Russia:
“what for me [or subjectively] is a [purely] mental, non-material,
suprasensory act, is in itself [or objectively] a material, sensory act”
[Feuerbach]. It is usually cited in confirmation of subjective
psychology. But this speaks against it. One may wonder what we must
study: this act as such, as it is, or as it appears to me? As with the
analogous question about the objective existence of the world, the
materialist does not hesitate and says: the objective act as such. The
idealist will say: my perception. But then one and the same act will
turn out to be different depending on whether I am drunk or sober,
whether I am a child or an adult, whether it is today or yesterday,
whether it regards me or you. What is more, it turns out that in
introspection we cannot directly perceive thinking, comparison – these
are unconscious acts and our introspectional comprehension of them is
not a functional concept, i.e., it is not deduced from objective
experience. What must we, what can we study: thinking as such or the
thinking of thinking? There can be no doubt whatsoever about the
answer to this question. But there is one complication which prevents
us from reaching a clear answer. All philosophers who have attempted
to divide psychology have stumbled upon this complication. Stumpf
distinguished mental functions from phenomena and asked who, which
science, will study the phenomena rejected by physics and psychology.
He assumed that a special science would develop which is neither
psychology nor physics. Another psychologist (Pfander, 1904) refused
to accept sensations as the subject matter of psychology for the sole
reason that physics refuses to accept them. What place is left for them?
Husserl’s phenomenology is the answer to this question.
In Russia it is also asked: if you will study thinking as such and not
the thinking of thinking; the act as such and not the act for me; the
objective and not the subjective – who, then, will study the subjective
itself, the subjective distortion of objects? In physics we try to
eliminate the subjective factor from what we perceive as an object. In
psychology, when we study perception it is again required to separate
perception as such, as it is, from how it seems to me. Who will study
what has been eliminated both times, this appearance?
But the problem of appearance is an apparent problem. After all, in
science we want to learn about the real and not the apparent cause of
appearance. This means that we must take the phenomena as they exist
independently from me. The appearance itself is an illusion (in
Titchener’s basic example: Muller-Lyer’s lines are physically equal,
psychologically one of them is longer). This is the difference between
the viewpoints of physics and psychology. It does not exist in reality,
but results from two non-coincidences of two really existing processes.
If I would know the physical nature of the two lines and the objective
laws of the eye, as they are in themselves, I would get the explanation
of the appearance, of the illusion as a result. The study of the
subjective factor in the knowledge of this illusion is a subject of logic
and the historical theory of knowledge: just like being, the subjective
is the result of two processes which are objective in themselves. The
mind is not always a subject. In introspection it is split into object and
subject. The question is whether in introspection phenomenon and
being coincide. One has only to apply the epistemological formula of
materialism, given by Lenin (a similar one can be found in Plekhanov)
for the psychological subject-object, in order to see what is the matter:
the only ‘property’ of matter connected with
philosophical materialism is the property of being an
objective
reality,
of
existing
outside
of
our
consciousness .... Epistemologically the concept of
matter means nothing other than objective reality,
existing independently from human consciousness and
reflected by it.
Elsewhere Lenin says that this is, essentially, the principle of
realism, but that he avoids this word, because it has been captured by
inconsistent thinkers.
Thus, this formula seemingly contradicts our viewpoint: it cannot be
true that consciousness exists outside our consciousness. But, as
Plekhanov has correctly established, self-consciousness is the
consciousness of consciousness. And consciousness can exist without
self-consciousness: we become convinced of this by the unconscious
and the relatively unconscious. I can see not knowing that I see. That
is why Pavlov [1928] is right when he says that we can live according
to subjective states, but that we cannot analyse them.
Not a single science is possible without separating direct experience
from knowledge. It is amazing: only the psychologist-introspectionist
thinks that experience and knowledge coincide. If the essence of things
and the form of their appearance directly coincided, says Marx [1890],
all science would be superfluous. If in psychology appearance and
being were the same, then everybody would be a scientist-psychologist
and science would be impossible. Only registration would be possible.
But, obviously, it is one thing to live, to experience, and another to
analyse, as Pavlov says.
A most interesting example of this we find in Titchener [1910]. This
consistent adherent of introspection and parallelism arrives at the
conclusion that mental phenomena can only be described, but not
explained. He asserts that
If, however, we attempted to work out a merely
descriptive psychology, we should find that there was
no hope in it of a true science of the mind. A
descriptive psychology would stand to scientific
psychology very much . . .as the view of the world
which a boy gets from his cabinet of physical
experiments
stands
to
the
trained
physicist’s
view ...there would be no unity or coherence in it .... In
order to make psychology scientific we must not only
describe, we must also explain mind. We must answer
the question ‘why.’ But here is a difficulty. It is clear
that we cannot regard one mental process as the cause
of another mental process .... Nor can we, on the other
hand, regard nervous processes as the cause of mental
processes .... The one cannot be the cause of the other.
This is the real situation in which descriptive psychology finds itself.
The author finds a way out in a purely verbal subterfuge: mental
phenomena can only be explained in relation to the body. Titchener
[ibid.] says that
The nervous system does not cause, but it does
explain mind. It explains mind as the map of a country
explains the fragmentary glimpses of hills and rivers
and towns that we catch on our journey through it ....
Reference to the body does not add one iota to the data
of psychology .... It does furnish us with an explanatory
principle for psychology.
If we refrain from this, only two ways to overcome the fragmentary
nature of mental life remain: either the purely descriptive way, the
rejection of explanation, or to assume the existence of the unconscious.
Both courses have been tried. But, if we take the first,
we never arrive at a science of psychology; and if we
take the second, we voluntarily leave the sphere of fact
for the sphere of fiction. These are scientific
alternatives [ibid.].
This is perfectly clear.But is a science possible with the explanatory
principle which the author has selected? Is it possible to have a science
about the fragmentary glimpses of hills, rivers, and towns, with which
in Titchener’s example the mind is compared? And further: how, why
does the map explain these views, how does the map of a country help
to explain its parts? The map is a copy of the country, it explains
insofar as the country is reflected upon it, i.e., similar things explain
each other. A science based on such a principle is impossible. In
reality, the author reduces everything to causal explanation, as for
him both causal and parallelistic explanation are defined as the
indication of “proximate circumstances or conditions under which the
described phenomenon occurs” [ibid., p. 41]. But, after all, this way
will not lead to science either. Good “proximate conditions” are the ice
age in geology, the fission of the atom in physics, the formation of
planets in astronomy, evolution in biology. After all, “proximate
conditions” in physics are followed by other “proximate conditions”
and the causal chain is infinite in principle, but in parallelistic
explanations the matter is hopelessly limited to merely proximate
causes. Not without reason the author [ibid.] confines himself to
comparing his explanation with the explanation of dew in physics. It
would be a nice physics which did not go farther than pointing out the
proximate conditions and similar explanations. It would simply cease
to exist as a science.
Thus, we see that for psychology as a field of knowledge there are
two alternatives: either the way of science, in which case it must be
able to explain, or the knowledge of fragmentary visions, in which
case it is impossible as science. For the use of the geometrical analogy
deludes us. A geometrical psychology is absolutely impossible, for it
lacks the basic characteristic: being an ideal abstraction it nevertheless
refers to real objects. In this respect we are first of all reminded of
Spinoza’s attempt to investigate human vices and stupidities by means
of the geometrical method and to examine human actions and drives
exactly as if they were lines, surfaces, and bodies. This method is
suitable for descriptive psychology and not for any other approach. For
it takes from geometry only its verbal style and the outward
appearance of irrefutability of its proofs, and all the rest – its core
included – is based upon a non-scientific way of thinking.
Husserl bluntly states the difference between phenomenology and
mathematics: mathematics is an exact science and phenomenology a
descriptive one. Neither more nor less: phenomenology cannot be
apodictic for lack of such a trifle as exactitude! Try and imagine
inexact mathematics and you will get geometrical psychology.
In the end, the question can be reduced, as has already been said, to
the differentiation of the ontological and the epistemological problem.
In epistemology appearance exists, and to assert that it is being is
false. In ontology appearance does not exist at all. Either mental
phenomena exist, and then they are material and objective, or they do
not exist, and then they do not exist and cannot be studied. No science
can be confined to the subjective, to appearance, to phantoms, to what
does not exist. What does not exist, does not exist at all and it is not
half-non-existent, half-existent. This must be understood. We cannot
say: in the world there exist real and unreal things – the unreal does
not exist. The unreal must be explained as the non-coincidence,
generally as the relation of two real things; the subjective as the
corollary of two objective processes. The subjective is apparent and
therefore it does not exist.
Feuerbach comments upon the distinction between the subjective
and the objective [factor] in psychology: “In a similar way, for me my
body belongs to the category of imponderabilia, it does not have
weight, although in itself or for others it is a heavy body.”
From this it is clear what kind of reality he ascribed to the subjective.
He openly says that “Psychology is full of godsends; only the
conclusions are present in our consciousness and feeling, but not the
premises, only the results, but not the processes of the organism”. But
can there really be a science about results without premises?
Stern [1924] expressed this well when he said, following Fechner,
that the mental and the physical are the concave and the convex. A
single line can represent now this and now that. But in itself it is
neither concave nor convex, but round, and it is precisely as such that
we want to know it, independently from how it may appear.
Høffding compares it with the same content expressed in two
languages which we do not manage to reduce to a common
protolanguage. But we want to know the content and not the language
in which it is expressed. In physics we have freed ourselves from
language in order to study the content. We must do the same in
psychology.
Let us compare consciousness, as is often done, with a mirror image.
Let the object A be reflected in the mirror as a. Naturally, it would be
false to say that a in itself is as real as A. It is real in another way. A
table and its reflection in the mirror are not equally real, but real in a
different way. The reflection as reflection, as an image of the table, as
a second table in the mirror is not real, it is a phantom. But the
reflection of the table as the refraction of light beams on the mirror
surface – isn’t that a thing which is equally material and real as the
table? Everything else would be a miracle. Then we might say: there
exist things (a table) and their phantoms (the reflection). But only
things exist – (the table) and the reflection of light upon the surface.
The phantoms are just apparent relations between the things. That is
why no science of mirror phantoms is possible. But this does not mean
that we will never be able to explain the reflection, the phantom. When
we know the thing and the laws of reflection of light, we can always
explain, predict, elicit, and change the phantom. And this is what
persons with mirrors do. They study not mirror reflections but the
movement of light beams, and explain the reflection. A science about
mirror phantoms is impossible, but the theory of light and the things
which cast and reflect it fully explain these “phantoms.”
It is the same in psychology: the subjective itself, as a phantom,
must be understood as a consequence, as a result, as a godsend of two
objective processes. Like the enigma of the mirror, the enigma of the
mind is not solved by studying phantoms, but by studying the two
series of objective processes from the cooperation of which the
phantoms as apparent reflections of one thing in the other arise. In
itself the appearance does not exist.
Let us return to the mirror. To identify A and a, the table and its
mirror reflection, would be idealism: a is non-material, it is only A
which is material and its material nature is a synonym for its existence
independent of a. But it would be exactly the same idealism to identify
a with X – with the processes that take place in the mirror. It would be
wrong to say: being and thinking do not coincide outside the mirror, in
nature (there A is not a, there A is a thing and a phantom); being and
thinking, however, do coincide inside the mirror (here a is X, a is a
phantom and X is also a phantom). We cannot say: the reflection of a
table is a table. But neither can we say: the reflection of a table is the
refraction of light beams and a is neither A nor X. Both A and X are
real processes and a is their apparent, i.e., unreal result. The reflection
does not exist, but both the table and the light exist. The reflection of a
table is identical neither with the real processes of the light in the
mirror nor with the table itself.
Not to mention the fact that otherwise we would have to accept the
existence in the world of both things and phantoms. Let us remember
that the mirror itself is, after all, part of the same nature as the thing
outside the mirror, and subject to all of its laws. After all, a
cornerstone of materialism is the proposition that consciousness and
the brain are a product, a part of nature, which reflect the rest of nature.
And, therefore, the objective existence of X and A independent of a is a
dogma of materialistic psychology.
Here we can end our protracted argumentation. We see that the third
way of Gestalt psychology and personalism was, essentially, both
times one of the two ways already known. Now we see that the third
way, the way of so-called “Marxist psychology,” is an attempt to
combine both ways. This attempt leads to their renewed separation
within one and the same scientific system: one who combines them is,
like Munsterberg, following two different roads.
Like the two trees in the legend which were tied up in their tops and
which tore apart the ancient knight, so any scientific system will be
torn apart if it binds itself to two different trunks. Marxist psychology
can only be a natural science. Frankfurt’s way leads to phenomenology.
Admittedly, in one place he himself consciously denies that
psychology can be a natural science (Frankfurt, 1926). But, firstly, he
mixes up the natural sciences with the biological ones, which is not
correct. Psychology can be a natural science without being a biological
science. Secondly, he understands the concept “natural” in its
proximate, factual meaning, as a reference to the sciences about
organic and non-organic nature and not in its fundamental
methodological sense.
Such a usage of this term, which had long since been accepted in
Western science, has been introduced into the Russian literature by
Ivanovsky (1923). He says that mathematics and applied mathematics
must be strictly distinguished from the sciences which deal with things,
with “real” objects and processes, with what “actually” exists, or is.
That is why these sciences can be called real or natural (in the broad
sense of this word). In Russia the term “natural sciences” is usually
used in a more narrow sense as merely designating the disciplines
which study non-organic and organic nature. It does not cover the
social and conscious nature which in such a usage of the word
frequently appears different from “nature” as something which is
“unnatural,” or “supernatural,” if not “contra-natural.” I am convinced
that the extension of the term “natural” to everything which really
exists is entirely rational.
Whether psychology is possible as a science is, above all, a
methodological problem. In no other science are there so many
difficulties, insoluble controversies and combinations of incompatible
things as in psychology. The subject matter of psychology is the most
complicated of all things in the world and least accessible to
investigation. Its methods must be full of special contrivances and
precautions in order to yield what is expected of them.
All the time I am speaking about precisely this latter thing – the
principle of a science about [what is] the real. In this sense Marx [1890]
studies, in his own words, the process of the development of economic
formations as a natural-historical process.
Not a single science represents such a diversity and plenitude of
methodological problems, such tightly stretched knots, such insoluble
contradictions, as ours. That is why we cannot take a single step
without thousands of preparatory calculations and cautions.
Thus, it is acknowledged all the same that the crisis gravitates
toward the creation of a methodology, that the struggle is for a general
psychology. Anyone who attempts to skip this problem, to jump over
methodology in order to build some special psychological science
right away, will inevitably jump over his horse while trying to sit on it.
This has happened with Gestalt theory and Stern. Starting from
universal principles which are equally applicable in physics and
psychology but which have not been made concrete in methodology,
we cannot proceed to a particular psychological investigation. That is
why these psychologists are accused of knowing just one predicate and
thinking it equally applicable to the whole world. We cannot, as Stern
does, study the psychological differences between people with a
concept that covers both the solar system, a tree, and man. For this we
need another scale, another measure. The whole problem of the
general and the special science, on the one hand, and methodology and
philosophy, on the other, is a problem of scale. We cannot measure
human height in miles, for this we need a tape-measure. And while we
have seen that the special sciences have a tendency to transcend their
boundaries towards the struggle for a common measure, a larger scale,
philosophy is going through the opposite tendency: in order to
approximate science it must narrow, decrease the scale, make its theses
more concrete.
Both tendencies – of philosophy and of the special science – lead
equally to methodology, to the general science. But this idea of scale,
the idea of a general science, is so far foreign to “Marxist psychology”
and this is its weak spot. It attempts to find a direct measure for
psychological elements – the reaction – in universal principles: the law
of the transition of quantity into quality and “the forgetting of the
nuances of the grey colour” according to Lehmann and the transition
from thrift into stinginess; Hegel’s triad and Freud’s psychoanalysis.
Here the absence of a measure, scale, an intermediate link between the
two, makes itself clearly felt. That is why the dialectical method will
fall with fatal inevitability into the same category as the experiment,
the comparative method, and the method of tests and surveys. A
feeling for hierarchy, the difference between a technical research
method and a method by which to know “the nature of history and
thinking,” is missing. The direct frontal collision of particular factual
truths with universal principles; the attempt to decide the
matter-of-fact debate about instinct between Vagner and Pavlov by
references to quantity-quality; the step from dialectics to the survey;
the criticism of irradiation from the epistemological viewpoint; the use
of miles where a tape-measure is needed; the verdicts of Bekhterev
and Pavlov from the height of Hegel; these attempts to swat a fly with
a sledge-hammer, have led to the false idea of a third way.
Binswanger [1922] reminds us of Brentano’s words about the
amazing art of logic which makes one step forward with a thousand
steps forward in science as a result. This strength of logic they do not
want to know in Russia. According to the apt expression, methodology
is the linchpin through which philosophy guides science. The attempt
to realize such a guidance without methodology, the direct application
of force to the point of application without a linchpin – from Hegel to
Meumann – makes science impossible.
I advance the thesis that the analysis of the crisis and the structure of
psychology indisputably testifies to the fact that no philosophical
system can take possession of psychology directly, without the help of
methodology, i.e., without the creation of a general science. The only
rightful application of Marxism to psychology would be to create a
general psychology – its concepts are being formulated in direct
dependence upon general dialectics, for it is the dialectics of
psychology. Any application of Marxism to psychology via other
paths or in other points outside this area, will inevitably lead to
scholastic, verbal constructions, to the dissolution of dialectics into
surveys and tests, to judgment about things according to their external,
accidental, secondary features, to the complete loss of any objective
criterion and the attempt to deny all historical tendencies of the
development of psychology, to a terminological revolution, in sum to a
gross distortion of both Marxism and psychology. This is Chelpanov’s
way.
Engels’ formula – not to foist the dialectical principles on nature,
but to find them in it – is changed into its opposite here. The principles
of dialectics are introduced into psychology from outside. The way of
Marxists should be different. The direct application of the theory of
dialectical materialism to the problems of natural science and in
particular to the group of biological sciences or psychology is
impossible, just as it is impossible to apply it directly to history and
sociology. In Russia it is thought that the problem of “psychology and
Marxism” can be reduced to creating a psychology which is up to
Marxism, but in reality it is far more complex. Like history, sociology
is in need of the intermediate special theory of historical materialism
which explains the concrete meaning, for the given group of
phenomena, of the abstract laws of dialectical materialism. In exactly
the same way we are in need of an as yet undeveloped but inevitable
theory of biological materialism and psychological materialism as an
intermediate science which explains the concrete application of the
abstract theses of dialectical materialism to the given field of
phenomena.
Dialectics covers nature, thinking, history – it is the most general,
maximally universal science. The theory of the psychological
materialism or dialectics of psychology is what I call general
psychology.
In order to create such intermediate theories – methodologies,
general sciences – we must reveal the essence of the given area of
phenomena, the laws of their change, their qualitative and quantitative
characteristics, their causality, we must create categories and concepts
appropriate to it, in short, we must create our own Das Kapital. It
suffices to imagine Marx operating with the general principles and
categories of dialectics, like quantity-quality, the triad, the universal
connection, the knot [of contradictions], leap etc. – without the
abstract and historical categories of value, class, commodity, capital,
interest, production forces, basis, superstructure etc. – to see the whole
monstrous absurdity of the assumption that it is possible to create any
Marxist science while by-passing by Das Kapital. Psychology is in
need of its own Das Kapital – its own concepts of class, basis, value
etc. – in which it might express, describe and study its object. And to
discover a confirmation of the law of leaps in Lehmann’s statistical
data of the forgetting of the nuances of the grey colour means not to
change dialectics or psychology one jot. This idea of the need for an
intermediate theory without which the various special facts cannot be
examined in the light of Marxism has long since been realised, and it
only remains for me to point out that the conclusions of our analysis of
psychology match this idea.
Vishnevsky develops the same idea in his debate with Stepanov (it
is clear to anyone that historical materialism is not dialectical
materialism, but its application to history. Therefore, only the social
sciences which have their general basis in the history of materialism
can, strictly speaking, be called Marxist; other Marxist sciences do not
yet exist). “Just as historical materialism is not identical with
dialectical materialism, the latter is not identical with specifically
natural scientific theory, which, incidentally, is still in the process of
being born” (Vishnevsky, 1925). But Stepanov (1924) identifies the
dialectical-materialist understanding of nature with the mechanistic
one and finds that it is given and can already be found in the
mechanistic conception of the natural sciences. As an example the
author mentions the debate in psychology about the question of
introspection.
Dialectical materialism is a most abstract science. The direct
application of dialectical materialism to the biological sciences and
psychology, as is common nowadays, does not go beyond the formal
logical, scholastic, verbal subsumption of particular phenomena,
whose internal sense and relation is unknown, under general, abstract,
universal categories. At best this leads to an accumulation of
examples and illustrations. But not more than that. Water – steam – ice
and natural economy – feudalism – capitalism are one and the same,
one and the same process from the viewpoint of dialectical
materialism. But historical materialism would lose much qualitative
wealth in such a generalisation!
Marx called his Das Kapital a critique of political economy. Such a
critique of psychology one wants to skip today. “A textbook of
psychology, explained from the viewpoint of dialectical materialism,”
must sound essentially like “a textbook of mineralogy, explained from
the viewpoint of formal logic.” After all, this goes without saying – to
reason logically is not a property of the given textbook or mineralogy
as a whole. And dialectics is not logic, it is broader. Or: “a textbook of
sociology, from the viewpoint of dialectical materialism” instead of
“historical.” We must develop a theory of psychological materialism.
We cannot yet create textbooks of dialectical psychology.
But we would lose our main criterion in critical judgment as well.
The way one now determines, as in the assay office, whether a given
theory is in accord with Marxism, can be understood as a method of
“logical superposition,” i.e., one checks whether the forms, the logical
features coincide (monism, etc.). It should be known what can and
must be looked for in Marxism. Man is not made for the Sabbath, but
the Sabbath is made for man. We must find a theory which would help
us to know the mind, but by no means the solution of the question of
the mind, not a formula which would give the ultimate scientific truth.
We cannot find it in the citations from Plekhanov for the simple reason
that it is not there. Neither Marx, nor Engels, nor Plekhanov possessed
such a truth. Hence the fragmentary nature, the brevity of many
formulations, their rough character, their meaning which is strictly
limited to the context. Such a formula can in principle not be given in
advance, before the scientific study of the mind, but develops as the
result of the scientific work of centuries. What can be searched for in
the teachers of Marxism beforehand is not a solution of the question,
not even a working hypothesis (as these are developed on the basis of
the given science), but the method to develop it [the hypothesis]. I do
not want to learn what constitutes the mind for free, by picking out a
couple of citations, I want to learn from Marx’s whole method how to
build a science, how to approach the investigation of the mind.
That is why Marxism is not only applied in the wrong place (in
textbooks instead of a general psychology), but why one takes the
wrong things from it. We do not need fortuitous utterances, but a
method; not dialectical materialism, but historical materialism. Das
Kapital must teach us many things – both because a genuine social
psychology begins after Das Kapital and because psychology
nowadays is a psychology before Das Kapital. Struminsky is fully
right when he calls the very idea of a Marxist psychology as a
synthesis of the thesis “empiricism” with the antithesis “reflexology” a
scholastic construction. After a real path has been found, one may for
clarity’s sake signal these three points, but to search for real paths by
means of this schema would mean taking the road of speculative
combination and dealing with the dialectics of ideas rather than the
dialectics of facts or being. Psychology has no independent paths of
development; we must find the real historical processes behind them,
which condition them. He is only wrong when he asserts that to select
the paths of psychology on the basis of the contemporary currents in a
Marxist fashion is impossible in principle (Struminsky, 1926).
The idea he develops is right, but it only concerns the historical
analysis of the development of science and not the methodological one.
Because the methodologist takes no interest in what really will take
place in the process of development of psychology tomorrow, he also
ignores factors outside of psychology. But he is interested in the kind
of disease psychology is suffering from, what it lacks in order to
become a science, etc. After all, the external factors as well push
psychology along the road of its development and can neither abolish
the work of centuries nor make it skip a century. The logical structure
of knowledge grows organically.
Struminsky is also right when he points out that the new psychology
virtually came so far as to frankly accept the position of the older
subjective psychology. But the trouble is not that the author fails to
take account of the external, real factors of the development of the
science he attempts to take account of; the trouble is that he does not
take the methodological nature of the crisis into account. The course of
development of each science has its own strict sequence. External
factors can speed up or slow down this course, they may sidetrack it,
and finally, they can determine the qualitative character of each stage,
but to change the sequence of these stages is impossible. Using the
external factors we can explain the idealistic or materialistic, religious
or positive, individualistic or social, pessimistic or optimistic character
of the stage, but no external factors can establish that a science which
finds itself in the stage of gathering raw material can proceed straight
to the creation of technical, applied disciplines, or that a science with
well-developed
theories
and
hypotheses,
with
well-developed
technique and experimentation will start dealing with the gathering
and description of primary material.
Thanks to the crisis, the division into two psychologies through the
creation of a methodology has been put on the agenda. How it will
turn out depends on external factors. Titchener and Watson in their
American and socially different way, Koffka and Stern in a German
and again socially different way, Bekhterev and Kornilov in their
Russian and again different way – they all solve one problem. What
this methodology will be and how fast it will be there we do not know,
but that psychology does not move any further as long as the
methodology has not been created, that the methodology will be the
first step forward, is beyond doubt.
The fundamental stones have in principle been laid correctly. The
general way, which will take decades, has also been indicated correctly.
The goal is also correct, as is the general plan. Even the practical
orientation in contemporary currents is correct, though incomplete.
But the next path, the next steps, the plan of action, suffer from
deficits: they lack an analysis of the crisis and a correct orientation on
methodology. The works of Kornilov are the beginning of this
methodology, and anyone who wants to develop the idea of
psychology and Marxism further will be forced to repeat him and to
continue his road. As a road this idea is unequalled in strength in
European psychology. If it does not lose itself in criticism and
polemics, if it does not turn into a paper war [war with pamphlets] but
rises to a methodology, if it does not search for ready-made answers,
and if it understands the tasks of contemporary psychology, then it will
lead to the creation of a theory of psychological materialism.
Chapter 14: Conclusion
We have finished our investigation. Did we find everything we were looking for? In
any case, we have come quite close. We have prepared the ground for research in the
field of psychology and, in order to justify our argumentation, we must test our
conclusions and construct a model of general psychology. But before that we would
like to dwell on one more aspect which, admittedly, is of more stylistic than
fundamental importance. But the stylistic completion of an idea is not totally
irrelevant to its complete articulation.
We have split the tasks and method, the area of investigation and the
principle of our science. What remains is to split its name. The
processes of division which became evident in the crisis have also
influenced the fate of the name of our science. Various systems have
half broken with the old name and use their own to designate the
whole research area. In this fashion one sometimes speaks, of
behaviorism as the science of behavior as a synonym for psychology
and not for one of its currents. Psychoanalysis and reactology are often
mentioned in this way. Other systems break completely with the old
name as they see the traces of a mythological origin in it. Reflexology
is an example. This latter current emphasizes that it rejects the
tradition and builds on a new and vacant spot. It cannot be disputed
that such a view has some truth to it, although one must look at science
in a very mechanical and unhistorical manner not to understand the
role of continuity and tradition at all, even during a revolution. Watson,
however, is partly right when he demands a radical rupture with the
older psychology, when he points to astrology and alchemy and to the
danger of an ambiguous psychology.
Other systems have so far remained without a name–Pavlov’s is an
example. Sometimes he calls his area physiology, but by terming his
work the study of behavior and higher nervous activity he has left the
question of the name open. In his early works Bekhterev openly
distinguished himself from physiology; for Bekhterev reflexology is
not physiology. Pavlov’s students set forth his theory under the name
“science of behavior.” And indeed, two sciences which are so different
should have two different names. Munsterberg [1922, p. 13] expressed
this idea long ago:
Whether the intentional understanding of inner life should really be
called psychology is, of course, still a question that can be debated.
Indeed, much speaks in favor of keeping the name psychology for the
descriptive and explanatory science, excluding the science of the
understanding of mental experiences and inner relations from
psychology [emphasis by Vygotsky].
However, this knowledge nevertheless exists under the name of
psychology; “It is true that it seldom appears in pure and consistent
form. It is mostly somehow superficially connected with elements of
causal psychology” [ibid., p. 13]. But as we know the author’s opinion
that the whole confusion in psychology is due to this mixture, the only
conclusion is to select another name for intentional psychology. In part
this is how it goes. Right before our eyes phenomenology is producing
a psychology which is “necessary for certain logical goals” [ibid., p.
13] and instead of a division into two sciences by means of adjectives,
which cause enormous confusion..., it begins to introduce various
substantives.
Chelpanov
observes
that
“analytical”
and
“phenomenological” are two names for one and the same method, that
phenomenology partially coincides with analytical psychology, that
the debate as to whether the phenomenology of psychology exists or
not is a terminological matter. If we add to this that the author
considers this method and this part of psychology to be basic, then it
would be logical to call analytical psychology phe nomenology.
Husserl himself prefers to confine himself to an adjective in order to
preserve the purity of his science and he talks about “eidetic
psychology.” But Binswanger [1922, p. 135] openly writes: we must
distinguish “between pure phenomenology and . . . empirical
phenomenology (= descriptive psychology)” and bases this on the
adjective “pure” introduced by Husserl himself. The sign of equality is
written down in a highly mathematical fashion. If we recall that Lotze
called psychology applied mathematics; that Bergson in his definition
almost identified empirical metaphysics with psychology; that Husserl
wishes to regard pure phenomenology as a metaphysical theory about
essences (Binswanger, 1922), then we will understand that idealistic
psychology itself has both a tradition and a tendency to abandon a
decrepit and compromised name. And Dilthey explains that
explanatory psychology goes back to Wolff’s rational psychology, and
descriptive psychology, to empirical psychology.
It is true, some idealists are against attaching this name to natural
scientific psychology. Thus, Frank [1917/1964, pp. 15-16] uses harsh
words to point out that two different sciences are living under a single
name, writing that
It is not at all a matter of the more or less scientific
nature of two different methods of a single science, but
of simply supplanting one science by a totally different
one, which though it has retained some weak traces of
kinship with the first, has essentially a totally different
subject . . . Present-day psychology declares itself to be
a natural science . . .. This means that contemporary
so-called psychology is not at all psychology, but
physio-logy
.
.
.
The
excellent
term
‘‘psychology”–theory of the soul–was simply illegally
stolen and used as a title for a completely different
scientific field. It has been stolen so thoroughly that
when you now think about the nature of the soul. . .you
are doing something which is destined to remain
nameless or for which one must invent some new term.
But even the current distorted name “psychology” does not
correspond to its essence for three quarters of it–it is psychophysics
and psychophysiology. And the new science he wants to call
philosophical psychology in order to “revive the real meaning of the
term ‘psychology’ and give it back to its legitimate owner after the
theft mentioned before, which already cannot be redeemed directly”
[ibid., p. 36].
We see the remarkable fact that reflexology, which strives to break
with “alchemy,” and philosophy, which wishes to contribute to the
resurrection of the rights of psychology in the old, literal and precise
meaning of this word, are both looking for a new term and remain
nameless. What is even more remarkable is that their motives are
identical. Some fear the traces of its materialistic origin in this name,
others fear that it lost its old, literal and precise meaning. Can we find
a– stylistically–better manifestation of the dualism of contemporary
psychology? However, Frank also agrees that natural scientific
psychology has stolen the name irredeemably and thoroughly. And we
propose that it is the materialistic branch which must call itself
psychology. There are two important considerations which speak in
favor of this and against the radicalism of the reflexologists. Firstly, it
is exactly the materialistic branch which forms the crown of all
genuinely scientific tendencies, eras, currents, and authors which are
represented in the histozy of our science, i.e., it is indeed psychology
according to its very essence. Secondly, by accepting this name, the
new psychology does not at all ‘steal’ it, does not distort its meaning,
nor does it commit itself to the mythological traces which are
preserved in it, but, on the contrary, it retains a vivid historical
reminder of its whole development from the very starting point.
Let us start with the second consideration.
Psychology as a science of the soul, in Frank’s sense, in the precise
and old sense of the word, does not exist. He himself is forced to
ascertain this after he convinced himself with amazement and almost
despair that such literature is virtually nonexistent. Further, empirical
psychology as a complete science does not exist at all. And what is
going on now is at bottom not a revolution, not even a reform of
science and not the completion through synthesis of some foreign
reform, but the realization of psychology and the liberation of what is
capable of growing in science from what is not capable of growth.
Empirical psychology itself (incidentally, it will soon be 50 years since
the name of this science has not been used at all, since each school
adds its own adjective) is as dead as a cocoon left by the butterfly, as
an egg deserted by the nestling. James says that
“When, then, we talk of ‘psychology as a natural
science’ we must not assume that that means a sort of
psychology that stands at last on solid ground. It means
just the reverse; it means a psychology particularly
fragile, and into which the waters of metaphysical
criticism leak at every joint, a psychology all of whose
elementary assumptions and data must be reconsidered
in wider connections and translated into our tenns. It is,
in short, a phrase of diffidence, and not of arrogance;
and it is indeed strange to hear people talk of ‘the New
Psychology,’ and write ‘Histories of Psychology,’
when into the real elements and forces which the word
covers not the first glimpse of clear insight exists. A
string of raw facts; a little gossip and wrangle about
opinions; a little classification and generalization on the
mere descriptive level; a strong prejudice that we have
states of mind, and that our brain conditions them: but
not a single law in the sense in which physics shows us
laws, not a single proposition from which any
consequence can causally be deduced. We don’t even
know the terms between which the elementary laws
would obtain if we had them. This is no science, it is
only the hope of a science [see pp. 400-401 of
Burkhardt, 1984].”
James gives a brilliant inventory of what we inherit from
psychology, a list of its possessions and fortune. It gives us a string of
raw facts and the hope of a science.
How are we connected with mythology through this name?
Psychology, like physics before Galileo or chemistry before Lavoisier,
is not yet a science which may somehow influence the future science.
But have the circumstances perhaps fundamentally changed since
James wrote this? At the 8th Congress of Experimental Psychology in
1923, Spearman repeated James’ definition and said that psychology
was stifi not a science but the hope for a science. One must have a
considerable amount of philistine provincialism to represent the matter
as Chelpanov did. As if there exist unshakable truths which are
accepted by everybody, which have been corroborated over the
centuries and which some wish to destroy for no reason at all.
The other consideration is even more serious. In the final analysis
we must openly say that psychology does not have two, but only one
heir, and that there can be no serious debate about its name. The
second psychology is impossible as a science. And we must say with
Pavlov that from the scientific viewpoint we consider the position of
this psychology to be hopeless. As a real scientist, Pavlov [1928/1963,
p. 77] does not ask whether a mental aspect exists, but how we can
study it. He says:
How must the physiologist treat these psychical
phenomena? It iv impossible to neglect them, because
they are closely bound up with purely physiological
phenomena and determine the work of the whole oigan.
If the physiologist decides to study them, he must
answer the question, How?
Thus, in this division we do not yield a single phenomenon to the
other side. We study everything on our path that exists and explain
everything that [merely] seems [to exist].
For how many thousands of years has man elaborated psychical
facts. ... Millions of pages have been written to describe the internal
world of the human being, but with what result? Up to the present we
have no laws of the psychic life of man [ibid., p.114].
What is left after the division, will go to the realm of art. Already
now Frank [1917/ 1964, p. 16] calls the writers of novels the teachers
of psychology. For Dilthey [1894/1977, p. 36] psychology’s task is to
catch in the web of its descriptions what is hidden in King Lear,
Hamlet, and Macbeth as he saw in them “more psychology than in all
the manuals of psychology together.” It is true, Stem laughed
maliciously at such a psychology procured from novels and said that
you cannot milk a painted cow. But in contrast with his idea and in
accordance with Dilthey’s, descriptive psychology is really developing
into fiction. The first congress on individual psychology, which
regards itself as this second psychology, heard Oppenheim’s paper,
who seized in the web of his concepts what Shakespeare gave in
images–exactly what Dilthey wanted. The second psychology
becomes metaphysics whatever it is called. It is precisely the
impossibility of such knowledge as science which determines our
choice.
Thus, there is only one heir for the name of our science. But,
perhaps, it should decline the heritage? Not at all. We are dialecticians.
We do not at all think that the developmental path of science follows a
straight line, and if it has had zigzags, returns, and loops we
understand their historical significance and consider them to be
necessary links in our chain, inevitable stages of our path, just as
capitalism is an inevitable stage on the road toward socialism. We
have set store by each step which our science has ever made toward
the truth. We do not think that our science started with us. We will not
concede to anyone Aristotle’s idea of association, nor the theory about
the subjective illusions of sensations by him and the skeptics, nor J.
Mill’s idea of causality, nor J. S. Mill’s idea of psychological
chemistry, nor the “refined materialism” of Spencer which Dilthey
[1924, p. 45] viewed not as a “sure foundation, but a danger.” In a
word, we will not concede to anyone this whole line of materialism in
psychology which the idealists sweep, aside so carefully. We know
that they are right in one thing: “The hidden materialism of
[Spencerian] explanatory psychology has played a disintegrating role
in the economic and political sciences and in criminal law” (ibid., p.
45).
Herbart’s idea of a dynamic and mathematical psychology, the
works of Fechner and Helmholtz, Tame’s idea about the motor nature
of the mind as well as Binet’s theory of the mental pose or internal
mimics, Ribot’s motor theory, the James– Lange peripheral theory of
emotions, even the WUrzburg school’s theory of thinking and of
attention as activity–in one word, every step toward truth in our
science, belongs to us. After all, we did not choose one of the two
roads because we liked it, but because we consider it to be the right
one.
Consequently, this road encompasses absolutely everything which
was scientific in psychology. The attempt itself to study the mind
scientifically, the effort of free thought to master the mind, however it
became obscured and paralyzed by mythology, i.e., the very idea of a
scientific conception of the soul, contains the whole future path of
psychology. For science is the path to truth, even if by way of delusion.
But this is precisely the road of our science: we struggle, we overcome
errors, via incredible complications, in a superhuman fight with
age-old prejudices. We do not want to deny our past. We do not suffer
from megalomania by thinking that history begins with us. We do not
want a brand-new and trivial name from history. We want a name
covered by the dust of the centuries. We regard this as our historical
right, as an indication of our historical role, our claim to realize
psychology as a science. We must view ourselves in connection with
and in relation to the past. Even when denying it we rely upon it.
It might be said that in its literal sense this name is not applicable to
our science now, as it changes its meaning in every epoch. But be so
kind as to mention a single word that has not changed its meaning.
Don’t we make a logical mistake when we talk of blue ink or a pilot’s
art? But on the other hand we are loyal to another logic–the logic of
language. If the geometer even today calls his science with a name
which means “measuring the earth,” then the psychologist can refer to
his science by a name which once meant “theory of the soul.” Whereas
the concept of measuring the earth is now too narrow for geometry, it
was once a decisive step forward, to which the whole science owes its
existence. Whereas the idea of the soul is now reactionary, it once was
the first scientific hypothesis of ancient man, an enormous
achievement of thought to which we owe the existence of our science
now. Animals probably do not have the idea of the soul, nor do they
have psychology. We understand that, historically, psychology had to
begin with the idea of the soul. We are as little inclined to view this as
simply ignorance and error as we consider slavery to be the result of a
bad character. We know that science on its path toward the truth
inevitably involves delusions, errors and prejudices. Essential for
science is not that these exist, but that they, being errors, nevertheless
lead to the truth, that they are overcome. That is why we accept the
name of our science with all its age-old delusions as a vivid reminder
of our victory over these errors, as the fighting scars of wounds, as a
vivid testimony of the truth which develops in the incredibly
complicated struggle with falsehood.
All sciences essentially proceed this way. Do the builders of the
future really start from scratch, aren’t they those who complete and
follow all that is genuine in human experience? Do they really not
have allies and forebears in the past? Let us be shown but a single
word, a single scientific name, which can be applied in a literal sense.
Or do mathematics, philosophy, dialectics and metaphysics signify
what they once signified? Let it not be said that two branches of
knowledge about a single object must absolutely carry the same name.
Let logic and the psychology of thinking be remembered. Sciences are
not classified and named according to their object of study, but
according to the principles and goals of the study. Does Marxism
really not want to know its ancestors in philosophy? Only unhistorical
and uncreative minds are inventive with respect to new names and
sciences. Such ideas do not become Marxism. Chelpanov comes with
the information that during the French revolution the term
“psychology” was replaced by the term “ideology,” since for that era
psychology was the science about the soul. But ideology formed part
of zoology and was divided into physiological and rational ideology.
This is correct, but what incalculable harm results from such
unhistorical word usage can be seen from the difficulty which we now
have in deciphering different loci about ideology in Marx’s texts, how
ambiguous this term sounds. It gives occasion to such “investigators”
as Chelpanov to claim that for Marx ideology signified psychology.
This terminological reform is partly responsible for the fact that the
role and meaning of the older psychology is undervalued in the history
of our science. And finally, it leads to a clear rupture with its genuine
descendants, it severs the vivid line of unity. Chelpanov, who declared
(1924, p. 27) that psychology has nothing in common with physiology,
now vows for the Great Revolution. Psychology has always been
physiological and “contemporary scientific psychology is the child of
the psychology of the French revolution.” Only extreme ignorance or
the expectation that others would be so ignorant can have dictated
these phrases. Whose contemporary psychology? Mill’s or Spencer’s,
Bain’s or Ribot’s? Correct. But that of Dilthey and Husserl, Bergson
and James, MUnsterberg and Stout, Meinong and Lipps, Frank and
Chelpanov? Can there be a bigger untruth? After all, all of these
builders of the new psychology advanced another system as the
foundation of science, a system which was hostile to Mill and Spencer,
Bain, and Ribot. The same name which Chelpanov uses as a shelter
they slighted “like a dead dog.” But Chelpanov shelters behind names
which are foreign and hostile to him and speculates on the ambiguity
of the term “contemporary psychology.” Yes, in contemporary
psychology there is a branch which can regard itself as the child of
revolutionary psychology. But during his entire life (and today)
Chelpanov has done nothing but attempt to chase this branch into a
dark corner of science, to separate it from psychology.
But once again: bow dangerous is a common name and how
unhistorically did the psychologists of France act who betrayed it!
This name was first introduced into science in 1590 by Goclenius,
professor in Marburg, and accepted by his student Casmann in 1594. It
was not introduced by Christian Wolff around the mid-eighteenth
century and is not found for the first time in Melanchthon, as is usually
incorrectly thought. It is mentioned by Ivanovsky as a name to indicate
part of anthropology, which together with somatology formed one
science. That this term is ascribed to Melanchthon is based on the
preface of the publisher to the 13th volume of his writings, in which
Melanchthon is incorrectly indicated as the first author of psychology.
This name was quite rightly retained by Lange, the author of the
psychology without a soul. But isn’t psychology called the theory of
the soul?, he asks. How can we conceive of a science which doubts
whether it has a subject matter to study at all? However, he found it
pedantic and unpractical to throw away the traditional name once the
subject matter of the science had changed, and called for the
unwavering acceptance of a psychology without a soul.
The endless fuss about psychology’s name started precisely with
Lange’s reform. This name, taken in itself, ceased to mean anything.
Each time one had to add: “without a soul,” “without any
metaphysics,” “based on experience,” “from an empirical viewpoint,”
etc. Psychology per se ceased to exist. Here resided Lange’s mistake.
Having accepted the old name he did not embrace it fully, completely,
did not distinguish, separate it from tradition. Once psychology is
without a soul, then with a soul we do not have psychology, but
something else. But here, of course, he did not so much lack good
intentions, as strength. The time was not yet ripe for a division.
We, too, must now face this terminological matter which belongs to
the theme of the division into two sciences.
How will we call natural scientific psychology? It is now often
called objective, new, Marxist, scientific, the science of behavior. Of
course, we will reserve the name psychology for it. But what kind of
psychology? How do we distinguish it from every other system of
knowledge which uses the same name? We only have to sum up a
small part of the definitions which are now being applied to
psychology in order to see that there is no logical unity at the basis of
these divisions. Sometimes the epithet designates the school of
behaviorism, sometimes Gestalt psychology; sometimes the method of
experimental psychology, psychoanalysis; sometimes the principle of
construction (eidetic, analytical, descriptive, empirical); sometimes the
subject matter of the science (functional, structural, actual, intentional);
sometimes
the
area
of
investigation
(Individualpsychologie);
sometimes the world view (personalism, Marxism, spiritualism,
materialism);
sometimes
many
things
(subjective-objective,
constructive-reconstructive, physiological, biological, associative,
dialectical, etc. etc.). On top of that one talks about historical and
understanding, explanatory and intuitive, scientific (Blonsky) and
“scientific” (used by the idealists in the sense of natural-scientific)
psychology.
What does the word “psychology” signify after this? Stout [1909, p.
ix] says that “The time is rapidly approaching when no one will think
of writing a book on Psychology in general, anymore than of writing a
book on Mathematics in general.” All terms are unstable, they do not
logically exclude each other, are not well- defined, are vague and
obscure, ambiguous, accidental, and refer to secondary features, which
not only does not facilitate the understanding, but hampers it. Wundt
called his psychology “physiological,” but later be repented and
regarded this as an error and reasoned that the same work should be
called “experimental.” This illustrates best how little all these terms
mean. For some, “experimental” is a synonym for “scientific,” for
others, it is only the designation of a method. We will only point out
the epithets which are most widely used in psychology, considered in
the light of Marxism.
I consider it inexpedient to call it “objective.” Chelpanov correctly
pointed out that in foreign psychology this term is used in most diverse
senses. In Russia as well it engendered many ambiguities and
furthered confusion in the epistemological and methodological
problem of mind and matter. The term promoted the confusion of
method as a technical procedure and as a method of knowledge. This
resulted in the treatment of the dialectical method alongside the survey
method as equally objective, and in the conviction that the natural
sciences have done away with all use of subjective indicators,
subjective (in their genesis) concepts and divisions. The term
“objective” is often vulgarized and equated with “truthful,” while the
term “subjective” is equated with “false” (the influence of the common
use of these words). Further, it does not express the crux of the matter
at all. It expresses the essence of the reform only in a conditional sense
and concerning one aspect. Finally, a psychology which also wishes to
be a theory about the subjective or also wishes to explain the
subjective on its paths, must not falsely call itself “objective.”
It would also be incorrect to call our science “the psychology of
behavior.” Apart from the fact that this new epithet, like the preceding
one, does not distinguish us from quite a number of currents and,
therefore, does not reach its goal; apart from the fact that it is false, for
the new psychology wants to know the mind as well; it is a philistine,
everyday term, which is why it attracted the Americans. When Watson
equates “the concept of personality in the science of behavior and in
common sense” (1926, p. 355), when he sets himself the task of
creating a science so that the “ordinary man” “who takes up the
science of behavior would not feel a change of method or some change
of the object” (ibid., p. ix); a science which among its problems also
has the following one: “Why George Smith left his wife” (ibid., p. 5);
a science which begins with the exposition of everyday methods;
which cannot formulate the difference between them and scientific
methods and views the whole difference in the study of those cases
which are of no interest for everyday life, which do not interest
common sense–then the term “behavior” is the most appropriate one.
But if we become convinced, as will be shown below, that it is
logically untenable and does not provide a criterion by which we
might decide why the peristalsis of the intestine, the excretion of urine,
and inflammation should be excluded from the science; that it is
ambiguous and undefined and means very different things for Blonsky
and Pavlov, Watson and Koffica; then we will not hesitate to throw it
away.
I would, further, consider it incorrect to define psychology as
“Marxist.” I have already said that it is unacceptable to write textbooks
from the viewpoint of dialectical materialism (Struminsky, 1923;
Kornilov, 1925); but also “Outline of Marxist Psychology,” as Rejsner
translated the title of Jameson’s booklet , I regard as improper word
usage. Even such word combinations as “reflexology and Marxism,”
when one is dealing with different concrete currents within physiology,
I consider to be incorrect and risky. Not because I doubt the possibility
of such an evaluation, but because one takes incommensurable
quantities, because the intermediate terms which alone make such an
evaluation possible are missing. The scale is lost and distorted. After
all, the author passes judgment upon the whole of reflexology not from
the viewpoint of the whole of Marxism, but on the basis of different
pronouncements by different groups of Marxists-psychologists. It
would not be correct, for instance, to raise the problem of the district
soviet and Marxism, although the theory of Marxism has undoubtedly
no fewer resources to shed light upon the question of the district soviet
than upon reflexology and although the district soviet is a directly
Marxist idea which is logically connected with the entire whole. And
nevertheless we make use of other scales, we utilize intermediate,
more concrete and less universal concepts. We talk about the Soviet
power and the district soviet, about the dictatorship of the proletariat
and the district soviet, about class struggle and the district soviet. Not
everything which is connected with Marxism should be called Marxist.
Often this goes without saying. When we add to this that what
psychologists usually appeal to in Marxism is dialectical materialism,
i.e., its most universal and generalized part, then the disparity of the
scales becomes still clearer.
Finally, there is a special difficulty in the application of Marxism to
new areas. The present concrete state of this theory, the enormous
responsibility in using this term, the politiôal and ideological
speculation with it–all this prevents good taste from saying “Marxist
psychology” now. We had better let others say of our psychology that
it is Marxist than call it that ourselves. We put it into practice and wait
a little with the term. In the final analysis, Marxist psychology does
not yet exist. It must be understood as a historical goal, not as
something already given. And in the contemporary state of affairs it is
difficult to get rid of the impression that this name is used in an
unserious and irresponsible manner.
An argument against its use is also the circumstance that a synthesis
between psychology and Marxism is being accomplished by more than
one school and that this name can easily give rise to confusion in
Europe. Not many people know that Adler’s individual psychology
links itself to Marxism. In order to understand what kind of
psychology this is, we should remember its methodological
foundations. When it argued its right to be a science it referred to
Rickert, who says that the word “psychology” applied by the
natural-scientist and the historian has two different meanings and
therefore distinguishes natural-scientific and historical psychology. If
one would not do this, then the psychology of the historian and the
poet could not be called psychology, because it has nothing in
common with psychology. And the theorists of the new school
assumed
that
Rickert’s
historical
psychology and
individual
psychology were one and the same thing [cf. Binswanger, 1922, p.
333].
Psychology has been divided into two parts and the debate is only
about the name and the theoretical possibility of the new independent
branch. Psychology is impossible as a natural science, the individual
factor cannot be subsumed under any law; it does not want to explain,
but to understand (ibid.). This division was introduced into psychology
by Jaspers, but by understanding psychology he meant Husserl’s
phenomenology. As the basis of any psychology it is very important,
even irreplaceable, but it is not itself and does not want to be,
individual psychology. Understanding psychology can only proceed
from teleology. Stem founded such a psychology; personalism is but
another name for understanding psychology. But he attempts to study
the personality in differential psychology with the means of
experimental psychology, of the natural sciences: both explanation and
understanding remain equally unsatisfactory. Only intuition and not
discursive- causal thinking can lead to the goal. The title “philosophy
of the ego” it considers to be honorary. It is no psychology at all, but
philosophy, and wishes to be so. And such a psychology, about whose
nature there can be no doubt, refers in its constructions, for example in
the theory of mass psychology, to Marxism, to the theory of the base
and superstructure, as to its natural foundation. In social psychology it
has yielded the hitherto best and most interesting project of a synthesis
of Marxism and individual psychology in the theory of class struggle:
Marxism and individual psychology must and are called upon to
extend and impregnate each other. The Hegelian triad is applicable to
both mental life and economics (just as in Russia). This project evoked
an interesting polemic which showed in the defense of this idea a
sound, critical and–in a number of questions–entirely Marxist
approach. While Marx taught us to understand the economic
foundations of the class struggle, Adler did the same for its
psychological foundations.
This not only illustrates the entire complexity of the current
situation in psychology, where the most unexpected and paradoxical
combinations are possible, but also the danger of this epithet
(incidentally, talking about paradoxes: this very psychology contests
Russian reflexology’s right to a theory of relativity). When the eclectic
and unprincipled, superficial and semi-scientific theory of Jameson is
called Marxist psychology, when also the majority of the influential
Gestalt psychologists regard themselves as Marxists in their scientific
work, then this name loses precision with respect to the beginning
psychological schools which have not yet won the right to “Marxism.”
I remember how extremely amazed I was when I realized this during
an informal conversation. I had the following conversation with one of
the most educated psychologists:
"What kind of psychology do you have in Russia?
That you are Mandsts does not yet tell what kind of
psychologists you are. Knowing of Freud’s popularity
in Russia, I at first thought of the Adlerians. After all,
these are also Marxists. But you have a totally different
psychology. We are also social-democrats and Marxists,
but at the same time we are Darwinists and followers of
Copernicus as well."
I am convinced that he was right because of one, in my view
decisive, consideration. After all, we would indeed not call our biology
“Darwinian.” This is included in the concept of science itself. It
implies the acceptance of all great conceptions. A Marxist historian
would never use the title “A Marxist History of Russia.” He would
regard this as self-evident. “Marxist” is for him synonymous with
“truthful” and “scientific.” Another history than a Marxist one he does
not acknowledge. And for us it should be the same. Our science will
become Marxist to the degree that it becomes truthful and scientific.
And we will work precisely on making it truthful and to make it agree
with Marx’s theory. According to the very meaning of the word and
the essence of the matter we cannot use “Marxist psychology” in the
sense we use associative, experimental, empirical, or eidetic
psychology. Marxist psychology is not a school amidst schools, but
the only genuine psychology as a science. A psychology other than
this cannot exist. And the other way around: everything that was and is
genuinely scientific belongs to Marxist psychology. This concept is
broader than the concept of school or even current. It coincides with
the concept scientific per se, no matter where and by whom it may
have been developed.
Blonsky (1921) uses the term “scientific psychology” in this sense.
And he is entirely right. What we wanted to do, the meaning of our
reform, the crux of our divergence with the empiricists, the basic
character of our science, our goal and the size of our task, its content
and the method of its fulfillment–is all expressed by this epithet. It
would fully satisfy me if only it were not unnecessary. Expressed in its
most correct form it clearly revealed that it cannot express anything
more than is already contained in the word it predicates. After all,
“psychology” is the name of a science and not of a theater piece or a
movie. It cannot be anything other than scientific. Nobody would call
the description of the sky in a novel “astronomy.” The name
“psychology” is as little suited for the description of the thoughts of
Raskol’nikov or the ravings of Lady Macbeth. Whatever describes the
mind in a nonscientific way is not psychology, but something
else–whatever you like: advertising, review, chronicle, fiction, lyric
poetry, philosophy, philistinism, gossip and a thousand other things
besides. After all, the epithet “scientific” is not only applicable to
Blonsky’s outline , but also to Muller’s investigations of memory,
Kohler’s experiments with apes, Weber–Fechner’s theory about
thresholds, Groos’ theory of play, Thomdike’s theory of training,
Aristotle’s association theory, i.e., to everything in history and
contemporaneity which belongs to science. I would be prepared to
argue that theories which are known to be incorrect, which have been
falsified or are doubtful, can also be scientific, for being scientific is
not the same as being valid. A ticket for the theater can be absolutely
valid and nonscientific. Herbart’s theory about feelings as the relations
between ideas is absolutely false, but equally absolutely scientific. The
goal and means determine whether a theory is scientific and no other
factors. That is why to say “scientific psychology” is equal to saying
nothing or, more correctly, to saying simply “psychology.”
It remains for us to accept this name. It perfectly well stresses what
we want– the size and the content of our task. And it does not reside in
the creation of a school next to other schools; it does not cover some
part or aspect, or problem, or method of interpretation of psychology
alongside analogous parts, schools, etc. We are talking about all of
psychology, in its full capacity; about the only psychology which does
not admit of another one. We are talking about the realization of
psychology as a science.
That is why we will simply say: psychology. We will do better to
explain other currents and schools with epithets and to distinguish
what is scientific from what is nonscientific in them, psychology from
empiism, from theology, from eidos and from everything which has
stuck to it in the centuries of its existence• as to the side of an
ocean-going ship.Epithets we need for other things: for the systematic,
consistently logical methodological division of disciplines within
psychology. Thus, we will speak about general and child psychology,
zoo- and patbopsychology, differential and comparative psychology.
Psychology will be the common name for an entire family of sciences.
After all, our task is not at all to isolate our work from the general
psychological work of the past, but to unite our work with all the
scientific achievements of psychology into one whole, and on a new
basis. We do not want to distinguish our school from science, but
science from nonscience, psychology from nonpsychology. The
psychology about which we are talking does not yet exist. It still has to
be created–and by more than one school. Many generations of
psychologists will still work on it, as James said [see p. 401 of
Burkhardt, 1984]. Psychology will have its geniuses and its ordinary
investigators. But what will emerge from the joint work of the
generations, of both the geniuses and the simple skilled workmen of
science, will be psychology. With this name our science will enter the
new society on the threshold of which it begins to take shape. Our
science could not and cannot develop in the old society. We cannot
master the truth about personality and personality itself so long as
mankind has not mastered the truth about society and society itself. In
contrast, in the new society our science will take a central place in life.
“The leap from the kingdom of necessity into the kingdom of
freedom” [78] inevitably puts the question of the mastery of our own
being, of its subjection to the self, on the agenda. In this sense Pavlov
is right when he calls our science the last science about man himself. It
will indeed be the last science in the historical or prehistorical period
of mankind. The new society will create the new man. When one
mentions the remolding of man as an indisputable trait of the new
mankind and the artificial creation of a new biological type, then this
will be the only and first species in biology which will create itself . . .
In the future society, psychology will indeed be the science of the
new man. Without this the perspective of Marxism and the history of
science would not be complete. But this science of the new man will
still remain psychology. Now we hold its thread in our hands. There is
no necessity for this psychology to correspond as little to the present
one as–in the words of Spinoza [1677/1955, p. 61]–the constellation
Dog corresponds to a dog, a barking animal.
Week 12（邱倚璿）: 1926 Educational Psychology: Chapt. 13
Aesthetic Behavior
Educational Psychology （Works of Lev Vygotsky）
Educational Psychology
“... People with great passions, people
who accomplish great deeds, people who
possess strong feelings, even people with
great minds and a strong personality,
rarely come out of good little boys and
girls.”
Written: 1926;
Source: Educational Psychology. L. S. Vygotsky.
Introduced by V.V. Davydov;
Translated by: Robert Silverman;
Published: St. Lucie Press, Florida, 1992;
Transcribed: Andy Blunden;
Of the 19 chapters, only chapters 12 and 13 are
reproduced here;
This book was written as a practical manual for
teachers, while Vygotsky was working at the
Institute of Psychology at Moscow University, in
1926, before beginning the experimental work
which led to the formulation of his celebrated
ideas on human development.
1. Pedagogics and Psychology
2. The Concept of Behavior and
Reaction
3. The most important Laws of Higher
Nervous Activity in Man
4. Biological and Social factors in
Education
5. The Instincts as the Subject,
Mechanism and Means of Education
6. Education and Emotional Behavior
7. Psychology and Pedagogics of
Education
8. Reinforcement and Recollection of
Reaction
9. Thinking as an Especially Complex
form of Behavior
10. Psychological Understanding of
Occupational Education
11. Social Behavior and the Child's
Development
12. Ethical Behavior
13. Aesthetic Behavior
14. Exercise and Fatigue
15. Abnormal Behavior
16. Temperament and Character
17. The Problem of Giftedness
18. Basic Forms of Investigations of
the Personality of the Child
19. Psychology and the Teacher
Chapter 13. Esthetic Education (Educational Psychology.
Lev Vygotsky 1926)
Esthetics in the Service of Pedagogics
The nature, ultimate meaning, purpose, and methods of
esthetic education are still unresolved questions in the
realm of psychology as well as in pedagogical theory.
From time immemorial and right up to the present day,
extreme and opposing viewpoints have been adopted
towards these questions, viewpoints which, with each
passing decade, seem to find ever newer confirmation in
a whole series of psychological investigations. Thus, the
controversy not only has not been resolved and not only
is not drawing to a close, but rather is becoming
increasingly more complicated, as if marching in step
with the forward advance of scientific knowledge.
Many writers are inclined to reject the thesis that
esthetic experiences possesses any educational value
whatsoever, and the system of pedagogics which is
associated with these writers and which has grown up
from the very same roots persists in maintaining this idea,
granting only a narrow and restricted value to esthetic
education. In contrast, psychologists who subscribe to a
different system in psychology are inclined to overstate
the value of esthetic experience to an extraordinary
degree, and to see in these experiences a slightly radical
pedagogical tool that can take care of absolutely all the
difficult and complex problems of education.
Between these two extreme points there is a whole series
of moderate views on the role of esthetics in the life of the
child. In most cases, these views are usually inclined to
see in esthetics a form of amusement and a way for
children to have fun. Where some discover a serious and
profound meaning in esthetic experiences, it is nearly
everywhere a matter not of esthetic education as an end
in itself, but only as a tool for attaining pedagogical goals
that are alien to esthetics. Esthetics in the service of
pedagogics, as this may be termed, always fulfils exotic
purposes and, in the opinion of some educators, should
serve as a means and method for the education of
cognition, sensibility, or moral will.
That this view is misguided and irrational can now be
considered established beyond all reasonable doubt. All
three goals, which are alien to yet bound up with
esthetics – cognition, feeling, and morality – have played
a role in the historical evolution of this problem that has
greatly delayed all efforts to understand it correctly.
Morality and Art
It is usually supposed that a work of art possesses a good
or bad, though nevertheless direct moral effect, and in
evaluating esthetic impressions, particularly among
children and teenagers, we are inclined to proceed, above
all, on the basis of an evaluation of this moral impulse,
which emanates from every object. Children’s libraries
are set up with the intention of leading children to draw
instructive moral examples out of books, while a
hortatory tone, tedious copybook maxims, and unctuous
preachiness seem to be the essential style of
self-conscious children’s literature.
The only real lesson the child may draw out of contact
with art – so it is said – is a more or less life-like
illustration of a particular moral rule. Everything else is
declared to be too difficult for children to understand,
and outside the realm of morality children’s literature is
usually limited to nonsense verse and gibberish, as if
there was nothing else children are able to grasp.[1]
Hence arises that silly sentimentality so natural to
children’s literature as to be its distinctive feature. An
adult who tries to affect children’s psychology will, under
the impression that real feelings are too difficult for
children, present sugarcoated version of events and
heroes that are clumsily and unskillfully made up;
feelings are replaced by sensitivity and emotions by
sentiment. Sentimentality is nothing less than silly
feelings.
It is for this reason that, children’s literature usually
represents a vivid example of bad taste, of the coarse
violation of all notion of esthetic style, and of the most
dismal misunderstanding of the mind of the child.
We must, above all, reject such an approach, the belief
that experiences should possess some kind of direct
relationship to moral experience, as if every work of art
incorporates a kind of incentive to moral behavior. An
extraordinarily curious fact has been reported in the
American pedagogical literature regarding the moral
influence of that seemingly indisputably humanistic work
of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. When
asked what were their feelings and thoughts after
reading the book, several American students declared
that, more than anything else, they were sorry that the
time of slavery was gone and that there weren’t any
slaves in America now. This is even more remarkable in
that, in this case, we are dealing not with some kind of
exceptional moral obtuseness or misunderstanding,
rather that the possibility of such a conclusion lies within
the very nature of the child’s esthetic experiences, and
that we can never be certain ahead of time what will be
the moral influence of a particular book.
Chekhov’s story of the medieval monk, who, with the
skill of a wondrous artist, tells his monastic brothers of
the power of the devil, of the debauchery, the horrors,
and the temptations he had been led to see in the city, is
instructive
in this regard. The narrator was inspired by the most
sincere indignation, and since he was a true artist and
spoke with great enthusiasm, eloquently and
resoundingly, he depicted the force of the devil and the
mortal temptations of sin so vividly that by morning
there was not a single monk left in the monastery, all of
them having run off to the city.
The moral effect of art very often recalls the fate of this
sermon, and we can never be certain that our well-laid
plans will always come out just the way we want them to
when dealing with children. Actual observations of the
child’s life and facts taken from psychology that discuss
the way children understand Krylov’s stories are
extremely instructive in this regard. Whenever children
are not trying to guess what sort of response their
teacher is expecting, but speak sincerely and on their
own, their judgements are so at variance with the moral
the teacher may be hoping to impart that some educators
have come to think that even indisputably “ethical”
works may turn out to exert a morally harmful influence
when they are passed through the prism of a child’s mind.
It is necessary to take account of the laws governing this
refractive medium, for otherwise we run the risk of
obtaining results along the lines described above.
In his story, The Fox and the Raven, for example, all the
child’s sympathies are directed towards the fox. It
arouses the child’s admiration, and the child comes to
think of the fox as a being who is clever and subtle in his
mockery of the dumb raven. The effect which the teacher
hopes to obtain – of aversion towards flattery and
adulation – is not achieved. Children laugh at the raven,
while the fox’ deeds appear in the most favorable light.
In no way are children led to the thought, “Oh, how
wicked and harmful is flattery,” from reading the story
and instead end up with quite the opposite moral
sensibility from what they are taught initially.
In the same way, in Krylov’s story, The Dragon Fly and
the Ant, the child’s sympathies are aroused by the
carefree and lyrical dragon fly who, all summer long, is
always singing, while the morose and tiresome ant seems
loathsome, and children come to believe that the entire
story is directed against the ant’s slow-witted and
complacent miserliness. Again, the bite of mockery is
pointed in the wrong direction, and instead of instilling
children with respect for business-like efficiency and for
work, the story suggests the joy and charm of an easy
and carefree existence.
And, finally, in Krylov’s story, The Wolf in the Kennel,
children tend to see the wolf as a heroic figure, since they
feel he is truly majestic, irreverent, and in splendid
defiance towards the hunters and their hounds once he
not only does not cry for help, but proudly and
arrogantly undertakes to defend and protect himself. The
story as a whole discloses its true meaning to children not
from the aspect of any moral sense, i.e., the wolf’s
punishment, but from the aspect of, if one may be so bold,
the tragic grandeur of the destruction of a hero.
There are any number of examples and instances that
may be taken from these or other stories which confirm
the same result. Meanwhile, Russian schools, without any
regard whatsoever for the psychological fact that there is
always a multitude of possible interpretations and moral
conclusions, has forever sought to subsume all artistic
experience under a particular moral dogma, and has
always been content with imparting a single
interpretation of this dogma without suspecting that,
often, a literary text not only does not help us when we
wish to gain an understanding of the text itself, but, on
the contrary, suggests a moral conception which leads
altogether in the opposite direction. Blonskii is quite
correct in his description of our esthetic education when
he writes that poetry as such is absent from literature
classes in the Soviet Union, and that all distinction
between the text of Krylov’s stories and the prosaic
presentation of its content has been lost.
The ultimate, a virtual travesty is reached when it is
matter of searching for the main theme of a given work
of art, for an explanation of “what the author wanted to
say” and what might be the moral value of each
character individually. Sologub presents just such an
interpretation by the teacher Peredonov of a line from
one of Pushkin’s poems “Together with his hungry mate,
the wolf went on its way."[2] Here is an exaggerated,
though not distorted picture of all those methodical
prosaic renderings [prozaizirovanie] of poetry that have
served as the basis of esthetic education in general, in
which we extracting from a literary work all its
nonesthetic elements and make up conjectures regarding
this work from the standpoint of certain moral rules.
We have to note that this tends to have a predatory effect
on the very possibility of esthetic perception and the
esthetic attitude towards the object, not to mention the
fact that it is in radical contradiction with the nature of
esthetic experience.
Art and the Study of Reality
Another, no less harmful psychological confusion in esthetic
education has been the imposition on esthetics of yet other
goals and problems that are likewise foreign to it, though
these are no longer moral in nature, but rather social and
cognitive. Esthetic education is taken to be a tool for
expanding students’ cognition. All those courses on the
history of literature once studied, for example, were
constructed on the basis of this principle, and the acquisition
of facts about art and the laws governing art, were replaced,
quite deliberately, by the study of the social elements found
in these works of art. It is of more than slight importance
that the most popular textbooks on the history of Russian
literature, which all our leading philologists have used in
their teaching, bear such titles as History of the Russian
Intelligentsia (Ovsyanniko-Kulikovskii) and History of
Russian Social Thought (Ivanov-Razumnik). It is not literary
events and facts that are deliberately and intentionally
studied, but the history of the intelligentsia and the history of
social thought, i.e., subjects that are, in essence, alien and
foreign to esthetic education.
All these factors once possessed considerable historical
meaning and value in previous epochs, when our schools
were like the Great Wall of China, isolated from all social
and civil discipline, and when we would receive the true
rudiments of civil and social education in lessons in
literature. But now that the social disciplines have assumed
their proper place, such an exchange of esthetic values for
social values is equally harmful for the one realm as for the
other. Moreover, such a confusion of different realms of
knowledge resembles those marriages where both sides are
equally interested in a separation.
Above all, when we study society on the basis of models
drawn from literature, we are always learning about it in
false and distorted forms, inasmuch as works of art never
reflect reality in all its entirety or in all its genuine truth.
Works of art always constitute an extremely complicated
product achieved through a reworking of the elements of
reality, in which a whole series of utterly foreign elements
are brought into reality. And, ultimately, whoever knows the
history of the Russian intelligentsia only from Pushkin’s
Eugene Onegin and Chatskii runs the risk of possessing a
wholly inaccurate view of this history. Far wiser is he who
undertakes to study the history of the Russian intelligentsia
on the basis of historical documents, letters, diaries, and all
those other materials on which historical study is constructed,
where the most modest role, very nearly the last in
importance, is that of literary creations. It is just as
impossible to study the history of the Russian intelligentsia
using works of Russian literature as it is to study geography
using the novels of Jules Verne, though, of course, both have
left their mark in literature.
This view is based on the false conception that literature
constitutes a kind of replica of reality, a kind of model
photograph that resembles a group portrait. Such a group
portrait, in which any number of people in the same group
may be photographed with the same plate superimposes the
features of one person on someone else’s likeness, as a result
of which all those standard features that are frequently
encountered in a given group are identified especially
vividly, as if in a relief map. Individual and random features,
on the other hand, are hidden and, by this simple device, a
standard portrait of a family, a group of patients, or a group
of criminals may be created. It is believed that a figure taken
from literature is something like a group photograph, and
that, say, the figure of Eugene Onegin absorbed and
accommodated all the typical personalities of the Russian
intelligentsia of the 1820s and may, therefore, serve as
authentic material for the study of this epoch. Meanwhile, it
is not hard to see that, in this as in any other figure drawn
from literature, the truth of art and the truth of reality exist in
extraordinarily complicated relationships, and that, in any
work of art, reality is always so transformed and so altered
that there is no way whatsoever that meaning may be
transferred directly from phenomena in art to phenomena in
real life.
We also run the risk not only of ending up with a false
understanding of reality, but also of entirely eliminating all
the purely esthetic elements in such teaching. Interest in and
regard for the study of the man of the 1820s has,
psychologically speaking, nothing in common with interest
in and regard for Pushkin’s poetry; they manifest themselves
in entirely different responses, emotions, and psychological
states, and make use only of common matter for entirely
different needs. Thus, the roof of an architectural structure
may be utilized for protection against the rain, as an
observation post, as a restaurant, and for any other purpose
whatsoever, but in all these instances the esthetic value of
the roof, as a part of an esthetic whole, as a part of an
architectural scheme, is entirely lost sight of.
Art as an End in Itself
Finally, it remains for us to consider the third point of
confusion where traditional pedagogy sins whenever it
reduces esthetics to the sense of the percipient, to the
appreciation of works of art, and sees in it an end in itself, in
other words, where it reduces the entire meaning of esthetic
experience to the unmediated sense of pleasure and joy
which it arouses in children. Once again, the work of art is
interpreted as a tool for arousing pleasurable reactions and is,
practically speaking, placed in the same category as other
analogous reactions and sensations that are utterly real.
Whoever thinks of planting the field of esthetics in
education to serve as a source of pleasure runs the risk of
forever encountering the most powerful rivals in the very
first tasting and the very first test drive. The special feature
of childhood consists precisely in the fact that the immediate
force of a real and concrete experience for a child is far
greater than the force of an imagined emotion.
Thus, we see that traditional pedagogics is at a dead end
when it comes to questions of esthetic education, striving to
bound up with it entirely foreign goals that have nothing to
do with it, and as a result, first, its proper value is
overlooked, and, second, results are often attained that are at
variance with what might have been expected.
Passivity and Activity in Esthetic Experience
The opportunity for such psychological confusion is the
result not simply of the ignorance of instructors, but of
the far more glaring and far more profound error of
psychological science itself as regards questions of
esthetics. For a long time, psychology viewed esthetic
perception as constituting an entirely passive experience,
a matter of giving oneself over entirely to one’s feelings,
the cessation of absolutely every activity of the organism.
Psychologists would even explain that disinterestedness,
unselfish admiration, the utter suppression of the will,
and the absence of all personal relationship to the
esthetic object amounted to necessary conditions for the
realization of an esthetic reaction. This is all profoundly
true, though it is only part of the truth, and thus yields
an entirely false impression of the nature of this reaction
as a whole.
There can be no doubt that a certain degree of passivity
and disinterestedness are indispensable psychological
pre-conditions for the esthetic act. The moment the
viewer or reader assumes the role of active participant in
the work of art he is apprehending, he is beyond the
realm of esthetics irrevocably and once and for all. If
while looking at apples that happen to be depicted in a
painting, the thought of the activity associated with the
intention of tasting real apples becomes overwhelmingly
powerful in me, what is nevertheless clear is that the
picture is now outside my field of apprehension. It is,
however, not too difficult to see that this is only the other
side of another, incomparably more serious activity, i.e.,
the activity by means of which the esthetic act is realized.
What this is, may actually be easily gauged at least from
the fact that a work of art is far from accessible to
everyone’s grasp, that the apprehension of a work of art
involves arduous and difficult mental strain. Obviously, a
work of art is not apprehended by an utterly passive
individual, and not just by the eyes and the cars, but
through unimaginably complex interior activity in which
listening and looking are only the first step, the first
impetus, the elemental impulse.
If the purpose of a painting were to consist solely in
caressing our eyes, and that of music in supplying
agreeable experiences to our ears, the apprehension of
paintings and of musical compositions would not
represent any difficulty, and, except for the blind and
deaf, everyone would have a calling in regard to the
appreciation of these works of art to the same degree.
Meanwhile, the elements of perception of sensations
constitute only an essential primary impetus for the
arousal of more complex activity and, in and of itself,
lack all esthetic meaning whatsoever. Christensen says
that to amuse our senses, is not the ultimate goal of a
work of art. What is important in music is what is
inaudible, and in the plastic arts, what is invisible and
imperceptible.
This invisible and imperceptible element must be
understood as simply consisting in placing emphasis in
the esthetic process on the responding elements of the
reaction to sense impressions emanating from without.
From this point of view, we can say outright that the
esthetic experience is constructed from an entirely exact
model of an ordinary reaction that presupposes, of
necessity, the presence of three components, i.e.,
sensation, processing, and response. The component of
perception of form, i.e., the labor which is performed by
the eyes and the ears, amounts to only the first and
primitive component of the esthetic experience, and there
are two other components to consider. We know that a
work of art is, for all intents and purposes, only a
collection of external impressions or sensible effects on
the individual which are organized in a special way.
These sensible effects are, however, organized and
constructed in such a way as to arouse a kind of reaction
in the individual that differs from the sort of reactions
that usually occur, and it is this special activity,
associated with esthetic sensations, which happens to
constitute the esthetic experience.
We still cannot say precisely what it consists in, since
psychological analysis has yet to have the final word on
the composition of the esthetic experience, though we
already know that it involves the most complex
constructive activity imaginable, an activity in which the
listener or viewer himself constructs and creates an
esthetic object out of the external impressions which are
presented to him, and all his subsequent reactions are
now referred to this object. Come to think of it, a
painting is not really just a rectangular piece of canvas to
which a certain quantity of paint has been applied. Once
this canvas and these paints are interpreted by a viewer
as the portrayal of a person, or of an object, or of an
event, this complex work of transformation of painted
canvas into picture occurs wholly within the mind of the
viewer. Lines have to be connected, and closed up into
the outlines of shapes, related to each other, and
interpreted in terms of perspective in such a way as to
recall the figure of a person or the appearance of a
landscape.
Next, a complex effort at recollection, of the formation of
associations, is needed in order to apprehend what sort
of person or what sort of landscape is depicted in the
painting, and what might be the relationship between the
different parts of the painting. This essential labor may
be referred to collectively as secondarily creative synthesis,
inasmuch as it entails on the part of the spectator the
amassing and synthesis of disparate elements of an
esthetic unity. If a melody says anything to our soul, it is
because we can ourselves put together sounds that come
to us from without. Psychologists have long spoken of the
fact that all that content and all those feelings we
associate with a work of art involve nothing other than
what we ourselves have introduced into it, that we seem
to sense them in the esthetic image, and in fact,
psychologists have referred to the very act of
apprehension as empathy. The complex activity of
empathy reduces, for all practical purposes. to the
reconstitution of a series of internal reactions, to their
mutual accommodation, and to a certain degree of
creative reworking of the object we confront. This
activity also constitutes a fundamental esthetic activity,
which, by its very nature, is nevertheless an activity of
the organism in response to external sensations.
Biological Value of Esthetic Activity
The biological value of esthetic activity is another troubling
and debatable point. Only at the lowest stages of nascent
esthetic activity is it possible to grasp the biological meaning
of this activity. Initially, art arises to meet the needs of life,
and rhythm is the primitive form of Organization of labor
and of struggle, ornamentation occurs as a component of
sexual courting, and art bears an explicitly utilitarian and
serviceable character. However, the genuine biological
meaning of art in the modern era, of new art, that is, must be
sought somewhere else. While a savage might replace
martial songs by orders and battle plans, and while he might
think that sobbing at a funeral is a means of directly
reaching the soul of the departed, there is no way we can
ascribe such unmediated and ordinary functions to modern
art, and we have to seek its biological value somewhere else
entirely.
The most widely accepted view here is that represented by
Herbert Spencer’s law of economy of creative forces,
according to which the value of a work of art and the
pleasure it provides are fully explainable by an economy of
spiritual forces, by the conservation of attention which
accompanies every apprehension of a work of art. Esthetic
experience is the most efficient and the most profitable of all
experiences for an individual, it produces a maximal effect
with minimal consumption of energy, and this savings in
energy also constitutes a kind of basis of esthetic pleasure.
“The virtue of style,” writes Aleksandr Veselovskii, “consists
precisely in the fact that it supplies the greatest number of
thoughts possible in the least number of words possible.”
One usually points to the facilitative value of symmetry, to
the beneficial respite afforded by the interruption in rhythm,
as vivid examples of this law.
However, even if it were valid, this law would, for all intents
and purposes, have virtually nothing to do with questions of
art, since we could find the very same economy of forces
essentially wherever human creativity manifests itself; we
find no lesser an economy of forces in mathematical
formulas or in physical laws, in the classification of plants or
in the study of the circulatory system, than in works of art,
and if it were claimed that here it is a matter of an economy
of esthetic influence, we would be at a loss in explaining
how esthetic economy might be distinguished from the
overall economy of all of creativity. But apart from that, the
law does not express a psychological truth and is at variance
with rigorous investigations in the realm of art. The study of
esthetic form has shown that, in an esthetic experience, we
are dealing not with a facilitative, but with a more
demanding reproduction of reality, and some of the more
radical students in the field have come to speak of the
“condensation” (ostranenie) of objects as constituting the
fundamental law of art. In any case, it should be clear that
poetic speech is a more difficult form of speech by
comparison with prose, and that its unusual arrangement of
words, its subdivision into verses, and its rhythmic character
not only does not relieve our attention from any sort of effort,
but, on the contrary, demands ceaseless exertion of attention
towards elements which manifest themselves for the first
time here and which are utterly lacking in ordinary speech.
For the present-day study of art, it has become a tautology
that, in a work of art, the apprehension of any one of its
elements gets away from automatism and becomes
conscious and tangible. For example, in everyday speech we
do not focus our attention on the phonetic aspect of the word.
Sounds are perceived automatically and are automatically
associated with a particular meaning. William James has
pointed out how strange and extraordinary our native
language would appear to us if we were to listen to it
without understanding it, as if it were a foreign language.
Recall that the law of poetic speech simply asserts that when
sounds come to the surface in the luminous field of
consciousness, the act of focusing our attention on them
induces an emotional relation to them. Thus, the
apprehension of poetic speech is not only not facilitative, but
even more demanding, i.e., it requires additional work by
comparison with ordinary speech. Obviously, the biological
meaning of esthetic activity does not in the least express the
sort of parasitic relationship that would inevitably arise if all
esthetic pleasure were to be purchased at the expense of an
economizing on spiritual forces which had been achieved
thanks to the labor of others.
An understanding of the biological meaning of the esthetic
act must be sought along the path followed by modern
psychology, in an unraveling of the psychology of the
creative work of the artist and in a convergence of our
understanding of apprehension and of the process of creation.
Before we ask ourselves why it is that we read, we must ask
ourselves why it is that people write. The question of
creative effort and its psychological sources again presents
extraordinary difficulties, so that here we pass from one
obstacle to the next. The general thesis, according to which
creative effort represents the most profound demand of our
psyche in pursuit of the sublimation of certain lower forms
of energy is, however, no longer open to question. According
to contemporary psychology, the most reasonable
interpretation of creative effort is that which views it as
sublimation, as the conversion of lower forms of mental
energy which have not been consumed and which have not
found an outlet in the individual’s everyday activity, into
higher forms of mental energy. Earlier, we presented on
explanation of the concept of sublimation from the
standpoint of the study of the instincts and, in particular,
discussed the thesis that the creative processes and the
sublimation of sexual energy exist in the closest imaginable
relationship. In the words of one psychologist, in questions
having to do with creative effort, there are people who are
“rich” and people who are “poor,” people who disburse their
entire reserve of energy on the maintenance of everyday life,
and people who seem to set aside and save, enlarging the
range of needs that have to be satisfied. Here, too, creative
effort arises the moment a certain quantity of energy that has
not been put to use, that has not been consumed for
immediate purposes , has not been apportioned, passes
beyond the threshold of consciousness, whence it returns
transformed into new forms of activity.
Earlier, we explained at some length that our capacities
exceed our activity, that what a person accomplished in life
is only a insignificant fraction of all those sensations that
arise in the nervous system, and that it is precisely this
discrepancy between capacities and realization, between the
potential and the real in our life, which is fully encompassed
by creative effort. Thus does the identity between acts of
creation and acts of apprehension in art become a
fundamental psychological presupposition. To be
Shakespeare and to read Shakespeare are phenomena that
are infinitely disparate in terms of degree, though entirely
identical in terms of nature, as Yulii Aikhenval'd correctly
explained. The reader must be sympathetic to the poet, and,
in our apprehension of any work of art, we seem to be
recreating it all over again. Thus, we are entirely justified in
defining processes of apprehension as consisting in the
reproduction and recapitulation of creative processes. And if
that is so, the conclusion is unavoidable that such processes
represent the very same biological form of sublimation of
certain types of spiritual energy as do creative processes
themselves. It is precisely in art that that fraction of our life
which occurs, in fact, in the form of excitations in our
nervous system becomes manifest to us, though it remains
unrealized in activity, as a consequence of the fact that our
nervous system apprehends more stimuli than it can respond
to.
The fact is that there is always present in man this excess of
possibilities over life, this residue of unrealized behavior, as
has been demonstrated in the study of the struggle for the
total motor field, and this excess must always seek for itself
some outlet. If this residue does not find an appropriate
outlet, it finds itself in conflict with man’s psyche. Abnormal
forms of behavior usually arise out of such unrealized
behavior, expressed in the form of psychoses and neuroses,
which denote nothing other than a collision between
unrealized, subconscious desires and the conscious part of
our behavior. That which remains unrealized in our life must
be sublimated, and there are only two outlets for what
remains unrealized in life – either sublimation or neurosis.
Thus, from the psychological point of view, art constitutes
an imperishable and biologically essential mechanism by
means of which excitations that have remained unrealized in
life are discarded, and, in one form or another, is an entirely
inevitable companion of every human existence.
In artistic creation, such sublimation is realized in
extraordinarily vigorous and mighty forms, through esthetic
apprehension, in forms that are facilitated and simplified,
and prepared in advance by the aggregate of all those stimuli
which impinge upon us. That esthetic education, interpreted
as the creation of permanent skills for the sublimation of the
subconscious possesses an extraordinarily important and
autonomous value, is, therefore, entirely understandable. To
educate someone in esthetics means creating in that person a
permanent and properly functioning channel for the
diversion and abstraction of the inner forces of the
subconscious into useful skills. Sublimation fulfills in
socially useful forms that which sleep and illness fulfill in
private and pathological forms.
Psychological Description of Esthetic Reactions
The most cursory glance at esthetic reactions is enough
for us to see that their ultimate goal is not to reproduce
any genuine reaction, but to transcend it and triumph
over it. If the ultimate goal of a poem about melancholy
was only to tell us about melancholy, this would be a
rather sad state of affairs for art. Obviously, in this case
the goal of lyric poetry is not just to afflict us, as Leo
Tolstoy puts it, with someone else’s feelings, in this case,
someone else’s melancholy, but to be victorious over it, to
transcend melancholy. In this sense, the Bukharinist
definition of art as the socialization of feelings, just like
the Tolstoyan theme of the affliction of a multitude of
people with the feelings of one person are, speaking
psychologically, not entirely correct.
In this case, the “wonder” of art would recall that dismal
miracle from the scriptures when five loaves of bread
and two fish were enough to feed five thousand people,
except for women and children, and everyone ate and
was satisfied; and the remaining pieces of food filled
twenty baskets. The “miracle” here lies only in the
extraordinary multiplication of experience, though
everyone who ate, ate only bread and fish, fish and bread.
As in the socialization of feelings in art, there is achieved
a multiplication of one person’s feelings by a factor of a
thousand, though feeling itself nevertheless remains an
ordinary psychological type of emotion, and no work of
art can incorporate anything that might go beyond the
limits of this immeasurably vast emotion. It is entirely
understandable that the purpose of art would then be
rather puny, inasmuch as every genuine object and every
genuine emotion would prove to be many times more
powerful, more sharply defined, and more intensive and,
consequently, all the pleasure of art would spring from
man’s hunger and poverty, whereas in fact, it springs
from man’s wealth, from the fact that every person
possesses more wealth than he is able to realize in his
own life.
Thus, art is not a means of making up for a lack in life,
but issues from what it is in man that exceeds life. The
“wonder” of art is far more reminiscent of that time
when water was turned into wine, and, therefore, every
work of art forever bears some genuine objective theme
or some entirely ordinary feeling about the world. But
what we understand by form and style refers to the fact
that this genuine objective theme or this emotional tinge
of things is overcome and transformed into something
entirely novel. It is for this reason that the meaning of
esthetic activity has been understood since time
immemorial as catharsis, i.e., as a liberation and
resolution of the spirit from the passions which torment
it. In the psychology of ancient times, this concept
assumed the purely medicinal and restorative value of a
healing of the soul, and there can be no doubt that it was
far more in accord with the genuine nature of art than a
host of contemporary theories. “Psalms heal a suffering
spirit” – these words of the poet express more correctly
than anything else that watershed which separates art
from illness.
It is not without reason that many psychologists have
found it extremely tempting to search for features that
might be common to art and illness, to declare that
genius is akin to madness, and to view as abnormal both
human creation and human folly. It is only in this way
that we are able to understand the cognitive, the ethical,
the emotional value of art. All these aspects do,
undoubtedly, exist, but always as secondary components,
as a kind of sequel to the work of art, arising in no other
way than as a follow-up to its fully realized esthetic
effect.
There can be no doubt that art possesses a moral
testament, which manifests itself in nothing less than a
certain internal clarification of the spiritual world, in a
certain transcendence of one’s innermost conflicts and,
consequently, in a liberation of certain constrained and
exiled forces, particularly the forces of moral behavior. A
shining illustration of this principle may be found in
Chekhov’s short story, The House, where the father, a
public prosecutor, who all his life has exercised his
talents in devising every imaginable from of preventive
punishment, in inventing all sorts of warnings and
penalties, finds himself in an extremely embarrassing
situation when he comes up against the small matter of
his own son, a seven-year boy. having committed an
offense, as the governess informs him. having grabbed
some tobacco off his father’s table and smoked it. How
many times the father had tried to explain to his son why
he must not smoke, why he must not take someone else’s
tobacco – none of his admonitions had achieved their
purpose, since they had encountered insurmountable
obstacles in the mind of his very own child, who
apprehended and interpreted the world in a very original
way entirely his own. When the father explains to him
that one should not take someone else’s things, the boy
responded by pointing out that right over there was his
little yellow puppy sitting on the table next to his father,
that there was nothing to be said against that, what if his
father needed some of his things and felt he was welcome
to take it and wouldn’t feel ashamed either? When his
father tried to explain to him that it was harmful to
smoke, that Uncle Grigorii had smoked and, therefore,
had passed away. this example turned out to have quite
the reverse effect on his son, since the boy associated the
image of Uncle Grigorii with a kind of poetic feeling; he
remembered that Uncle Grigorii was quite a wonderful
violinist, and his uncle’s fate not only did not help him
avoid doing what his uncle had done, but, quite the
opposite, imparted to smoking a new and seductive
meaning.
Thus, not having gotten anywhere, the father concluded
his conversation with his son, and it was only just before
going to sleep, when, as was his wont, he began to tell his
son a story, clumsily linking together the first thoughts
that came to mind into traditional story models, that his
story unexpectedly assumed the form of a naive and silly
tale of that old tsar who had a son, the son smoked, fell ill
with consumption, and died at an early age; enemies
invaded and destroyed the palace, and killed the old man,
and “... now there are no longer any sweet cherries in the
garden, neither birds nor bells ...” The father himself felt
that this story was naive and silly; however, it produced
an unexpected effect in his son, who, speaking in a
thoughtful and low voice, which his father found quite
unexpected, said that he would no longer smoke.
The simple act of telling the story aroused and
illuminated new forces in the child’s psyche that made it
possible for him to sense his father’s fear and his father’s
concern for his health with such renewed vigor that the
moral after-effect of this new force, impelled by his
father’s initial persistence, had the unexpected effect his
father had previously attempted to achieve, but in vain.
But now let us recall the two essential psychological
features that distinguish this after-effect. First, it is
realized in the form of the child’s own innermost,
internal process of attention, it is by no means achieved
through a process of rational extraction of some moral or
through a sermon taken from a fable or short story. On
the contrary, the more powerful is one’s agitation and
one’s passion within whose atmosphere the esthetic
impression works its effect, the higher is the emotional
lift which accompanies it, the more powerful are the
forces that accumulate about the moral after-effect, and
the more faithful is this esthetic impression realized.
Second, from such a vantage point, the moral effect of
esthetics may be fortuitous and secondary, so that, at the
least, it is an unwise and uncertain proposition to use this
moral effect as the basis of the education of moral
behavior. There is that story where the father quite
properly puts a lot of thought into deciding whether it is
really right for “medicine to be sweet and truth
beautiful.” In drawing its own convictions from novels
and poetry, historical knowledge from operas and epic
tales, and morality from fables, society, of course, never
succeeds in reaching any firm and secure point in any of
these realms. Chekhov was entirely correct in calling this
a fancy that man has affected ever since the time of
Adam, and in this regard it is entirely identical with that
form of pedagogics which demands that children receive
a stern moral upbringing based on truth.[3]
Psychologists who have studied the visual stimuli that
emanate from paintings have all come to the same
conclusion, that the principal role in our experience of a
painting is played by the kinesthetic senses, i.e., by motor
reactions as well, and that we read a picture more with
our muscles than with our eyes; its esthetic effect
manifests itself in our fingertips as much as in our eyes,
since it speaks to our tactile and motor imagination no
less than to our visual imagination.
Finally, such an after-effect may also manifest itself in
the hedonistic moment of pleasure or delight in a work of
art, and this, too, may exert an educational influence on
our senses, though this influence will always be
secondary relative to the basic effect of poetry and art.
This is not too different from what psychologists have
referred to as the “liberating force of the higher
emotions.” And just as in ancient times, when the
incantatory force of the rhythmic word and of poetic
speech would banish the spirits and combat them, so too
does modern poetry banish and resolve internal forces
that possess inimical effects, because in both instances
there is a kind of resolution of internal conflict.
It’s worth recalling the rather curious fact that the
pleasure produced by works of poetry always reveals
itself along indirect and contradictory paths, and
inevitably originates in a transcendence of the immediate
impressions of the object and of the work of art. The
tragic and the comic in art are the clearest exemplars of
this psychological law, as anyone should be able to recall.
Tragedy always speaks of destruction, and induces in us,
in Aristotle’s definition, fear, awe, and compassion. If we
contemplate tragedy not from the vantage point of these
lofty feelings, but with a slight smile, then its tragic effect,
of course, becomes incomprehensible to us. How agony
can, all by itself, become the subject of the experience of
the beautiful, and why the contemplation of someone
else’s downfall can give the audience watching a tragedy
such sublime pleasure, was a problem that engaged the
attention of philosophers even in ancient times. Then this
was attributed naively to a biological antithesis, and
philosophers attempted to reduce the enjoyment we
experience from tragedy to the feelings of security and
pleasure man experiences every time misfortune strikes
someone else. In this psychological theory, it is said that
the tragedy of Oedipus gives a spectator the greatest
pleasure imaginable simply because he learns from it to
value his happiness and the fact that he isn’t blind.
However, even the simplest examples presented by these
writers completely refute this thesis, one writer having
claimed, for example, that people who happen to be
standing along the sea shore and who see a ship sinking
into the ocean would, in such cases, have to feel the
greatest delight imaginable from their awareness that
they themselves are safe.
Even the simplest psychological observation shows us
that in the experience of a tragedy, we are inevitably
placed by the playwright in an empathetic relationship
with a hero, which grows as he approaches his
destruction and which feeds into our feelings of fear and
rapture. Consequently, the source of this enjoyment must
be sought elsewhere, and, of course, we find it only in
catharsis, i.e., in the resolution of the passions that are
aroused by tragedy, which is the ultimate purpose of art.
“Awe,” writes Christensen, “is not portrayed for its own
sake, but only as an impetus for transcending it.”
In precisely the same way, the comic, or that which is, in
and of itself, mean and repulsive, also leads, along a path
that, at first glance, seems utterly incomprehensible, to
great delight. In Gogol’s “The Inspector,” there is not a
single sweetly sounding word, on the contrary, the author
has tried to hunt down every word that might sound
rusty, tinny, and coarse in the Russian language. There is
not a single character in the story who is not repulsive,
not a single event that is not trivial, not a single thought
which is in any way luminous. Nevertheless, in this piling
up of the trivial and the repulsive, a kind of special
meaning thrusts itself through and becomes manifest,
which Gogol is right to attribute to laughter, i.e., to the
psychological reaction which draws the spectator out of
himself but which is not within the farce itself. In a farce
no one laughs; everyone, on the contrary, is anxious and
in earnest, though all this material is arranged in such a
way that it inevitably induces in the spectator hearty
laughter, which can be ranked with the unfolding of lyric
poetry and which Gogol correctly calls the only worthy
character of his farce.
German esthetics has long referred to this psychological
aspect of art as the esthetic of the grotesque, and through
these examples demonstrated with extraordinary
persuasiveness the dialectical character of esthetic
experience. Contradiction, alienation, transcendence,
triumph – these are all essential constituents of the
esthetic event. It is necessary to see the grotesque in its
full flowering in order to then rise above it in laughter. It
is necessary to experience with the hero the absolute
consummation of destruction in order to rise above it,
together with the chorus. This dialectical, reconstitutive
behavior of the emotions always bears within itself art,
and, therefore, always points to the most complex of all
activities of internal struggle, which is resolved in
catharsis.
Education of Creativity, Esthetic Reasoning, and Technical
Skills
Carried over to education, this thesis naturally breaks down
into three separate problems. Education may have before it
the demand to foster the child’s creativity, or to give children
vocational training in the different technical skills involved
in art, or to inculcate in children the capacity of esthetic
reasoning, i.e., the skill to apprehend and experience a work
of art.
The question of children’s creativity is, without a doubt, of
extraordinary pedagogical importance, though it has
virtually no independent esthetic value. A child’s drawing is
always an educationally gratifying event, though it is
sometimes also esthetically grotesque. It always teaches the
child to master the aggregate of his own experiences, to
conquer and transcend them, and, as one writer has
expressed it rather elegantly, teaches the psyche how to
ascend. A child who has drawn a picture of a dog has,
thereby, conquered, transcended, and risen above his
immediate experience of a dog.
In this sense, too, it becomes pedagogically essential to be
able to discern the psychological content of children’s
drawings, Le, to examine and take notice of all those
experiences that lead to the genesis of a drawing, rather than
making objective evaluations of the points and lines
themselves. Therefore, any effort at smoothing out or
correcting a child’s drawing represents only a crude
intrusion in the psychological order of his experience and
risks becoming an impediment to this experience. While it is
true that by changing and correcting the lines a child has
drawn, we may very well be introducing a strict order into
the sheet of paper in front of us, we will be most certainly
introducing conflict into the child’s psyche and making him
insensitive. Complete freedom for the child’s creativity, the
renunciation of all effort to place it on a par with adult
consciousness, the recognition of its originality and of its
distinctive features, constitute a fundamental requirement of
psychology.
The boy in Chekhov’s story, The House, when asked by his
father why he was placing a soldier above a house in his
drawing, even though he was well aware that a person
cannot stand higher than a house, answered in a serious tone
that if he were to make the soldier little, then you couldn’t
see his eyes. It is in this striving to emphasize the main point
he is involved in at any moment, the main subject of a
drawing, and to subordinate to it all other relationships, that
we find the basic feature of children’s drawings, and, for all
practical purposes, the child’s tendency to disregard and
remain unencumbered by the true contours of objects springs
not from any inability to see objects as such – the way things
really are – but from the fact that the child is never
indifferent to the object. Every one of his drawings, provided
it is not created at the behest of some adult, always
originates out of the child’s innermost feelings, and this we
have to see as the fundamental property of the child’s psyche,
which, therefore, always distorts the insignificant elements
of the object in favor of what is the most important and the
most fundamental.
Tolstoy suggests the very same rule in his theory of
pedagogy in his insistence that children’s compositions not
be corrected by adults even orthographically, claiming that
any correction of a finished product of an act of creation
always distorts the internal motivation which engendered it.
In a famous essay, “Who Should Teach Whom to Write:
Should we Teach the Children of Peasants or Should the
Children of Peasants Teach Us?” Tolstoy defended the thesis,
which seems paradoxical at first glance, that a “half-literate
peasant boy displays the conscious force of a true author,
that not even Goethe, from the lofty heights of his art, can
attain.” “It seems to me so odd and so insulting,” continues
Tolstoy, “that, when it comes to art, 1, the author of
‘Childhood,’ a work which has achieved a degree of critical
acclaim and which has been recognized for its literary
talents by the educated public in Russia, was unable to
explain or assist 11-year old Semka and Fedka, except in the
slightest degree, and then only at the fortuitous moment of
excitement, when I was able to grasp what they were getting
at, and to understand them.” Tolstoy discovered more poetic
truth in these children’s compositions than in the greatest
creations of literature. And if there were some banal
moments in their compositions, this was always the fault of
Tolstoy himself; whenever the children were left to their
own devices, they did not utter a single affected word. Thus
was Tolstoy led to conclude that the ideal of esthetic
education, like the ideal of moral education, lies not ahead of
us, but behind us – not in bringing the soul of the child
closer to the soul of the adult, but in preserving the natural
properties the child’s soul is endowed with from the very
start.
“Education corrupts, and does not reform people.” In this
sense, the concerns of education reduce almost exclusively
to not corrupting the child’s spiritual wealth, and the precept,
“Be like children,” seems like the ultimate pedagogical ideal
when it comes to aesthetics.
That there is in this view a great and undeniable truth, that in
the child’s creativity we are dealing with pure examples of
poetry at the absolutely elemental level lacking all traces of
the adult’s trained eye – this is something virtually no one
now disputes. But it is also necessary to recognize that such
creativity is of an order all its own; it is, so to speak,
transient creativity, giving rise to no objective values and
needed more by the child himself than by those around him.
Like children’s games, it has healing powers and is
invigorating, but not outside the child himself, but only
within him. Tolstoy’s Fed'ka and Semka grew up, but did not
become great writers, even though at the age of 11 they were
given to use language which, as Tolstoy, with all his prestige,
was forced to admit, went far beyond that found in novels
and was the equal of the most felicitous passages in Goethe.
Hence, the most unquestionable mistake of this view can be
found in its extraordinary overestimation and idolizing of the
works of children’s creative efforts, and in its inability to
understand that, though it is capable of realizing works of
the greatest emotional tension, here the primordial force of
the creative act is, nevertheless, always circumscribed within
a narrow range of the most elementary, the most primitive,
and, basically, the most impoverished forms.
In this sense, the pedagogical rule as regards the education
of children’s creativity must always proceed from a purely
psychological view of its utility and should never look upon
the child who is writing poetry as if he were a future Pushkin,
or look upon the child who is drawing pictures as if he were
a future artist. A child writes poetry or draws pictures not at
all because a future poet or future painter is struggling to
burst through him, but because these acts of creation are
now necessary for him, and even more so because there are
certain creative potentialities concealed in each of us. The
very processes by which genius and talent are selected are
still so dimly understood, so well hidden, and have been so
little studied that pedagogics is entirely powerless to say
precisely which steps might help preserve and foster future
geniuses.
Here we confront the extraordinarily involved question of
the very possibility of esthetic education. We have already
seen that Tolstoy’s views do not draw out the essential
difference between artistic creativity in the adult and in the
child. Therefore, Tolstoy does not take into account, first,
that immeasurably vast importance which, in the realm of art,
is subserved by the element of workmanship, an element
which, though of course utterly self-evident, is the result of
education. Workmanship encompasses not only the technical
skills of art, but something far greater, whether in the
subtlest knowledge of the laws of one’s own art, in the
feeling for style, in the talent for creative effort, in taste, and
so on. There was a time when the concept of craftsman fully
encompassed the concept of artist.
But, in addition, the conception of the mystical nature of
inspiration, of spiritual possession, and so on gave way in
scholarly discourse to an entirely different view of the nature
of acts of creation. And Tolstoy’s thesis that, “once he has
been born, man constitutes a prototype of harmony, of truth,
of beauty, and of goodness,” has to be recognized as a
legend rather than a scientific truth. It is true that, in
childhood, immediate urges and creative impulses are more
powerful and more vivid, but, as we showed earlier, the
nature of these urges and impulses are not at all the same as
in adults. No matter how sublime and how exquisite are
those works Semka and Fed'ka produced, their creative
impulses were always of a different order than Goethe’s or
Tolstoy’s in their very essence.
The view maintained by Aikhenval'd, Gershenzon, and
others, that literature cannot become a subject for instruction
in public schools, represents a separate question altogether.
But this view originates in an overly narrow view of public
schools that forever has in mind those lessons that used to be
given in the schools before the revolution. The wealth of
educational potentialities in the Soviet school is lost sight of.
Esthetic feelings have to become just as much a subject of
education as is everything else, but only in special ways.
It is from this point of view that we should approach
vocational training in the techniques of this or that realm of
art. The instructive value of these techniques is
extraordinarily great, in the same way as is every form of
labor and every form of complex activity; it becomes even
greater still once it is turned into a tool for training children
in the apprehension of works of art, inasmuch as it is
impossible to fully enter into a work of art if the techniques
that are part of its idiom remain utterly foreign. It is for this
reason that a certain minimal technical familiarity with the
system of every art has to become part of public education.
In this sense, those schools which have made mastery of the
techniques of each of the arts an educational requirement are
proceeding entirely properly from the standpoint of
pedagogy.
Vocational training in art, however, harbors far more
pedagogical risks than benefits. To the psychologist, all
those grandiose and useless experiments at teaching music to
absolutely every child, which became the rule for the middle
classes in Europe and pre-revolutionary Russia over the last
several decades, seemed to have had only an oppressive
effect. If we think of how much energy was spent on
mastering the most complex piano techniques imaginable,
and if we compare this with the negligible results which
were obtained after many years’ of practice, we have to
admit that this enormous experiment, on experiment that
was performed on an entire social class, ended in an utterly
embarrassing failure. Not only has the art of musicianship
not gained or acquired anything of value from this program,
but, as is generally recognized, even the simple musical
education of the art of appreciation, apprehension, and
experience of music never and nowhere stood so low as in
that milieu where learning how to play music became a
mandatory rule of good breeding.
In terms of overall pedagogical influence, such instruction
was, quite frankly, harmful and destructive, since almost
nowhere and almost never was it associated with the child’s
immediate interests, and wherever this instruction was
undertaken, it was always on behalf of outside interests,
which, for the most part, subordinated the child to the
interests of his surroundings and refracted in the child’s
psyche the most brutish and the most vulgar everyday
thoughts of those around him.
Hence, vocational training in the techniques of each of the
various arts, if we understand it as a task of general
education and edification, has to be introduced within
certain limits and reduced to a minimum, and the main thing
is to conform with the other two paths of esthetic education.
first, the child’s own creative potential, and, second, the
cultural level of his esthetic apprehension. Only that
instruction in techniques is useful which goes beyond these
techniques and teaches creative skills, whether those
involved in creating or those involved in apprehending.
Finally, until very recently questions as to the cultural level
of esthetic apprehension had received the least amount of
attention, inasmuch as educators had no idea how truly
complex it was, nor did they think there was any problem
here. To look at and to listen, to obtain pleasure – this
seemed to be the sort of uncomplicated mental effort for
which special instruction was absolutely unnecessary,
whereas, in fact, it is just this element which constitutes the
principal goal and principal task of general education.
The overall structure of public education is oriented towards
expanding the scope of finite personal experience as far as
possible, towards adjusting the interface between the child’s
psyche and the broadest possible spheres of the social
experience he has accumulated so far, as if to include the
child in the broadest possible network in the world. These
general goals wholly define the paths of esthetic education.
In art mankind has accumulated such an exceptional and
vast store of experience that all experience of one’s own
creativity and one’s own personal achievements seem puny
and wretched by comparison. Therefore, when we speak of
esthetic education within the context of general education,
we must always bear in mind, basically, such an orientation
of the child towards the esthetic experience of mankind as a
means of bringing the child face to face with real art and,
through this experience, to include the child’s psyche in that
general labor mankind throughout the world has been
engaged in for thousands of years, sublimating the child’s
own psyche in art – here is a fundamental task and the
fundamental goal.
And it is because efforts at understanding works of art
usually resort to impractical techniques involving logical
interpretation that specialized training and the development
of special skills for the reconstitution of works of art are
required, and, in this sense, lessons that consist in looking at
paintings, like those lessons in “slow reading” that have
been introduced in certain European schools, are true
exemplars of esthetic education.
Here is the key to the most important task of esthetic
education – the introduction of esthetic reactions into life
itself. Art transforms reality not only in the constructions of
fantasy, but also in a genuine recreation of things, objects,
and situations. Dwellings and dress, conversation and
reading, school holidays and strolls, all may serve, in equal
measure, as the most gratifying substance for esthetic
treatment.
Beauty has to be converted from a rare and festive thing into
a demand of everyday existence. And creative effort has to
nourish every movement, every utterance, every smile of the
child’s. Potebny a put it quite elegantly when he said that,
just as electricity is present not only where there are
thunderstorms, so is poetry present not only where there are
great works of art, but wherever man speaks. This is the
poetry “of every moment,” and it is this which is the most
important of all the tasks of esthetic education.
But it is still essential to keep in mind the most serious of all
dangers, the risk that an artificiality might be introduced into
life which, in children, is something that easily turns into
affectation and pretension. There is nothing in worst taste
than this “acting cute” [krasivost'], those mannerisms some
children introduce into games, into their way of walking,
and so on. The rule to follow here is not the embellishment
of life, but the creative reworking of reality, a processing of
things and the movements of things which will illuminate
and elevate everyday experience to the level of the creative.
Fables
Fables are usually thought of as the exclusive province of
childhood. Two psychological arguments have been
advanced in defense of this view.
The first asserts that the child is not yet old enough to have a
rational understanding of reality, and therefore has a need for
a kind of “surrogate” or mediative explanation of the world.
It is for this reason that the child readily accepts the
interpretation of reality given in fables, and, second,
discovers in fables what adults discover in religion, science,
and art, that is, the primary explanation and understanding of
the world, the reduction of the discordant chaos of
impressions into a unified and integral system. For a child,
fables are philosophy, science, and art.
There is another approach which claims that, in accordance
with the biogenetic law, the child, in the course of his
development, repeats in abbreviated and compressed form
the principal stages and epochs that mankind has
experienced in its development. Hence that rather popular
view which discovers a confluence between the child’s
psyche and creative urges, on the one hand, and the creative
urges of the savage and primitive man, on the other, and the
claim that, as he grows up, the child inevitably experiences
animism, the sense of all things being alive, and
anthropomorphism, just as mankind as a whole has. It is felt
necessary, for this reason, to transcend all these primitive
attitudes and beliefs at some stage of development, and to
introduce into the child’s world all those ideas of devils,
witches, wizards, and good and evil spirits which were once
the companions of human culture. This approach sees in
fables a necessary evil, a psychological concession to
childhood, in the expression of one psychologist, an esthetic
pacifier.
Both these views are profoundly mistaken at their very roots.
As regards the first view, pedagogics has long rejected all
kinds of mediation, inasmuch as the harm it introduces
always outweighs any possible benefit. The point is that any
benefit is always temporary, it exists until the child grows up
and no longer has any need for such a mediative explanation
of the world. The harm, however, remains forever, because
in the psyche, as in the real world, nothing happens without
leaving a trace, nothing disappears, rather everything creates
its own habits, which then remain for all one’s life.
“Expressed with scientific rigor,” William James asserts,
“one may say that nothing may be entirely effaced from
anything we do.” This is especially true in the period of
childhood, when the plasticity and impressionability of our
nervous system is at its utmost, and when reactions only
have to be repeated two or three times in order to last
sometimes for one’s entire life. If, in this period in his life, a
child is forced to control and guide his behavior under the
influence of false and deliberately misleading ideas and
views, we can be quite certain that these views will create
habits of behavior along these false directions. And when, it
would appear to us, the time has come for the child to free
himself of these ideas and views, it may be possible for us,
by reasoning rationally, to persuade him that all those ideas
we would talk to him about were false; we may even be
morally justified in making excuses to him for the deception
he had been subjected to for so many years, but never can he
efface all those habits, instincts, and stimuli which have
already evolved and which have become deeply embedded
in him, and which, even in the best of cases, are capable of
creating conflicts with newly implanted traits.
The basic claim is that, in the absence of behavior, the
psyche does not exist, and that if we introduce into the
psyche false ideas that do not correspond to truth and reality,
by this very act we are also fostering false behavior. Hence
we are forced to conclude that truth must become the
foundation of education as early as possible, simply because
incorrect ideas are also incorrect forms of behavior. If, from
early childhood, a child learns to trust in “bogeymen,” in
little old ladies who are going to take you away, in
magicians, in storks who bring babies, all this will not only
clutter up his mind, but, what is even worse, it will cause his
behavior to develop in false directions. It is entirely clear
that children are either frightened of this world of magic or
are drawn into it, but that they never remain passive towards
it. In dreams or in desires, under the child’s blanket or in a
dark room, when asleep or when frightened, the child always
responds to these ideas, responds with an extraordinarily
heightened sensibility, and since the system formed by these
reactions rests on an entirely fantastic and false foundation,
for that very reason an incorrect and false way of behaving
is methodically fostered in the child.
To this we should add that all of this fantastic world
depresses the child no end, and there can be little doubt that
its oppressive force exceeds the child’s capacity for
resistance. By surrounding the child with the fantastic, we
force him to live as if in a perpetual psychosis. Imagine for
just a minute that an adult were, all of a sudden, to believe in
the very same things he teaches a child – how
extraordinarily confused and depressed would his mind
become. All of this must increase manyfold once we show
the child how to think, since the child’s weak and unsteady
mind proves to be even more helpless when confronted by
this sombre element. Psychological analyses of children’s
fears produce an utterly tragic impression, inasmuch as they
always testify to and speak of those inexpressible germs of
terror that were implanted in the child’s soul by the fables
adults themselves have told him.
The educational benefits produced by introducing into
family lore those tales of the old man who is going to carry
you away are always limited to the immediate advantage
given by intimidation, in which we get the child to stop
playing practical jokes or induce him to perform some task.
The harm which thereby ensues may manifest itself in
humiliating forms of behavior that may last for many
decades.
Finally, the last argument that may be brought against the
traditional view of fables is the utterly profound disrespect
for reality, the excessive importance ascribed to the invisible,
which such fables methodically instil. The child remains dull
and foolish when he relates to the real world, he remains
closed up within a stagnant and unhealthy atmosphere, for
the most part in a kingdom of fabulous creatures. He has no
interest in trees or in birds, and the manifold variety of
experience seems to lack all substance. The result of such an
education is to make someone blind, deaf, and dumb in
relation to the world.
For all these reasons, we have to agree with that view which
demands that all those fantastic and silly ideas children are
usually inculcated with must be banished thoroughly and
completely. It is, moreover, rather important that it is not
only fairy tales which can produce the greatest harm here,
but also all those silly and timeworn fictions which are used
not only by nurses to frighten children with, but which not
even the most highly educated teacher is entirely free of.
There is almost no teacher who would be innocent of the
charge of having reasoned with a child on the basis of some
incongruous nonsense, simply because he knew that the
child would take this nonsense for the truth, and saw that the
easiest way out of problem at hand was to adapt the
admonitory line of least resistance by telling the child,
“Don’t go there, else the house will fall down,” or to say,
“Don’t cry, else the policeman will take you away.” It is
psuedo-natural-science” nonsense of this sort that has taken
up the role performed by the nonsense of fantasies.
Finally, from the most general standpoint we have to say that
every attempt by the teacher to “humor” the child is, from
the psychological point of view, educationally harmful, since
here one can never be certain of hitting the nail right on the
head, and, in order to meet his teacher’s expectations, the
child is forced to likewise affect and distort his own
reactions, and try to come as close as he can to what his
teacher demands. This is simplest to understand if we think
of children’s speech, of those instances when adults who are
engaged in conversation with a child try to imitate his way
of speaking, under the impression that this will make them
more then easily understood, whether lisping, or aspirating,
pronouncing the sounds “s” and “z” as “sh” and “zh”, or
pronouncing the sound “r” as “l.” For a child, however, such
speech is not in the least more understandable. If a child’s
pronunciation is incorrect, this is not because he hears this
way, but because he cannot pronounce correctly. When he
then hears distorted speech coming from adults, he is totally
lost and tries to approximate his own speech to this distorted
speech. Most of our children speak in an unnatural way, their
speech having been distorted by adults, and it is impossible
to imagine anything more artificial than such affected
speech.
There is also that customary false way of speaking with
children in overly familiar and endearing terms, in which a
“horse” is spoken of as a “horsy,” a dog as a “little doggy,”
and a “house” as “the little house”. To an adult, it might
seem that the child thinks everything has to be little, though
quite the contrary, he who does not belittle objects in
children’s imagination, but instead over-emphasizes their
natural dimensions, is proceeding in a far more
psychological fashion. When we speak to a child of horses,
which must seem a huge and massive thing to him, and talk
of a “horsy,” the true sense of speech is distorted, as is the
concept of horse, not to mention that false and sugarcoated
attitude towards everything which such a manner of
speaking establishes. Language is the subtlest tool of
thought; in distorting language, we distort thought, and even
if a single teacher were of think of the emotional nonsense
she is uttering when she tells a child, “Let’s hit the little
doggy,” or “the little doggy is biting you,” she would
certainly be horrified by the mental confusion she is creating
in the child’s mind. And though there are things in children’s
literature and in children’s art which are, in fact, intolerable
and repulsive, this is just because adults have been falsely
humoring the minds of children.
As for the need for children to gradually overcome the
primitive beliefs and primitive ideas in fables, this, too, has
not undergone serious criticism and slips away with the
biogenetic law on which it is based. No one has yet to show
that, in the course of his development, the child repeats the
history of mankind, and not even science has ever had any
grounds to speak of anything more than isolated correlations
and more or less remote analogies between the behavior of a
child and that of a savage. On the contrary, all those essential
changes in the pattern of education that are a function of
social circumstances and environment, more properly, as a
function of the common fundament of life the child enters
the moment he is born, are quite at variance with the
biogenetic law, in every instance contrary to any direct
translation of the law from biology into psychology. The
child turns out to be entirely able to interpret phenomena
realistically and truthfully, though, of course, he cannot
immediately find an explanation for absolutely everything.
Left to himself, the child is never an animist, never an
anthropomorphist, and if these propensities develop in a
child, the fault is nearly always that of the adults around
him.
Finally, what is most important here is that, even if certain
psychological conditions did generate atavistic tendencies in
a child, i.e., where his mind reverted to stages in his history
he had already passed through, even if the child did contain
within his mind something of the savage, in no way would
the goal of education reduce to the maintenance, sustenance,
and reinforcement of these elements of the savage in the
child’s psyche, but quite the contrary, his propensities would
subordinate these elements to the more powerful and the
more vital elements of reality in every way possible.
Does this mean we have to think of fables as being
ultimately compromised and that they are condemned to be
banished entirely from the child’s room with all those false
and fabulous ideas of the world that turn out to be mentally
harmful? No, not really. There can be little doubt that most
of our fables, which are based precisely on such unhealthy
fantasy and lack all other values, must be abandoned and
forgotten as soon as possible. But this does not mean that the
esthetic content of works of fantasy have to be forbidden to
children.
On the contrary, the fundamental law of art demands the
freedom to combine the elements of reality in any way
whatsoever, an essential independence from everyday truth,
which in esthetics effaces all the boundaries that separate
fantasy from truth. In art everything is fantastic or
everything is real, simply because everything is hypothetical,
and the realness of art refers only to the realness of the
emotions any work of art is associated with. As a matter of
fact, the question is not in the least whether what is related
in a fable could exist in real life. What is more important is
that the child know that it never existed in real life, that it is
only a story, and that he get into the habit of responding to it
as a fable, and that, consequently, the question of whether
such an event could be possible in real life ceases to exist for
him. In order to enjoy a fable, it is not at all necessary to
believe in what it speaks of. On the contrary, belief in the
“realness” of the world of fables establishes such purely
commonplace attitudes towards everything as to preclude
the very possibility of esthetic activity.
Here we should explain the law of emotional realness of
fantasy, a law of the greatest importance for our field.
According to this law, regardless of whether the world we
are affected by is real [real'no], the emotions associated with
this influence and which we feel are always real. If I am
hallucinating and, upon entering an empty room, see a thief
standing over in the corner, this figure will, of course, be one
of delirium, and the collection of all those impressions
associated with this figure in my mind will not be real,
inasmuch as there is no reality [deistvitel'nost']
corresponding to it; but the fear which I experience from this
encounter and the emotion associated with the hallucination
are entirely real, even if they are repressed by the comforting
consciousness of having been mistaken. That we do have
feelings, this is always a real fact.
Thus, fantasy justifies itself in this law of the realness of our
feelings. We are not drawing children away from reality in
the least when we tell them fantastic stories, if the feelings
that arise thereby are brought to life. Therefore, the real
emotional basis of a work of fantasy is its only justification,
and it is not surprising that, though we may banish the
harmful forms of fantasy, of fantastic stories tales will
nevertheless remain one of the many forms of children’s art.
Only now it will perform an entirely different function,
however; it will cease to be the child’s philosophy and
science, and become only an exceptionally uninhibited type
of fable.
The principal value of fables is formed in the extraordinarily
conceptual features of childhood. The point is that the
interaction between the individual and the world, which is
what all of our behavior and all of our psyche ultimately
reduces to, is, in children, at its most delicate and most
underdeveloped stage, and, therefore, the demand for every
imaginable form that might give emotion a degree of
discipline is felt in especially marked fashion. Otherwise, the
vast bulk of impressions reaching the child in quantities far
beyond his ability to respond would overwhelm him and
make him confused. In this sense, a wise fable possesses an
invigorating and restorative value within the overall
structure of the child’s emotional life.
The most interesting of all the recent studies on the nature of
the emotions reaches exactly the same conclusions as the
law we have just discussed. It has long been noted that an
emotion always possesses a certain outward material
expression, though only very recently has it been noted that
an emotion also always possesses a certain “spiritual” or
mental expression, in other words, that feelings are
connected not only with a certain degree of mimicry and
external manifestation, but also with imagery, with
representations, and with “emotional thinking.” While there
are some feelings which thrive in bright colors and warm
tones, there are others, on the contrary, which go better with
cold tones and dim colors, and it is right here that the mental
expression of the emotions manifests itself. The feeling of
melancholy compels me not only to carry my body in a
certain way, but to also select impressions in a certain way,
and it finds its expression in sad memories, in sad fantasies,
and in sad dreams. Essentially, dreams constitute a spiritual
expression of emotion in pure form. Investigations have
shown that a feeling which arises spontaneously, for
example, the feeling of fear, is a kind of a unifying thread
that weaves together the most diverse episodes and the most
incongruous parts of dreams.
Hence the emotional value of imagination becomes
understandable. Emotions that are not realized in one’s life
find their outlet and their expression in arbitrary
combinations of the elements of reality, above all, in art. It
should be recalled in this connection that art does not just
provide an outlet and expression for a particular emotion, it
always resolves this emotion and liberates the psyche from
its sombre influence.
Thus does the psychological effect of the fable converge
with the psychological effect of games. The esthetic value of
a game manifests itself not only in the rhythm it imparts to
children’s movements, or in the mastery of primitive
melodies in such games as square dancing and the like. It is
far more important that games, which, from the biological
point of view, constitute preparation for real life, from the
aspect of psychology manifest themselves as yet another
form of the child’s creative urges. Some psychologists have
referred to the law discussed earlier as the “law of dual
expression of the feelings,” and it is precisely this “dual
expression” which games subserve. In games, the child is
always creatively transforming reality. In the mind of a child,
people and things readily assume new meanings. For a child,
a chair does not just represent a train, a horse, or a house, but
actually participates in his games as such. And this
transformation of reality in games is always oriented
towards the child’s emotional needs. “It is not because we
play that we are children, rather we are given childhood in
order to play” – this formula of Karl Groos’ expresses better
than anything else the biological nature of games. Its
psychological nature is wholly defined by the dual
expression of the emotions, which is manifested in
movements and in the discipline of games. Just like games,
an artistically well-thought-out fable is the child’s natural
esthetic teacher.
Esthetic Education and Natural Talent
There is the belief that there are two entirely different
systems of esthetic education, one for the gifted and talented,
and the other for ordinary, average students. There is no way
for such thinking to become reconciled with the fact that the
esthetic education of especially gifted children shouldn’t be
any different than the esthetic education of ordinary children.
The conclusions of science increasingly lead us away from
such a view and give us ever newer proofs in favor of quite
the opposite belief, that there is no fundamental difference
between the two, and that our concern should rather lie in
the development of a common pedagogical system.
As regards voice training, the view that every person is
supplied with an ideal voice from birth, a voice that
comprises potentialities that exceed many times over the
highest achievements of vocal art, is increasingly taking root.
In its normal organization, the human throat is the greatest
musical instrument in the world, and if in spite of this, we
always speak with terrible voices, the only reason for this is
the fact that, because of shouting, improper breathing, and
developmental conditions and dress, we appear to have
spoiled the voice we are initially endowed with. Those who
are the most gifted in terms of vocal qualities are not those
who were supplied with the best voice to begin with, but
those who have, by chance, succeeded in preserving it. On
this point, Professor Buldin declares that “Shalyapin’s voice
does not constitutes a rare gift, but a rare instance of the
preservation of a common gift. Once a human voice attains
such musical perfection, all our conceptions of the language
of angels are left far behind.”
This view of the natural talents of the human organism is
beginning to find more and more proponents in the most
diverse fields of pedagogics. The ordinary conception of
natural talent seems to have been turned upside down, and
the problem cannot be posed as it used to be; one has to ask,
not why is it that some people are more gifted than others,
but, rather, why others are less gi t d, since the high level of
talent a human being is initially endowed with is, to all
appearances, the fundamental datum in absolutely all
domains of the psyche, and, consequently, those cases where
these gifts have been lost or are in less abundance have to be
explained. One can still speak of this only as a scientific
premise supported quite strongly, to be sure, by a whole
series of facts. However, if this is to be established as
something unshakeable, the broadest imaginable
potentialities open up before pedagogics, and the problem
becomes one of determining how to preserve the child’s
creative talent.
Though this question cannot be considered solved in its final,
general form, in its special application to questions of
general education it may be considered already solved now
in the sense that, like every form of education of creative
talent, the goal of esthetic education must, in all ordinary
circumstances, proceed on the assumption of the high level
of talent of human nature, and the premise that the greatest
creative potentiality of the human being is present, and that
one’s own educational influence must, thus, be accessible
and guided in such a way as to develop these potentialities
and preserve them. Thus, talent also becomes a goal of
education, whereas in the old psychology it was present only
as a premise and as a datum of education. In no other realm
of psychology does this thought encounter such striking
confirmation as in the field of art. For each of us our creative
potentiality becomes the accomplice of Shakespeare when
we read his tragedies, and the accomplice of Beethoven
when we listen to his symphonies, and it is this which is the
most striking indicator that in each of us there is concealed a
potential Shakespeare and a potential Beethoven.
The psychological difference between the composer and
audience of a musical composition, between Beethoven and
each of us, was brilliantly defined by Tolstoy, when he
pointed out the need for us to react to every impression, and
emphasized the realness of art, an idea that is of the greatest
importance for esthetic education.
“Of course, he who wrote at least the Kreutzer
Sonata-Beethoven, that is of course, he knew why he found
himself in such a state; this state led him to undertake certain
actions, so that for him, this state possessed a meaning,
whereas for us it has no meaning at all. This is why music
only stimulates, but does not terminate. Thus, if there is a
military march being played, the soldiers will march to the
music, and the music will affect them; if there is dance
music being played, I'll go dancing, and the music will affect
me; and if mass is being sung, I'll receive communion, and
the music will also affect me; but this is only stimulation,
and there is nothing I have to do in response to this
stimulation. This is why music is so frightful, why it
sometimes has so frightful an effect.
“For example, even though it is the Kreutzer Sonata, could
the first movement be played, let’s say, in a drawing room
filled with young ladies in decollete? Suppose this
movement is played, can I then tap someone on the shoulder,
and then have some ice cream and talk the latest gossip?
These pieces of music may be played only at certain
important and significant social events and only when there
are certain actions which have to be carried out and which
are appropriate to this music. To play the music and to do
what this music calls for, that is the point.”
Author’s Notes
1 So fashionable and, now, so popular a work as
Chukovskii’s Crocodile, like all of Chukovskii’s stories
for children, is one of the better examples of this
perversion of children’s poetry with nonsense and
gibberish. Chukovskii seems to proceed from the
assumption that the sillier something is, the more
understandable and the more entertaining it is for the
child, and the more likely that it will be within the child’s
grasp. It is not hard to instil the taste for such dull
literature in children, though there can be little doubt
that it has a negative impact on the educational process,
particularly in those immoderately large doses to which
children are now subjected. All thought of style is thrown
out, and in his babbling verse Chukovskii piles up
nonsense on top of gibberish. Such literature only fosters
silliness and foolishness in children.
2 “Look here, said Peredonov to the students, “we have
to understand this thoroughly. There is an allegory
concealed here. Wolves go in pairs, and, yes, here we
have a wolf and a hungry she-wolf. The wolf is full, but
his mate is hungry. The wife must always eat after the
husband. The wife must obey the husband in
everything.” It goes without saying that, from such a
view, a work of art ends up without any independent
value of its own, it becomes a kind of illustration of some
general moral assertion, which is where all attention
becomes focused, and the work of art itself seems to fall
outside the student’s field of vision. And, in fact, with
such an understanding not only are no esthetic habits or
skills created or fostered, not only is there no flexibility,
subtlety, or diversity of forms imparted to esthetic
experience, but, on the contrary, the pedagogical rule
becomes a matter of turning the students attention away
from the actual work of art and towards its ethical
meaning. Esthetic feelings are methodically extirpated as
a result of such education, to be replaced by a moral
element alien to esthetics, and hence that natural distaste
for 99% of all of classical literature of the past which one
can sense in our secondary schools. Many of those who
have spoken in favor of eliminating literature from the
high school curriculum take just this point of view, and
claim that the best way of inculcating a dislike for some
author and of dissuading someone from reading him is to
introduce his works in a course in school.
3 Why is it that morality and truth,” says the hero of the
story, “have to be presented not in undigested form, but
rather with extraneous elements, forever in sugarcoated
and embellished form, like a pill? This is not normal ... It
is a falsification, it is a deception, it is a trick...” of art to
become manifest. Once a work of art has been
experienced, it may actually enlarge our view of some
realm of experience, force us to look upon it as if with
new eyes, to generalize and to combine together bits of
information that may often be entirely disparate. The
fact is that, like every powerful experience, esthetic
experience creates a very tangible environment for
subsequent actions and, of course, never transpires
without leaving some trace that manifests itself in our
behavior later on. Many writers have been quite right to
compare works of poetry with batteries or devices for the
storage of energy that is to be consumed subsequently. In
precisely the same way, every experience of poetry seems
to accumulate energy for future action, points one in a
new direction, and compels us to look upon the world
with new eyes. More radical psychologists have even
come to speak of the purely motor environments evoked
by this or that work of art. Come to think of it, we need
only recall the existence of such forms of art as dance
music to see that there is a certain motor impulse i in
absolutely every esthetic sensation. Sometimes it is
realized right then and there, in rudimentary form,
whether in the movements of a dance or in the beating of
time, and this belongs to the lower forms of art. But there
are also times when the complexity of this sensation
reaches the highest levels, when, because of their motor
complexity, these impulses cannot become manifest in
full and instantaneously, and then this motor complexity
is expressed instead through extraordinarily subtle
preliminary labor for the evolution of subsequent
behavior. Esthetic experience disciplines our behavior.
“From the way a person walks as he leaves a concert, we
can always tell whether he had been listening to
Beethoven or to Chopin” – thus writes one researcher.
Week 13（許洪坤）: 1929 The Problem of the Cultural
Development of the Child
The problem
In the process of development the child not only masters the items of cultural
experience but the habits and forms of cultural behaviour, the cultural methods of
reasoning. We must, therefore, distinguish the main lines in the development of the
child’s behaviour. First, there is the line of natural development of behaviour which is
closely bound up with the processes of general organic growth and the maturation of
the child. Second, there is the line of cultural improvement of the psychological
functions, the working out of new methods of reasoning, the mastering of the cultural
methods of behaviour.
Thus, of two children of different ages the elder can remember
better and more than the younger. This is true for two entirely different
reasons. The processes of memorizing of the older child have
undergone, during his additional period of growth, a certain
evolution – they have attained a higher level – but only by means of
psychological analysis may we reveal whether that evolution
proceeded on the first or on the second line.
Maybe the child remembers better because his nervous and mental
constitutions which underlie the processes of memory were developed
and perfected, because the organic base of these processes was
developed; in short, because of the mneme or mnemic functions of the
child. However, the development might follow quite a different path.
The organic base of memory, mneme, might remain substantially
unaltered during the period of growth, but the methods of memorizing
might have changed. The child might have learned how to use his
memory in a more efficient way. He could have mastered the
mnemotechnical methods of memorizing; in particular, he may have
developed the method of memorizing by means of signs.
In fact both lines of development can always be revealed, for the
older child not only remembers more facts than the younger one, but
he remembers them in a different way. In the process of development
we can trace that qualitative change in the form of behaviour and the
transformation of some such forms into others. The child who
remembers by means of a geographical map or by means of a plan, a
scheme or a summary, may serve as an example of such cultural
development of memory.
We have many reasons to assume that the cultural development
consists in mastering methods of behaviour which are based on the use
of signs as a means of accomplishing any particular psychological
operation. This is not only proved by the study of the psychological
development of primitive man, but also by the direct and immediate
observation of children.
In order to understand the problem of the cultural development of
the child, it is very important to apply the conception of children’s
primitiveness which has recently been advanced. The primitive child is
a child who has not undergone a cultural development, or one who has
attained a relatively low level of that development. If we regard
children’s primitiveness in an isolated state as a special kind of
underdevelopment, we shall thereby contribute to the proper
understanding of the cultural development of behaviour. Children’s
primitiveness, i.e. their delay in cultural development, is primarily due
to the fact that for some external or internal cause they have not
mastered the cultural means of behaviour, especially language.
However, the primitive child is a healthy child. Under certain
conditions
the primitive child undergoes
a normal
cultural
development, reaching the intellectual level of a cultural man. This
distinguishes primitiveness from weak-mindedness. True, child’s
primitiveness may be combined with all the levels of natural capacities.
Primitiveness, as a delay of cultural development, nearly always
retards the development of a defective child. It is often combined with
mental retardation.
But even in this mixed form, primitiveness and weak-mindedness
remain two phenomena essentially different in kind, the origins of
which are totally different. One is the retardation of the organic or
natural development which originates in defects of the brain. The other
is a retardation in the cultural development of behaviour caused by
insufficient mastery of the methods of cultural reasoning.
Take the following instance. A girl of nine years, quite normal, is
primitive. She is asked, ‘in a certain school some children can write
well and some can draw well. Do all children in this school write and
draw well?’ She answers, ‘How do I know; what I have not seen with
my own eyes, I am unable to explain. If I had seen it with my eyes ....’
Another example: a primitive boy is asked, ‘What is the difference
between a tree and a log?’ He answers, ‘I have not seen a tree, nor do I
know of any tree, upon my word’. Yet there is a lime tree growing just
opposite his window. When you ask him, ‘And what is this?’ he will
answer, ‘This is a lime tree’.
The retardation in the development of logical reasoning and in the
formation of concepts is due here entirely to the fact that children have
not sufficiently mastered the language, the principal weapon of logical
reasoning and the formation of concepts. Petrova [1925, p. 85], the
author of the work containing the above examples, states: ‘Our
numerous observations prove that the replacing of one imperfect
language by another equally imperfect always prejudices psychic
development. This substitution of one form of reasoning by another
lowers especially the psychic activity wherever the latter is in any case
weak’. In our first example, the girl has changed her imperfect Tartar
language for the Russian, and has not fully mastered the use of words
as means of reasoning. She displays her total inability to think in
words, although she speaks, i.e. can use the words as means of
communication. She does not understand how one can draw
conclusions from words instead of relying on one’s own eyes. The
primitive boy has not as yet worked out a general abstract concept of
‘tree’, although he knows individual kinds of trees. That reminds us
that in the language of many primitive races there is no such word as
‘tree’; they have only separate words for each kind of tree.
The analysis
Usually the two lines of psychological development (the natural and the cultural)
merge into each other in such a way that it is difficult to distinguish them and follow
the course of each of them separately. In case of sudden retardation of any one of
these two lines, they become more or less obviously disconnected as, for example, in
the case of different primitiveness.
The same cases show that cultural development does not create
anything over and above that which potentially exists in the natural
development in the child’s behaviour. Culture, generally speaking,
does not produce anything new apart from that which is given by
nature. But it transforms nature to suit the ends of man. This same
transformation occurs in the cultural development of behaviour. It also
consists of inner changes in that which was given by nature in the
course of the natural development of behaviour.
As has already been shown by Höffding, the higher forms of
behaviour have no more means and data at their disposal than those
which were shown by the lower forms of that same activity. In the
words of the author:
The fact that the association of ideas, when we reason, becomes the
object of special interest and conscious choice, does not, however,
alter the laws of associations of ideas. The thought, properly speaking,
can no more dispense with these laws than an artificial machine with
the laws of physics. However, psychological laws as well as physical
ones can be utilized in such a way as to serve our ends.
When we purposely interfere with the course of the processes of
behaviour, we can do so only in conformance with the same laws
which govern these processes in their natural course, just as we can
transform outward nature and make it serve our ends only in
conformance with the laws of nature. Bacon’s principle, ‘Natura
parendo vincitur’, is equally applicable both to the mastering of
behaviour and to the mastering of the forces of nature.
This indicates the true relation between the cultural and primitive
forms of behaviour. Every cultural method of behaviour, even the
most complicated, can always be completely analysed into its
component nervous and psychic processes, just as every machine, in
the last resort, can be reduced to a definite system of natural forces and
processes. Therefore, the first task of scientific investigation, when it
deals with some cultural method of behaviour, must be the analysis of
that method, i.e. its decomposition into component parts, which are
natural psychological processes.
This analysis, if carried out consistently and to completion, will
always give us the same result. This proves precisely that there can be
no complicated or high method of cultural reasoning which did not in
the last resort consist of some primary elementary psychological
processes of behaviour. The methods and insignificance of such
analysis can best be explained by means of some concrete examples.
In our experimental investigations we place the child in such a
situation that he is faced by the problem of remembering a definite
number of figures, words or some other data. If that task is not above
the natural abilities of the child, he will master it by the natural or
primitive method. He remembers by creating associative or conditional
reflexive connections between the stimuli and reactions.
However, we rarely obtain such a situation in our experiments. The
task set the child is usually above his natural capacities. It cannot be
solved in such a primitive and natural method. We put before the child
some object, quite irrelevant to the task set, such as paper, pins, string,
small shot, etc. We thus obtain a situation very similar to the one
which Köhler created for his apes. The problem occurs in the process
of the natural activity of the child, but its solution requires some detour
or the application of some means. If the child finds such a solution, he
takes recourse to signs, the tying of knots on the string, the counting of
small shots, the piercing or tearing of paper, etc.
Such memorization based on the use of signs is regarded by us as a
typical instance of all cultural methods of behaviour. The child solves
an inner problem by means of exterior objects. This is the most typical
peculiarity of cultural behaviour. It also distinguishes the situation
created in our experiments from the Köhler situation which that author,
and afterwards other investigators, tried to apply to children. There the
problems and their solutions were entirely in the plane of external
activity, as opposed to ours which are in the plane of internal activity.
There an irrelevant object obtained the ‘functional importance’ of a
weapon, here it acquires the functional importance of a sign.
Mankind moved along the latter path of development of memory
based on signs. Such an essentially mnemotechnical operation is the
specifically human feature of behaviour. It is impossible among
animals.
Let us now compare the natural and cultural mnemonics of a child.
The relation between the two forms can be graphically expressed by
means of a triangle: in case of natural memorization a direct
associative or conditional reflexive connection is set up between two
points, A and B. In case of mnemotechnical memorization, utilizing
some sign, instead of one associative connection AB, the others are set
up AX and BX, which bring us to the same result, but in a roundabout
way. Each of these connections AX and BX is the same kind of
conditional-reflexive process of connection as AB.
The mnemotechnical memorizing can thus be divided without
remainder into the same conditional reflexes as natural memorizing.
The only new features are the substitution of two connections for one,
the construction or combination of nervous connections, and the
direction given to the process of connection by means of a sign. Thus
new features consist not in the elements but in the structure of the
cultural methods of mnemonics.
The structure
The second task of scientific investigation is to elucidate the structure of that method.
Although each method of cultural behaviour consists, as it is shown by the analysis, of
natural psychological processes, yet that method unites them not in a mechanical, but
in a structural way. In other words, all processes forming part of that method form a
complicated functional and structural unity. This unity is effected, first, by the task
which must be solved by the given method, and secondly, by the means by which that
method can be followed.
The same problem, if solved by different means, will have a
different structure. If a child in the above mentioned situation turns to
the aid of external memorizing means, the whole structure of his
processes will be determined by the character of the means which he
has selected. Memorizing on different systems of signs will be
different in its structure. A sign or an auxiliary means of a cultural
method thus forms a structural and functional centre, which determines
the whole composition of the operation and the relative importance of
each separate process.
The inclusion in any process of a sign remodels the whole structure
of psychological operations, just as the inclusion of a tool remodels the
whole structure of a labour operation. The structures thus formed have
their specific laws. You find in them that some psychological
operations are replaced by others which cause the same results, but by
quite different methods. Thus, for example, in memorizing
mnemotechnically, the various psychological functions, such as
comparison, the renewal of old connections, logical operations,
reasoning, etc., all become aids to memorizing. It is precisely the
structure which combines all the separate processes, which are the
component parts of the cultural habit of behaviour, which transforms
this habit into a psychological function, and which fulfils its task with
respect to the behaviour as a whole.
The genesis
However, that structure does not remain unchanged. That is the most important point
of all we know concerning the cultural development of the child. This structure is not
an outward, ready-made creation. It originates in conformance with definite laws at a
certain stage of the natural development of the child. It cannot be forced on the child
from outside, it always originates inwardly, although it is modelled by the deciding
influence of external problems with which the child is faced and the external signs
with which it operates. After the structure comes into being, it does not remain
unchanged, but is subject to a lengthy internal change which shows all the signs of
development.
A new method of behaviour does not simply remain fixed as a
certain external habit. It has its internal history. It is included in the
general process of the development of a child’s behaviour, and we
therefore have a right to talk of a genetic relation between certain
structures of cultural reasoning and behaviour, and of the development
of the methods of behaviour. This development is certainly of a special
kind, is radically different from the organic development and has its
own definite laws. It is extremely difficult to grasp and express
precisely the peculiarity of that type of development. In basing our
position on critical explanations and on a series of schemes suggested
by experimental investigations, we shall try to take certain steps
toward the correct understanding of this development.
Binet, who in his investigations was faced by these two types of
development, tried to solve the problem in the simplest fashion. He
investigated the memory of eminent calculators, and in this connection
had occasion to compare the memory of a man endowed with a truly
remarkable memory with the memory of a man endowed with an
average memory; the latter, however, was not inferior to the former in
memorizing a huge number of figures. Mneme and mnemotechnics
were thus for the first time contrasted in experimental investigation,
and for the first time an attempt was made to find an objective
difference between these two essentially different forms of memory.
Binet [1894, pp. 155-86) applied to his investigation and the
phenomenon under investigation the term ‘simulation of memory’. He
believes that most psychological operations can be simulated, i.e.
replaced by others resembling them only in external appearance, but
differing from them in their essence. Thus mnernotechnics, according
to Binet, is a simulation of eminent memory, which he calls artificial
memory as distinguished from natural memory. The mnemotechnician
who was investigated by Binet memorized by means of a simple
method. He substituted word memory for figure memory. Every figure
was replaced by the corresponding letter, the letters joined on in words,
and the latter in phrases. Instead of a disconnected series of figures, he
only had to remember and reproduce a sort of short story of his own
invention. This example clearly shows us to what extent mnemonical
memorizing leads to the substitution of certain psychological
operations for others.
It is precisely this fundamental fact which was obvious to the
investigators. It caused them to refer to this particular case as a
simulation of natural development. This definition can hardly be called
a successful one. It points out correctly that even though the two
operations were similar (both calculators memorized and reproduced
an equal number of figures with equal precision), yet in its essence one
of the operations simulated the other.
If this definition was calculated to express only the peculiarity of the
second type of memory development, we could not object to it. But it
is misleading in that it conveys the idea that we have to deal here with
simulation in the sense of false appearance, or deceit. This is the
practical standpoint suggested by the specific conditions of
investigations of individuals who appear on the stage with various
tricks, and who are, therefore, apt to deceive. This is rather the
standpoint of the investigating magistrate than the psychologist.
After all, as is admitted by Binet [1894, p. 164], such a simulation is
not simply deceit. Every one of us possesses some kind of power of
mnemotechnics, and mnemotechnics itself, in the opinion of that very
author, should be studied in schools, the same as mental counting.
Surely the author did not mean to say that the art of simulation should
be taught in schools.
The definition of that type of cultural development as a ‘fictitious
development’, i.e. one leading only to fictitious organic development,
appears to us equally unsatisfactory. Here again the negative aspect of
that case is correctly expressed; namely, that with a cultural
development, the raising of the function to a higher level or the raising
of its activity is based not on the organic, but on the functional
development, i.e. on the development of the method itself. However,
this term also conceals the undoubted truth that in this case we have
not ambitious, but a real development of a special type, which
possesses its own definite laws.
We should like to emphasize from the outset that this development
is subject to the influence of the same two main factors which take part
in the organic development of the child, namely the biological and the
social. The law of convergence of the internal and external factors, as
it was called by Stern, is entirely applicable to the cultural
development of the child.’ In this case as well, only at a certain level
of the internal development of the organism does it become possible to
master any of the cultural methods. Also an organism internally
prepared absolutely requires the determining influence of the
environment in order to enable it to accomplish that development.
Thus, at a certain stage of its organic development the child masters
speech. At another stage he masters the decimal system.
However, the relation of the two factors in the development of this
kind is materially changed. The active part is here played by the
organism which masters the means of cultural behaviour supplied by
the environment. But the organic maturation plays the part of a
condition rather than a motive power of the process of cultural
development, since the structure of that process is defined by outward
influences. All means of social behaviour are in their essence social. A
child mastering Russian or English and a child mastering the language
of some primitive tribe, masters, in connection with the environment
in which he is developed, two totally different systems of thinking.
If the doctrine that in certain spheres the behaviour of the individual
is a function of the behaviour of the social whole to which he belongs
is valid at all, it is precisely to the sphere of the cultural development
of the child that it must be applied. This development is conditioned
by outward influences. It can be defined as outer rather than as inner
growth. It is the function of the social-cultural experience of the child.
At the same time it is not a simple accumulation of experience as was
stated above. It contains a series of inner changes which fully
correspond to the process of development in the proper sense of that
word.
The third and last problem of investigation of the child’s cultural
development is the education of the psychogenesis of cultural forms of
behaviour. We shall give here a short sketch of the scheme of this
process of development, as it transpired in our experimental
investigations. We shall try to show that the cultural development of
the child passes – if we may trust the artificial surroundings of the
experiment – through four main stages or phases which follow
consecutively one after another.
Taken as a whole, these stages form a complete cycle of cultural
development of any one psychological function. The data obtained by
means other than experiments fully coincide with the scheme set by us,
fully agree with it, and thus acquire a definite significance and
hypothetical explanation. Let us follow briefly the description of the
four stages of the child’s cultural development according to their
consecutive changes in the process of the simple experiment described
above.
The first stage could he described as the stage of primitive
behaviour or primitive psychology. The experiment reveals this in that
the younger child tries to remember the data supplied to him by a
primitive or natural means in accordance with the degree to which he
is interested in them. The amount remembered is determined by the
degree of his attention, by the amount of his individual memory and by
the measure of his interest in the matter.
Usually only the difficulties which the child meets on this path bring
him to the second stage. In our experiments it usually took place in the
following way. Either the child himself, after more or less protracted
search and trials, discovers some mnemotechnical method, or we lend
him our assistance in case he is unable to master the task with the
resources of his natural memory. For example, we place pictures in
front of the child and choose words to be memorized in such a way
that they should be in some way naturally connected with those
pictures. When the child who has heard the words looks at the picture,
he easily reproduces a whole series of words, since such pictures,
irrespective of the child’s consciousness, will remind him of the words
which he has just heard.
The child usually grasps very quickly the method which we suggest
to him, but does not usually know by what means the pictures help
him to remember the words. He usually reacts in the following manner:
when a new series of words is given to him, he will again – but now on
his own initiative – place the pictures in front of him, and look at them
every time a word is given to him. But since this time there is no direct
connection between words and pictures, and the child does not know
how to use the pictures as a means of memorizing a given word, he
looks at the picture and reproduces not the word he was given, but
another suggested by the picture.
This stage is conventionally called the stage of ‘naive psychology’,
by analogy with what the German investigators (Köhler, Lipmann) call
the ‘naive physics’ in the behaviour of apes and children when using
tools. The use of the simplest tools by children presupposes a certain
naive physical experience of the simplest physical properties of one’s
own body and those of objects and tools with which the child is
familiar. Very often that experience proves insufficient and then the
‘naive physics’ of an ape or a child avails him nothing.'
We note something similar in our experiment when the child
grasped the external connection between the use of pictures and the
memorizing of words. However, the ‘naive psychology’, i.e. the naive
experience gathered by him concerning his own processes of
memorizing proved to be insignificant, so that the child could not use
the picture adequately as a sign or a means of memorizing. Contrary to
the magical thinking of a primitive man when the connection between
ideas is mistaken for the connection between things, in this case the
child takes the connection between things for the connection between
ideas. In the former case the magical reasoning is due to insufficient
knowledge of the laws of nature: in the latter, to insufficient
knowledge of its own psychology.
This second stage is usually transitory in its importance. In the
course of the experiment the child usually passes on very quickly to
the third stage of the external cultural method. After a few attempts the
child usually discovers, if his psychological experience is rich enough,
how the trick works, and learns how to make proper use of the picture.
Now he replaces the processes of memorizing by a rather complicated
external activity. When he is given a word, he chooses out of a number
of pictures in front of him the one which is most closely associated
with the word given. At first he tries to use the natural association
which exists between the picture and word, but soon afterwards passes
on to the creation and formation of new associations.
However, in the experiment even this third stage lasts a
comparatively short time and is replaced by the fourth stage, which
originates in the third. The external activity of the child remembering
by means of a sign passes on into internal activity. The external means,
so to speak, becomes ingrown or internal.
The simplest way to observe this is the study of a situation in which
a child must remember given words by using pictures placed in
definite order. After a few times the child usually learns the pictures
themselves. He has no further need to recur to them. He already
associates words given with the titles of pictures, the order of which he
already knows. Such ‘complete ingrowing’ is based on the fact that
inner stimuli are substituted for the external ones. The mnemotechnical
map which lies before the child becomes his internal scheme.
Along with this method of ingrowing we observe a few more types
of transition from the third into the fourth stage; of these we shall
mention only the two principal ones. The first may be termed
‘seam-like ingrowing’. The seam connecting two parts of organic
texture very rapidly leads to the formation of the connecting texture, so
that the seam itself becomes unnecessary. We observe a similar
process in the exclusion of the sign by means of which some
psychological operation was at first carried out.
We can best observe it in a child’s complicated reactions of choice
when every one of the stimuli offered to him is associated with the
corresponding movement by means of an auxiliary sign, e.g. the above
mentioned picture. After a series of repetitions the sign becomes no
longer necessary. The stimulus is the immediate cause for the
corresponding action.
Our investigation in that sphere has entirely confirmed the fact
already established by Lehmann, namely that in a complicated reaction
of choice, certain names or other associative intermediaries are
interposed at first between the stimulus and the reaction – associations
which serve as a connecting link between the two. After exercise,
these intermediate links fall out and the reaction passes immediately
into a simple sensory or motor form. The period of reaction, according
to Lehmann, decreases correspondingly from 300s to 240s and 140s.
Let us add that the same phenomenon, but in a less obvious form, was
observed by investigators in the process of simple reaction which, as
shown by Wundt, may dwindle away to a simple reflex under the
influence of exercise.
Finally, the third type of transition from the third stage to the fourth,
the growing in’ of the external method into the internal, is the
following: the child, after mastering the structure of some external
method, constructs the internal processes according to the same type.
He starts at once to use the inner schemes, tries to use his
remembrances as signs, the knowledge he formerly acquired, etc. In
this connection the investigator is struck by the fact that a problem
once solved leads to a correct solution in all analogous situations even
when external conditions have changed radically. We are naturally
reminded here of the similar transpositions which were observed by
Köhler [1921] in the ape which once solved correctly the task set for it.
The four stages which we have described are only a first
hypothetical scheme of the path along which the cultural development
evolves. However, we wish to point out that the path indicated by that
scheme coincides with certain data which are already at hand in the
literature on the psychology of this question. We shall quote three
instances which reveal coincidences with the main outline of our
scheme.
The first example has to do with the development of a child’s
arithmetical ability. The first stage is formed by the natural
arithmetical endowment of the child, i.e. his operation of quantities
before he knows how to count. We include here the immediate
conception of quantity, the comparison of greater and smaller groups,
the recognition of some quantitative group, the distribution into single
objects where it is necessary to divide, etc.
The next stage of the ‘naive psychology’ is observed in all children
and is illustrated in a case where the child, knowing the external
methods of counting, imitates adults and repeats ‘one, two, three’
when he wants to count, but does not know for what purpose or
exactly how to count by means of figures. This stage of arithmetical
development was reached by the girl described by Stern. He asked
how many fingers he had and she answered that she could only count
her own fingers. The third stage is when counting is made by the aid of
fingers, and the fourth stage when counting is effected in the mind and
the fingers are dispensed with. Counting in the mind is an illustration
of ‘complete ingrowing’.
It is equally easy to locate in this scheme the development of
memory at a given age for any child. The three types indicated by
Meumann [1912] the mechanical, the mnemotechnical and the logical
(preschool age, school age and mature age), obviously coincide with
the first, third and fourth stages of our scheme. Meumann [1911, pp.
394-473] himself attempts elsewhere to prove that these three types
represent a genetic series in which one type passes into another. From
that standpoint the logical memory of an adult is precisely the
‘ingrown’ mnemotechnical memory.
If these hypotheses are in any way justified, we should obtain
another proof of how important it is to use the historical standpoint in
studying the highest functions of behaviour. In any case there is one
very weighty bit of evidence which speaks in favour of this hypothesis.
It is first of all the fact that verbal memory, which precedes the logical
memory, i.e. the memorizing in words, is a mnemotechnical memory.
We are reminded that Compayré has formerly defined language as a
mnemotechnical tool.” Meumann was right in showing that words
have a two-fold function in regard to memory. They can either appear
by themselves as memorizing material or as signs by the aid of which
we memorize. We should also remember that Bühler has established
by experimentation that memorizing of meaning is independent of the
memorizing of words and of the important part played by internal
speech in the process of logical memorizing, so that the genetic
kinship between the mnemotechnical and logical memory should
clearly appear owing to their connecting link, verbal memory.” The
second stage, which is absent in the scheme of Meumann, probably
passes very quickly in the development of memory and therefore
escapes observation.
Finally, we must point out that such a central problem in the history
of the child’s cultural development as the development of speech and
reasoning is in accord with our scheme. This scheme, we believe,
allows us to discover a correct solution of this most complicated and
puzzling problem.
As we know, some authors consider speech and reasoning as
entirely different processes, one of which serves as the expression and
the outer clothing of the other. Others, on the contrary, identify
reasoning and speech, and follow Müller in defining thought as speech
minus the sound. What does the history of the child’s cultural
development teach us in that connection? It shows first of all that
genetically reasoning and speech have entirely different roots. This by
itself must serve as a warning against the hurried identification of
those concepts which differ genetically. As is established by
investigation, the development of speech and reasoning both in
ontogenesis and phylogenesis goes up to a certain point by
independent paths. The pre-intellectual roots of speech, such as the
speech of birds and animals, were known long ago. Köhler [1921] was
successful in establishing the pre-speech roots of intellect. Also the
pre-intellectual roots of speech in the ontogenesis, such as the squeak
and lisping of a child, were known long ago and were thoroughly
investigated. Köhler, Bilhier and others were successful in establishing
the pre-speech roots of intellect in the development of the child.
Bühler proposed to call this age of the first manifestations of
intellectual reactions in a child preceding the formation of speech the
chimpanzee age.” The most remarkable feature in the intellectual
behaviour both of apes and of the human child of that age is the
independence of intellect from speech. It is just that characteristic
which led Bühler [1929, pp. 15-20] to the conclusion that the
intellectual behaviour in the form of ‘instrumental thinking preceded
the formation of speech.
At a certain moment the two lines of development cross each other.
This moment in the child’s development was regarded by Stern as the
greatest discovery in the life of a child. It is the child himself who
discovers the ‘instrumental function’ of a word. He discovers that
‘each thing has its name’. This crisis in the development of a child is
demonstrated when the child starts to widen his vocabulary actively,
asking about everything ‘What is it called?’ Bühler, and later on,
Koffka, pointed out that there is a complete psychological similarity
between this discovery of the child and the inventions of apes. The
child’s discovery of the functional importance of a word as a sign is
similar to the discovery of the functional importance of a stick as a
tool. Koffka stated: ‘the word enters the structure of the thing just as a
stick does for the chimpanzee in the situation which consists in the
desire to acquire fruits’.
The most important stage in the development of reasoning and
speech is the transition from external to internal speech. How and
when does this important process in the development of internal
speech take place? We believe that the answer to this question can be
given on the strength of the investigations carried out by Piaget on the
egocentrism of children’s speech. Piaget showed that speech becomes
internal psychologically prior to its becoming internal physiologically.
The egocentric speech of a child is internal speech according to its
psychological function (it is speaking to oneself) and external in form.
This is the transition from external to internal speech, and for this
reason it has great importance in genetic investigations. The
coefficient of egocentric speech falls sharply at the threshold of school
age (from 0.50 to 0.25). This shows it is precisely at that period that
the transition to internal speech takes place.
It is easy to observe that the three main stages in the development of
reasoning and speech which we quoted above fully correspond to the
three main stages of cultural development as they appear consecutively
in the course of experiment. Pre-speech reasoning corresponds in this
scheme to the first stage of the natural or primitive behaviour. ‘The
greatest discovery in the life of a child’, as shown by Bühler and
Koffka, is entirely analogous to the invention of tools, and
consequently corresponds to the third stage of our scheme. Finally, the
transition of external speech into internal speech, the egocentrism of a
child’s speech, forms the connecting link between the third and fourth
stage, which means the transformation of the external activity into an
internal one.
The method
The peculiarities of the child’s cultural development demand the application of the
corresponding method of investigation. This method could be conventionally called
‘instrumental’ as it is based on the discovery of the ‘instrumental function’ of cultural
signs in behaviour and its development.
In the plan of experimental investigation this method is based on the
‘functional method of double stimulation’, the essence of which may
be reduced to the organization of the child’s behaviour by the aid of
two series of stimuli, each of which has a distinct ‘functional
importance’ in behaviour. At the same time the conditio sine qua non
of the solution of the task set the child is the ‘instrumental use’ of one
series of stimuli, i.e. its utilization as an auxiliary means for carrying
out any given psychological operation.
We have reasons to assume that the invention and use of these signs,
as an auxiliary means for the solution of any task set the child, present
from a psychological standpoint an analogy with the invention and use
of tools. Within the general inter-relation, stimulus vs. reaction, which
is the basis of the usual methods of a psychological experiment, we
must distinguish, in conformance with the ideas which we here stated,
a two-foldfunction of the stimulus in regard to behaviour.
The stimulus in one case may play the part of object in regard to the
act of solving any particular problem given to the child (to remember,
compare, choose, estimate, weigh a certain thing). In another case it
can play the part of a means, by the aid of which we direct and realize
the psychological operations necessary to the solution of the problem
(memorizing, comparison, choice, etc.). In both those cases the
functional relation between the act of behaviour and the stimuli is
essentially different. In both cases the stimulus determines, conditions
and organizes our behaviour in quite different and specific ways. The
peculiarity of the psychological situation created in our experiments
consists in the simultaneous presence of the stimuli of both kinds, each
playing a different part both quantitatively and functionally.
Expressing the idea in the most general form, the main promise
lying at the root of this method is as follows: the child, in mastering
himself (his behaviour), goes on the whole in the same way as he does
in mastering external nature, e.g. by technical means. The man masters
himself externally, as one of the forces of nature by means of a special
cultural ‘technic of signs’. Bacon’s principle of the hand and the
intellect could serve as a motto for all similar investigations: ‘Nec
manus nuda, nec intellectus sibi permissus multum valet: instrumentis
et auxiliis res perficitur’.
This method in its very essence is a historical-genetic method. It
carries into investigation a historical point of view: ‘behaviour can
only be understood as the history of behaviour’ (Blonsky). This idea is
the cardinal principle of the whole method.
The application of this method becomes possible, (a) in the analysis
of the composition of the cultural method of behaviour, (b) in the
structure of this method as a whole and as a functional unity of all the
component processes, and (c) in the psychogenesis of the cultural
behaviour of the child. This method is not only a key to the
understanding of the higher forms of a child’s behaviour which
originate in the process of cultural development, but also a means to
the practical mastering of them in the matter of education and school
instruction.
This method is based on natural science methods of studying
behaviour, in particular on the method of conditional reflexes. Its
peculiarity consists in the study of complex functional structures of
behaviour and their specific laws. The objectiveness makes it akin to
the natural science methods of studying behaviour. This method of
investigation is connected with the use of objective means in
psychological experimentation.
When we investigate the highest functions of behaviour which are
composed of complicated internal processes, we find that this method
tends in the course of the experiment to call into being the very
process of formation of the highest forms of behaviour, instead of
investigating the function already formed in its developed stage. In this
connection, the most favourable stage for investigation is the third one,
that is the external cultural method of behaviour.
When we connect the complicated internal activity with the external
one, making the child choose and spread cards for the purpose of
memorizing, and move about and distribute pieces, etc. for the purpose
of creating concepts, we thereby create an objective series of reactions,
functionally connected with the internal activity and serving as a
starting point for objective investigation. In so doing we are acting in
the same way as, for instance, one who wanted to investigate the path
which the fish follows in the depths, from the point where it sinks into
water until it comes up again to the surface. We envelop the fish with a
string loop and try to reconstruct the curve of its path by watching the
movement of that end of the string which we hold in our hands. In our
experiments we shall at all times also hold the outer thread of the
internal process in our hands.
As an example of this method we may cite the experimental
investigations carried out by the author, or on his initiative, concerning
memory, counting, the formation of concepts and other higher
functions in children’s behaviour. These investigations we hope to
publish in a separate study. Here we only wanted to describe in a most
concise and sketchy form the problem of the child’s cultural
development.
Notes
First published as Vygotski, L. S. 1929: The problem of the cultural development of
the child II. Journal of Genetc Psychology, 36, 415-32. In a footnote it was said that A.
R. Luria of the Editorial Board had received the paper for publication on 20 July 1928.
The paper was essentially a translation of a paper that Vygotsky published somewhat
earlier in Pedologija [Pedology], a journal which he co-founded. See Vygotsky, L. S.
1928: Problema kul’turnogo razvitija rebenka. Pedologija, 1, 58-77. The article
formed the second in a series of three published in thejournal of Genetic Psychology
on the problem of the cultural development of the child. The research on which it was
based was carried out by Vygotsky, Luria, Leont'ev and their students at the
Psychological Laboratories of the N. K. Krupskaia Academy of Communist Education
in Moscow.
From Vygotsky Reader, Blackwell 1994
Week 14（錡寶香）: 1929 The Fundamental Problems of
Defectology Introduction
Vygotsky 1929
The Fundamental Problems of Defectology
Source: XMCA Research Paper Archive;
First Published: Collected Works of L S
Vygotsky. Volume 2, The Fundamentals of
Defectology, Plenum Press 1993;
Transcribed: by Andy Blunden.
Introduction
1
Only recently, the entire field of theoretical knowledge and
practical scientific work, which we conveniently call by the
name of “defectology,” was viewed as a minor part of
pedagogy, not unlike how medicine views minor surgery. All
the problems in this field have been posed and resolved as
quantitative problems. Entirely accurately, M. Kruenegel
States that the prevailing psychological methods for studying
an abnormal child (A. Binet’s metric scale or G. I.
Rossolimo’s profile) are based on a purely quantitative
conception of childhood development as impeded by a
defect (M. Kruenegel, 1926). These methods determine the
degree to which the intellect is lowered, without
characterizing either the defect itself or the inner structure of
the personality created by it. According to O. Lipmann, these
methods may be called measurement, but not an
examination of ability, Intelligenzmessungen but not
Intelligenzpruefungen (O. Lipmann, H. Bogen, 1923), since
they establish the degree, but neither the kind nor the
character of ability (O. Lipmann, 1924).
Other pedological methods for studying the
handicapped child are also correct and relevant-not
only
psychological
methods,
but
also
those
encompassing other sides of a child’s development
(anatomical and physiological). And here, scale and
measure have become the basic categories of
research, as if all problems of defectology were but
problems of proportion, and as though all the diverse
phenomena
studied
in
defectology
could
be
encompassed by a single scheme: “more versus
less.” In defectology, counting and measuring came
before
experimentation,
observation,
analysis,
generalization, description, and qualitative diagnosis.
Practical defectology likewise chose the simplest
course, that of numbers and measures, and attempted
to realize itself as a minor pedagogical field. If, in
theory, the problem was reduced to a quantitatively
limited, proportionally retarded development, then,
in practice, the idea of simplified and decelerated
instruction naturally was advanced. In Germany, the
very same Kruenegel, and in our country A. S.
Griboedov,
rightly
defend
the
notion:
“A
reexamination of the curriculum and methods of
instruction used in our auxiliary schools is essential”
(A. S. Griboedov, 1926, p. 28), since “a reduction of
educational material and a prolongation of its study
time”
(ibid.),
–
that
is,
purely
quantitative
indicators-have constituted until this time the only
distinctive features of the special school.
A purely arithmetical conception of a handicapped
condition is characteristic of an obsolete, old-school
defectology. Reaction against this quantitative
approach to all theoretical and practical problems is
the
most
important
characteristic
of
modern
defectology. The struggle between these two
attitudes
toward
defectology
–
between
two
antithetical ideas, two principles-is the burning issue
in that positive crisis which this area of scientific
knowledge is presently undergoing.
Viewing a handicapped condition as a purely
quantitative developmental limitation undoubtedly
has the same conceptual basis as the peculiar theory
of preformed childhood operations, according to
which post-natal childhood development is reduced
exclusively to quantitative growth and to the
expansion of organic and psychological functions.
Defectology is currently undertaking a theoretical
task which is analogous to the one once performed
by pedology and child psychology, when both
defended the position that a child is not simply a
small adult. Defectology is now contending for a
fundamental thesis, the defense of which is its sole
justification for existence as a science. The thesis
holds that a child whose development is impeded by
a defect is not simply a child less developed than his
peers but is a child who has developed differently.
If we subtract visual perception and all that relates
to it from our psychology, the result of this
subtraction will not be the psychology of a blind
child. In the same way, the deaf child is not a normal
child minus his hearing and speech. Pedology has
long ago mastered the idea that if viewed from a
qualitative
perspective,
the
process
of
child
development is, in the words of W. Stern, “a chain of
metamorphoses” (1922). Defectology is currently
developing a similar idea. A child in each stage of
his development, in each of his phases, represents a
qualitative uniqueness, i.e., a specific organic and
psychological structure; in precisely the same way, a
handicapped child represents a qualitatively different,
unique type of development. Just as oxygen and
hydrogen produce not a mixture of gases, but water,
so too, says Guertler, the personality of a retarded
child is something qualitatively different than simply
the sum of underdeveloped functions and properties.
The specific organic and psychological structure,
the type of development and personality, and not
qualitative proportions, distinguish a retarded child
from a normal one. Did not child psychology long
ago grasp the deep and true similarities between the
many developmental processes in a child and the
transformation of a caterpillar first into a chrysalis
and from a chrysalis into a butterfly? Now, through
Guertler, defectology has voiced the view that a
child’s retardation is a particular variety or special
type of development, and not a quantitative variant
of the normal type. These, he states, are different
organic forms, not unlike a tadpole and a frog (R.
Guertler, 1927).
There
between
is,
actually,
complete
correspondence
the particular characteristic of
each
age-level in the development of a child and the
particular characteristics of different types of
development. Just as the transition from crawling to
walking, and
from babble to
speech,
is
a
metamorphosis (i.e., a qualitative transformation
from one form into another) in the same way, the
speech of a deaf-mute child and the thought
processes of an imbecile are functions qualitatively
different from the speech and thought processes of
normal children.
Only with this idea of qualitative uniqueness
(rather than the overworked quantitative variations
of separate elements) in the phenomena and
processes under examination, does defectology
acquire, for the first time, a firm methodological
basis. But no theory is possible if it proceeds from
exclusively negative premises, just as no educational
practice can be based on purely negative definitions
and fundamentals. This notion is methodologically
central to modem defectology, and one’s attitude
toward this notion determines the exact position of a
particular, concrete problem. Defectology acquires,
with this idea, a whole system of positive tasks, both
theoretical and practical. The field of defectology
becomes viable as a science because it has assumed a
particular method and defined its object for research
and understanding. As B. Schmidt [no ref. ] put it,
only “pedological anarchy” can follow from a purely
quantitative conception of juvenile handicaps, and
programs of treatment and remediation can be based
only on uncoordinated compendia of empirical data
and techniques and not upon systematic scientific
knowledge.
It would be a great mistake, however, to think that
with the discovery of this idea the methodological*
formation of a new defectology is complete. On the
contrary, it has only just begun. As soon as the
possibility of a particular perspective on scientific
knowledge is determined, then the tendency arises to
search for its philosophical foundations. Such a
search
is
extremely characteristic of
modem
defectology and is an indication of its scientific
maturity. As soon as the uniqueness of the
phenomena being studied by defectologists has been
asserted, the philosophical questions immediately
arise: that is, questions of principles and methods of
knowledge and examination of this uniqueness. R.
Guertler has attempted to establish a basis for
defectology in an idealistic philosophy (R. Guertler,
1927). H. Noell based his discussion of the particular
problem of vocational training for students in
auxiliary schools on the modem “philosophy of
value,” developed by W. Stem, A. Messer (1906,
1908), Meinung, H. Rickert, and others. If such
attempts are still relatively rare, then the tendency
toward some philosophical formulation is easily
detected in almost any significant new scientific
work on defectology.
Apart from this tendency toward philosophical
formulations, absolutely concrete separate problems
face defectology. Their solution constitutes the major
goal of research projects in defectology.
Defectology has its own particular analytical
objective and must master it. The processes of
childhood development being studied by defectology
represent an enormous diversity of forms, almost a
limitless number of types. Science must master this
particularity and explain it, as well as establish the
cycles and transformations of development, its
imbalances and shifting centers, and discover the
laws of diversity. Further, there is the practical
problem of how to master the laws of development.
This article attempts to outline critically the
fundamental processes of defectology in their
intrinsic relationship and unity from the point of
view of those philosophical ideas and social
premises, assumed to be the basis of our educational
theory and practice.
2
The dual role of a physical disability, first in the
developmental process and then in the formation of the
child’s personality, is a fundamental fact with which we
must deal when development is complicated by a defect. On
the one hand, the defect means a minus, a limitation, a
weakness, a delay in development; on the other, it stimulates
a heightened, intensified advancement, precisely because it
creates difficulties. The position of modem defectology is
the following: Any defect creates stimuli for compensatory
process. Therefore, defectologists cannot limit their dynamic
study of a handicapped child to determining the degree and
severity of the deficiency. Without fail, they must take into
account the compensatory processes in a child’s
development and behavior, which substitute for, supersede,
and overarch the defect. Just as the patient-and not the
disease is important for modem medicine, so the child
burdened with the defect-not the defect in and of
itself-becomes the focus of concern for defectology.
Tuberculosis*, for example, is diagnosed not only by the
stage and severity of the illness, but also by the physical
reaction to the disease, by the degree to which the process is
or is not compensated for. Thus, the child’s physical and
psychological reaction to the handicap is the central and
basic problem-indeed, the sole reality-with which
defectology deals.
A long time ago, W. Stem pointed out the dual role
played
by
a
defect.
Thus,
the
blind
child
compensates with an increased ability to distinguish
through touch-not only by actually increasing the
stimulability of his nerves, but by exercising his
ability to observe, estimate, and ponder differences.
So, too, in the area of psychological functions, the
decreased value of one faculty may be fully or
partially
compensated
for
by
the
stronger
development of another. For example, the cultivation
of
comprehension
may
replace
keenness
of
observation and recollection, compensating for a
poor memory. Impressionability, the tendency to
imitate, and so forth compensate for weakness of
motivation and inadequate initiative. The functions
of personality are not so exclusive that, given the
abnormally weak development of one characteristic,
the task performed by it necessarily and in all
circumstances suffers. Thanks to the organic unity of
personality,
another
faculty
undertakes
to
accomplish the task (W. Stem, 1921).
In this way we can apply the law of compensation
equally to normal and abnormal development. T.
Lipps saw in this a fundamental law of mental life: if
a mental event is interrupted or impeded, then an
“overflow” (that is, an increase of psychological
energy) occurs at the point of interruption or
obstruction. The obstruction plays the role of a dam.
This law Lipps named the law of psychological
damming up or stowage (Stauung). Energy is
concentrated at that point where the process met with
delay, and it may overcome the delay or proceed by
roundabout ways. Thus, in place of delayed
developmental
processes,
new
processes
are
generated due to the blockage (T. Lipps, 1907).
A. Adler I and his school posit as the basis of their
psychological system the study of abnormal organs
and functions, the inadequacy of which constantly
stimulates an intensified (higher) development.
According to Adler, awareness of a physically
handicapped condition is, for the individual, a
constant stimulation of mental development. If any
organ, because of a morphological or functional
deficiency, does not fully cope with its task, then the
central human nervous and mental apparatus
compensates for the organ’s deficient operation by
creating a psychological superstructure which shores
up the entire deficient organism at its weakened,
threatened point. Conflict arises from contact with
the exterior milieu; conflict is caused by the
incompatibility of the deficient organ or function and
the task before it. This conflict, in turn, leads to an
increased possibility of illness and fatality. The same
conflict may also create greater potentialities and
stimuli
for
compensation
over-compensation.
Thus,
and
defect
even
becomes
for
the
starting point and the principal motivating force in
the psychological development of personality. It
establishes the target point, toward which the
development of all psychological forces strive. It
gives direction to the process of growth and to the
formation of personality. A handicap creates a higher
developmental tendency; it enhances such mental
phenomena as foresight and presentiment, as well as
their operational elements (memory, attention,
intuition,
sensibility,
interest)-in
a
word,
all
supporting psychological features (A. Adler, 1928).
We may not and ought not agree with Adler when
he ascribes to the compensatory process a universal
significance for all mental development. But there is
no contemporary defectologist, it seems, who would
not ascribe paramount importance to the effect of
personality on a defect or to the adaptive
developmental processes, i.e., to that extremely
complex picture of a defect’s positive effects,
including the roundabout course of development
with its complicated zigzags. This is a picture which
we observe in every child with a defect. Most
important is the fact that along with a physical
handicap come strengths and attempts both to
overcome and to equalize the handicap. These
tendencies toward higher development were not
formerly recognized by defectology. Meanwhile,
precisely these tendencies give uniqueness to the
development of the handicapped child; they foster
creative, unendingly diverse, sometimes profoundly
eccentric forms of development, which we do not
observe in the typical development of the normal
child. It is not necessary to be an Adlerite and to
share the principles of his school in order to
recognize the correctness of this position.
“He will want to see everything,” Adler says about
a child, “if he is nearsighted; to hear everything, if he
is hearing impaired; he will want to say everything,
if he has an obvious speech defect or a stutter. ... The
desire to fly will be most apparent in those children
who experience great difficulty even in jumping. The
contrast between the physical disability and the
desires, fantasies, dreams, i.e., psychological drives
to compensate, are so universal that one may base
upon this a fundamental law: Via subjective feelings
of inadequacy, a physical handicap dialectically
transforms itself into psychological drives toward
compensation and overcompensation” (1927, p. 57).
Formerly, it was believed that the entire life and
development of a blind child would be framed by
blindness. The new law states that development will
go against this course. If blindness exists, then
mental development will be directed away from
blindness, against blindness. Goal-oriented reflexes,
according to I. P. Pavlov, need a certain tension to
achieve full, proper, fruitful development. The
existence of obstacles is a principal condition for
goal
achievement
(1951,
p.
302).
Modem
psychotechnics is inclined to consider control [or
self-direction] to be a function so central to the
educational process and to the formation of
personality as a special case of the phenomena of
overcompensation (J. N. Spielrein, 1924).
The study of compensation reveals the creative
character of development directed along this course.
It is not in vain that such psychologists as Stern and
Adler partly based the origins of giftedness on this
understanding. Stem formulates the idea as follows:
“What does not destroy me, makes me stronger;
thanks to adaptation, strength arises from weakness,
ability from deficiencies” (W. Stern, 1923, p. 145).
It would be a mistake to assume that the process of
compensation always, without fail, ends in success,
that it always leads from the defect to the formation
of a new capability. As with every process of
overcoming and struggle, compensation may also
have two extreme outcomes-victory and failure- and
between these two are all possible transitional points.
The outcome depends on many things, but basically,
it depends on the relationship between (1) the
severity of the defect and (2) the wealth of
compensatory reserves. But whatever the anticipated
outcome,
always
and
in
all
circumstances,
development, complicated by a defect, represents a
creative (physical and psychological) process. It
represents the creation and re-creation of a child’s
personality based on the restructuring of all the
adaptive functions and on the formation of new
processes--overarching,
substituting,
equalizing-generated by the handicap, and creating
new, roundabout paths for development. Defectology
is faced with a world of new, infinitely diverse forms
and courses of development. The course created by a
defect-that of compensation-is the major course of
development for a child with a physical handicap or
functional disability.
The positive uniqueness of the handicapped child
is created not by the failure of one or another
function observed in a normal child but by the new
formations caused by this lapse. This uniquely
individual reaction to a defect represents a
continually evolving adaptive process. If a blind or
deaf child achieves the same level of development as
a normal child, then the child with a defect achieves
this in another way, by another course, by other
means. And, for the pedagogue, it is particularly
important to know the uniqueness of the course,
along which he must lead the child. The key to
originality transforms the minus of the handicap into
the plus of compensation.
3
There are limits to uniqueness in the development of
handicapped children. The entire adaptive system is
restructured on new bases when the defect destroys the
equilibrium that exists among the adaptive functions; then,
the whole system tends towards a new equilibrium.
Compensation, the individual’s reaction to a defect, initiates
new, roundabout developmental processes-it replaces,
rebuilds a new structure, and stabilizes psychological
functions. Much of what is inherent in normal development
disappears or is curtailed because of a defect. A new, special
kind of development results. “Parallel to the awakening of
my consciousness,” A.M. Shcherbina tells us about himself,
“was the gradual, organic elaboration of my psychic
uniqueness. Under such conditions, I could not
spontaneously sense my physical shortcomings” (1916, p.
10). But the social milieu in which the developmental
process occurs place limits on organic uniqueness and on the
creation of a “second nature.” K. Buerklen formulated this
idea beautifully as it applies to the psychological
development of the blind. In essence, this idea may be
extended to all of defectology. “They develop special
features,” he said about the blind, “which we cannot observe
among the seeing. We must suppose that if the blind
associated only with the blind and had no dealings with the
seeing then a special kind of people would come into being”
(K. Buerklen, 1924, p. 3).
Buerklen’s views can be elaborated as follows:
Blindness, as a physical handicap, gives impetus to
compensatory processes. These, in turn, lead to the
formation of unique features in a blind person’s
psychology and to the reformulation of all his
various functions, when directed toward a basic, vital
task. Each individual function of a blind person’s
neuropsychological apparatus has unique features,
often very marked in comparison with those of a
seeing person. In the event that a blind person were
to live only among blind people, these biological
processes, which formulate and accumulate special
features and abnormal deviations, would, when left
alone, inevitably lead to the creation of a new stock
of people. Notwithstanding, under pressure from
social demands, which are identical for the seeing
and the blind, the development of these special
features takes a form in which the structure of a
blind person’s personality as a whole will tend to
achieve a specific, normal social type.
The compensatory processes which create unique
personality features in a blind child do not develop
freely. Rather, they are devoted to a specific end.
Two basic factors shape this social conditioning of a
handicapped child’s development.
First, the effect of the defect itself invariably turns
out to be secondary, rather than direct. As we have
already said, the child is not directly aware of his
handicap. Instead, he is aware of the difficulties
deriving
from
the
defect.
The
immediate
consequence of the defect is to diminish the child’s
social standing; the defect manifests itself as a social
aberration. All contact with people, all situations
which define a person’s place in the social sphere,
his role and fate as a participant in life, all the social
functions of daily life are reordered. As emphasized
in Adler’s school of thought, the organic, inherent
(congenital) causes of this reordering operate neither
independently nor directly, but indirectly, via their
negative effect on a child’s social position. All
hereditary and organic factors must also be
interpreted psychologically, so that their true role in
a
child’s
development
can
be
taken
into
consideration. According to Adler, a physical
disability which leads to adaptation creates a special
psychological position for a child. It is through that
special position, and only through it, that a defect
affects a child’s development. Adler calls the
psychological complex, which develops as a result of
the child’s diminished social position due to his
handicap,
an
“inferiority
complex”
(Minderwertigkeitsgefuehl). This introduces a third,
intermediate factor into the dyadic process of
“handicap compensation” so that it becomes
“handicap inferiority complex compensation.” The
handicap, then, evokes its compensation not directly
but indirectly, through the feelings of inferiority
which it generates. It is easy to illustrate, through
examples,
that
an
inferiority
complex
is
a
psychological evaluation of one’s own social
position. ‘Me question of renaming the auxiliary
school has been raised in Germany. The name
Hilfisschule seems degrading to both parents and
children. It inflicts a stamp, as it were, of inferiority
on the pupil. The child does not want to attend a
“school for fools.” The demeaning social status
associated with a “school for fools” partially affects
even the teachers. They are, somehow, on a lower
level than teachers in a school for normal children.
Ponsens and O. Fisher [no ref] propose names such
as
therapeutic,
training,
or
special
school
(Sonderschule), school for the retarded, and other
new names.
For a child to end up at a school for fools means to
be placed in a difficult social position. Thus, for
Adler and his followers, the first and basic point of
the educational process is a struggle against an
inferiority complex. It cannot be allowed to develop
and possess the child or to lead him into unhealthy
forms
of
compensation.
The
basic
idea
of
individual-psychological therapeutic education, says
A. Friedmann, is encouragement (Ermutigung). Let
us assume that a physical handicap does not lead, for
social reasons, to the generation of an inferiority
complex-that is, to a low psychological estimation of
one’s own social standing.
Thus, notwithstanding the presence of a physical
handicap, there will be no psychological conflict. As
a result, some people with, let us say, a superstitious,
mystical attitude toward the blind have a specific
conception of the blind, a belief in their spiritual
insight. For them, a blind person becomes a
soothsayer, a judge, a wise man. Because of his
handicap, he holds a high social position. Of course,
in such circumstances, there can be no question of an
inferiority complex, feelings of disability and so on.
In the final analysis, what decides the fate of a
personality is not the defect itself, but its social
consequences, its socio-psychological realization.
The adaptive processes, also, are not aimed directly
at making up the deficiency, which is for the most
part impossible, but at overcoming the difficulties
which the defect creates. The development and
education of a blind child have to do not so much
with blindness itself as with the social consequences
of blindness.
A. Adler views the psychological development of
the personality as an attempt to attain social status
with respect to the “inherent logic of human
society,” and with respect to the demands of daily
life in society. Development unwinds like a chain of
predetermined, even if unconscious, actions. And, in
the end, it is the need for social adaptation which, by
objective necessity, determines these actions. Adler
(1928), with good reason, therefore, calls his
psychology positional psychology, in contrast to
dispositional
psychology.
The
first
derives
psychological development from the personality’s
social position, the second from its physical
disposition. If social demands were not placed upon
a
handicapped
child’s
development,
if
these
processes were at the mercy of biological laws only,
if a handicapped child did not find it necessary to
transform himself into an established social entity, a
social personality type, then his development would
lead to the creation of a new breed of human being.
However, because the goals of development are set a
priori (by the necessity of adapting to a sociocultural
milieu based on the normal human type), even the
adaptation process does not occur freely, but follows
a definite social channel.
Thus,
a
handicapped
child’s
developmental
processes are socially conditioned in two ways. The
social effect of the defect (the inferiority complex) is
one side of the social conditioning. The other side is
the social pressure on the child to adapt to those
circumstances created and compounded for the
normal human type. Within the context of final goals
and forms, profound differences exist between the
handicapped and the normal child in the ways and
means of their development. Here, precisely, is a
very schematic view of social conditioning in that
process. Hence, there is a dual perspective of past
and future in analyzing development that has been
complicated by a defect. Inasmuch as both the
beginning and the end of that development are
socially
conditioned,
all
its
facets
must
be
understood, not only with respect to the past, but also
with respect to the future. Along with an
understanding of compensation as the basic form of
such development comes an understanding of a drive
toward the future. The entire process, as a whole, is
revealed as a unified one, as a result of objective
necessity striving for-ward toward a final goal,
which was established in advance by the social
demands of daily life. The concept of unity and
wholeness in a child’s developing personality is
connected to this. Personality develops as a united
whole, with its own particular laws; it does not
develop as the sum or as a bundle of individual
functions, each developing on the basis of its
particular tendency.
This law applies equally to somatics and physics,
to medicine and pedagogy. In medicine, the belief is
becoming more prevalent that the sole determinant
of health or illness is the effective or ineffective
functioning of the organs
and that isolated
abnormalities can be evaluated by the degree to
which the other functions of the organism do or do
not compensate for the abnormality.
W. Stem advances the following idea: Individual
functions deviate from normality, while the whole
personality or organism might still belong to an
entirely normal type. A child with a defect is not
necessarily a defective child. The degree of his
disability or normality depends on the outcome of
his social adaptation that is, on the final formation of
his personality as a whole. In and of themselves,
blindness, deafness, and other individual handicaps
do not make their bearer handicapped. Substitution
and compensation do not just occur randomly,
sometimes
assuming
gigantic
proportions
and
creating talents from defects. Rather, as a rule, they
necessarily arise in the form of drives and
idiosyncrasies at the point where the defect prevails.
Stem’s position supports the fundamental possibility
of social compensation where direct compensation is
impossible, i.e., it is the possibility in principle that
the handicapped child can, in principle, wholly
approximate a normal type that might enable
winning full social self-esteem.
Compensation for moral defectiveness (moral
insanity), when it is viewed as a special kind of
organic handicap or illness, can serve as the best
illustration of secondary social complications and
their role in a handicapped child’s development. All
consistent, intelligent psychologists proceed from a
similar point of view. In part, in our country the
reexamination of this question and the clarification
of the falsity and scientific groundless of the very
concept of moral disability as applied by P. P.
Blonskii, A. B. Zalkind, and others has had great
theoretical and practical significance. West European
psychologists are coming to the same conclusions.
What was taken to be a physical handicap or illness
is, in fact, a complex of symptoms with a specific
psychological orientation found in children who
have been completely derailed socially; it is a socio
and psychogenic phenomenon, not a biogenic
disorder.
Anytime the erroneous recognition of certain
values comes into question, as J. Lindworsky stated
at the First Congress on Special Education [lit.
“Therapeutic Pedagogy"] in Germany, the reason for
this should be sought, not in an inherent anomaly of
the will, nor in specific distortions of individual
functions. Rather, it should be sought in the view
that neither the surrounding milieu nor the individual
himself fostered recognition of those values.
Probably, the notion of calling emotional illness
moral insanity would never have been conceived, if
first the attempt had been made to summarize all the
shortcomings of values and motives met among
normal people. Then, it might have been discovered
that every individual has his own insanity. M.
Wertheimer
also
comes
to
this
conclusion.
Wertheimer, citing F. Kramer [no ref] and V. K.
Garis [no ref], the founder of Gestalt psychology in
the United States,” asserts that if one examines the
personality as a whole, in its interaction with the
environment, the congenital psychopathic tendencies
in a child disappear. He emphasizes the fact that a
well-known type of childhood psychopathy exhibits
the following symptoms: rude carelessness, egoism,
and preoccupation with the fulfillment of elemental
desires. Such children are unintelligent and weakly
motivated, and their physical sensitivity (for example,
pain sensitivity) is considerably lowered. In this, one
sees a particular type which, from birth, is destined
for asocial behavior, ethically handicapped with
respect to inclinations, and so on. While the earlier
term moral insanity implied an incurable condition,
transferring
these
children
into
a
different
environment often shows that we are dealing with a
particularly keen sensitivity and that the deadening
this sensitivity is a means of self defense, of closing
oneself off, and of surrounding oneself with a
biological defensive armor against environmental
conditions. In a new environment, such children
display completely different characteristics. Such
results occur when children’s characteristics and
activities are examined not in isolation, but in their
relation to the whole, in the dynamics of their
development (Si duo paciunt idem non est idem). In
theoretical terms, this example is indicative. It
explains the emergence of alleged psychopathy, of
an alleged defect (moral insanity), which was created
in the imagination of the investigators. And this is
why they were unable to explain the profound social
unsuitability of the children’s development in similar
cases. The significance of sociopsychogenic factors
in the child’s development is so great that it could
give the illusion of being a handicap, the semblance
of illness, and an alleged psychopathy.
4
In the last two decades, scientific defectology has become
aware of a new form of disability in children. In essence, it
is a motor deficiency (M. O. Gurevich). Although
oligophrenia (mental retardation) has always been
characterized primarily by some mental defect or another, a
new form of abnormal behavior-the underdevelopment of a
child’s motor apparatus-has recently become the object of
intense study as well as of practical and therapeutic
pedagogical activity. This form of disability in children has
various names. Dupre calls it debilite motrice (i.e., motor
disability, by analogy with mental disability). While T.
Heller calls it motor delay, and in extreme forms, motor
idiocy. K. Jacob and A[?]. Homburger (1926a, 1926b) label
it motor infantilism and M. O. Gurevich calls it motor
deficiency. The essence of this phenomenon, as implied by
the various nomenclatures, is a more-or-less pronounced
developmental motor deficiency, which is in many ways
analogous to the mental disability of oligophrenia.
This motor disability, to a large extent, permits
compensation, motor functions, and the equalization
of the handicap (Homburger, M. Nadoleczny, Heller).
Motor retardation often and easily responds, within
certain limits, of course, to pedagogical and
therapeutic influence. Therefore, taken alone, motor
delay requires, as in the scheme, the dual
characterization:
defect-
compensation.
The
dynamics of this form of disability, like those of any
other form, can be ascertained only if one takes into
account the organ’s positive response stimuli,
namely, those which compensate for the defect.
The introduction of this new form of deficiency
into the inventory of science has had a fundamental
and profound significance. This is not only because
our definition of disability in children has broadened
and been enriched by the knowledge of vitally
important forms of abnormal development in a
child’s
motor
system
and
the
compensatory
processes created by it but also, and principally,
because it has demonstrated the relationship between
this new form and other forms which were already
known to us. For defectology (both theoretical and
practical), the fact that this form of disability is not
necessarily connected to mental retardation is of
fundamental importance. “A deficiency of this type,”
says Gurevich, “not infrequently coexists with
mental deficiency. Sometimes, however, it may exist
independently of it, just as mental deficiency may be
present when the motor apparatus is well developed”
(cf.
Questions
of
Pedology
and
Child
Psychoneurology, 1925, p. 316). Therefore, motor
operations are of exceptional importance in the study
of handicapped children. Motor delay may combine,
in varying degrees, with all forms of mental
retardation, thus creating a unique picture of
childhood development and behavior. This form of
disability can often be observed in deaf children.
Naudacher [in a report in Gurevich, op.cit.] offers
-statistics for the frequency with which this form of
deficiency combines with other forms: 75 percent of
all idiots, 44 percent of the imbeciles, 24 percent of
the debiles, and 2 percent of normal children that
were studied were found to have a motor disability.
It is not the statistical computation that is
fundamentally important and decisive. Rather, it is
the unquestionable proposition that motor delay can
occur independently of any mental disability. It may
be absent in the case of mental retardation and may
exist in the absence of any mental deficiency. In
instances of combined motor and mental deficiencies,
each form has its own dynamics. Compensation for
operations in one sphere may occur at a different
tempo, in a different direction, than in another sphere.
As a result, an extremely interesting interrelationship
between these spheres is created in the process of a
handicapped child’s development. Given the relative
independence of the motor system from the higher
mental functions and the fact that it is easily guided,
it is often found to play a central role in
compensating for mental defects and in equalizing
behavior. Therefore, when studying a child we must
not demand only a twofold characterization (motor
and mental) but must also establish the relation
between the two spheres of development. Very
frequently this relation may be the result of
compensation.
In many cases, according to K. Birnbaum’s view
[no ref.], even real defects, embedded organically in
cognitive behavior, can be compensated for, within
certain limits, by training and through development
of substitutional function; “motor training” which is
now so highly valued. Experimental investigations
and practical experience in school corroborate this.
M. Knienegel, who has most recently conducted
experimental research on the motor skills of mentally
retarded children (M. Kruenegel, 1927), applied N.I.
Ozeretskii’s metric scale of motor skills. Ozeretskii
set himself the task of creating a method for
determining motor development graduated by age
level. Research has shown that motor skills are more
highly developed than mental capabilities from one
to three years, for 60 percent of all the children
studied. In 25 percent of cases, motor skills
coincided with cognitive development and they
lagged behind in 15 percent. This means that motor
development in a mentally retarded child most
frequently outstrips his intellectual development at
one to three years and only in one quarter of the
cases coincides with it. On the basis of his
experiments, Knienegel comes to the conclusion that
about 85 percent of all mentally retarded children in
auxiliary schools, with the appropriate education, are
capable of work (trade, industrial, technical,
agricultural, and so forth). It is easy to imagine the
great practical significance that the development of
motor skills can have in compensating, to a certain
degree, for mental defects in mentally retarded
children. M. Kruenegel, along with K. Bartsch,
demands the creation of special classes for
vocational training and for the development of motor
skills for mentally retarded children (ibid.).
The problem of motor disability is A wonderful
example of that unity in diversity which can be seen
in the development of a handicapped child.
Personality develops as a single entity, and as such,
it reacts to the defect and to the destruction of
equilibrium caused by the defect. It works out a new
system of adaptation and a new equilibrium in place
of the one destroyed. But precisely because
personality represents a unit and acts as a single
entity, its development involves the advances of a
variety of functions which are diverse and relatively
independent of each other. These hypotheses-the
diversity of relatively developmentally independent
functions, and the unity of the entire progress in
personality development-not only do not contradict
each other, but, as Stem has shown, reciprocally
condition each other. The compensatory reaction of
the entire personality, stimulated by the defect in
another sphere, finds expression in intensified and
increased development of some single function as,
for example, motor skills.
5
The notion, expressed in the study of motor skills, that the
separate functions of the personality are diverse and
complex in structure, has recently pervaded all areas of
development. When carefully analyzed, not only personality
as a whole, but also its separate aspects reveal the same
unity in diversity, the same complicated structure, and the
same interrelationship of separate functions. One might say,
without fear of error, that the development and expansion of
scientific ideas about personality at the present time are
moving in two, seemingly opposing directions: (1) discovery
of its unity and (2) discovery of its complicated and diverse
structure. In part, the new psychology moving in this
direction has almost destroyed, once and for all, former
notions about the unity and homogeneity of the intellect and
that function which the Russians, not altogether accurately,
call “giftedness” and which the Germans call Intelligenz.
Intellect, like personality, undoubtedly represents a
single entity but is neither uniform nor simple.
Rather, it is a diverse and complicated structural
unity. Thus, Lindworsky reduces the intellect to the
function of perceiving relationships, a function,
which in his eyes, distinguishes humans from
animals, and which gives thought unto thought. This
function (the so-called intellect) is no more inherent
in Goethe than to an idiot and the enormous
difference which we observe in the thought
processes of various people can be reduced to the life
of ideas and memory (J. Lindworsky, 1923). We will
return later to this paradoxically expressed, but
profound idea of Lindworsky. Now, what is
important to us is the conclusion which the author
drew from his understanding of the intellect at the
Second German Congress on Therapeutic Pedagogy.
Any mental defect, Lindworsky affirmed, is based in
the final analysis on one or another of the factors
used in perceiving relationships. A mentally retarded
child can never be presented simply as mentally
retarded. It is always necessary to ask what
constitutes the intellect’s deficits, because there are
no possibilities for substitution, and they must be
made available to the mentally retarded. In this
formulation we already find the notion absolutely
clearly expressed that various factors must enter into
the composition of such a complicated education;
that, corresponding to the complexity of its structure,
there is not one but many qualitatively different
types of mental disability; and finally, that because
the intellect is so complex, its structure permits
broad compensation of its separate functions.
This doctrine now meets with general agreement.
O. Lipmann systematically traces the steps through
which the development of the idea of overall ability
has passed. In the beginning, it was identified with
any single given function, for example, memory; the
next step was the recognition that ability appears in
an entire group of psychological functions (attention,
synthesis, discrimination and so forth). C. Spearman
distinguishes two factors in any rational activity: one
is the factor specific to the given type of activity and
the other is the general one, which he considers to be
ability. A. Binet finally reduced the determination of
ability to the mean of an entire series of
heterogeneous
functions.
Only
recently
the
experiments of R. Yerkes and W. Koehler on
monkeys, and those of E. Stem and H. Bogen [no
ref.] on normal and retarded children have
established that not just one ability but many types of
ability
exist.
Specifically,
rational
cognition
coincides with a rational operation. For one and the
same person, a certain type of intellect may be well
developed and, simultaneously, another type may be
very weak. There are two types of mental
retardation – one affects cognition and the other
operation; they do not necessarily coincide. (“There
is,” says Lipmann, “a mental retardation of cognition
and a mental retardation of operations.”) Similar
formulations by Kenman, M. N. Peterson, P. Pinter,
G. Thompson, E. Thomdike and others more or less
recognize this (O. Lipmann, 1924). E. Lindemann
applied the methods of W. Koehler, which were
developed for experiments on monkeys, to severely
retarded children. Among them, there appeared a
group of severely retarded children who turned out
to be capable of rational activity. Only their ability to
remember new operations was extremely weak (E.
Lindeman, 1926). This means that the ability to
devise tools, to use them purposefully, to select them,
and to discover alternate methodsthat is, of rational
activity-was found to occur in severely retarded
children. Therefore, we must select, as a separate
sphere of research, practical intellect; namely, the
ability for rational, purposeful activity (praktische,
natuerliche Intelligenz). By its psychological nature,
rational activity is different from motor ability and
from theoretical intellect.
Lipmann and Stem’s suggested profiles of practical
intellect are based on the criteria of practical intellect,
laid out by Koehler, namely the ability to use tools
purposefully. This ability undoubtedly has played a
deciding role in the transition from monkey to man
and which appeared as the first precondition of labor
and culture.
A special qualitative type of rational behavior,
relatively independent of other forms of intellectual
activity, practical intellect may be combined in
varying degrees with other forms, each time creating
a unique picture of the child’s development of
behavior. It may appear as the fulcrum of
compensation, as the means of equalizing other
mental defects. Unless this factor is counted, the
entire picture of development, diagnosis, and
prognosis will certainly be incomplete. Let us leave
for a moment these questions of how many major
types of intellectual activity can be discerned-two,
three or mom-of what the qualitative characteristics
of each type are, and of which criteria allow one to
distinguish one given type from another. Let us limit
ourselves to pointing out the profoundly qualitative
distinctions
between
practical
and
theoretical
(problematic) intellect, which have been established
by a series of experimental studies. In particular, the
brilliant experiments by Bogen on normal and
mentally retarded (feebleminded) children without
doubt revealed that the aptitude for rational, practical
functioning represents a special and independent
type of intellect; the differences in this area between
normal and disabled children, established by the
author, are very interesting (O. Lipmann and H.
Bogen, 1923).
Studies on practical intellect have played and will
long continue to play a revolutionizing role in the
theory and practice of defectology. They raise the
question of a qualitative study of mental retardation
and its compensation, and of the qualitative
determination of intellectual development in general.
For example, by comparison with a blind child, a
deaf-mute, whether mentally retarded or normal,
turns out to be different in terms not of degree, but of
type, of intellect. Lipmann speaks about the essential
difference in origin and type of intellect and when
one type prevails in one individual and another in
another (O. Lipmann, 1924). Finally, even the idea
of intellectual development has changed. Intellectual
development is no longer characterized by merely
quantitative growth, by a gradual strengthening and
heightening of mental activity; rather, it boils down
to the notion of transition from one qualitative type
to another, to a chain of metamorphoses. In this
sense, Lipmann brings up the profoundly important
problem of qualitative characteristics of age, by
analogy with the phases of speech development
established by Stern (1922): the stages of speech
about objects, actions, relationships, and so forth.
The problem of complexity and heterogeneity in the
intellect
demonstrates
new
possibilities
for
compensating within the intellect itself. The fact that
aptitude for rational performance is present in
profoundly retarded children reveals vast and
absolutely new perspectives for the education of
such a child.
6
The history of cultural development in an abnormal child
constitutes the most profound and critical problem in modem
defectology. It opens up a completely new line of
development in scientific research.
A normal child’s socialization is usually fused with
the processes of his maturation. Both lines of
development-natural
and
cultural-coincide
and
merge one into the other. Both series of changes
converge, mutually penetrating each other to form, in
essence, a single series of formative socio-biological
influences on the personality. Insofar as physical
development takes place in a social setting, it
becomes
a
historically
conditioned
biological
process. The development of speech in a child serves
as a good example of the fusion of these two lines of
development-the natural and the cultural.
This fusion is not observed in a handicapped child.
Here the two lines of development usually diverge
more or less sharply. The physical handicap causes
this
divergence.
Human
culture
evolved
in
conditions of a certain stability and consistency in
the human biological type. Therefore, its material
tools
and
contrivances,
its
sociopsychological
apparatuses and institutions are all intended for a
normal psychophysiological constitution. The use of
these
tools
and
apparatuses
presupposes,
as
necessary prerequisites, the presence of innate
human intellect, organs, and functions. The creation
of conformable functions and apparatuses conditions
a child’s socialization; at a certain stage, if his brain
and speech apparatus develop normally, he masters
language; at another, higher stage of intellectual
development, the child masters the decimal system
of counting and arithmetic operations. The gradual
and sequential nature of the socialization process is
conditioned by organic development.
A defect creates a deviation from the stable
biological human type and provokes the separation
of individual functions, deficiencies or damage to the
organs. It thereby generates a more or less
substantial reorganization of the entire development
on new bases and according to a new type: in doing
all this, it naturally disturbs the normal course of the
child’s acculturation. After all, culture has adapted to
the normal typical human being and accommodates
his constitution. Atypical development (conditioned
by a defect) cannot be spontaneously and directly
conditioned by culture, as in the case of a normal
child.
From the point of view of the child’s physical
development and formation, deafness, as a physical
handicap, appears not to be a particularly severe
disability. For the most part, deafness remains more
or less isolated and its direct influence on
development as a whole is comparatively small. It
does not usually create any particularly severe
damage or delays in overall development. But the
muteness which results from this defect, the absence
off human speech, creates one of the most severe
complications of all cultural development. The entire
cultural development of a deaf child will proceed
along a different channel from the normal one. Not
only is the quantitative significance of the defect
different for both lines of development but, most
importantly, the qualitative character of development
in both lines will be significantly different. A defect
creates certain difficulties for physical development
and
completely
development.
different
Therefore,
ones
the
for
two
cultural
lines
of
development will diverge substantially from one
another. The degree and character of the divergence
will be determined and measured in each case by the
different qualitative and quantitative effects of the
defect on each of the two lines.
Frequently, unique, specially created cultural
forms are necessary for cultural development in the
handicapped child. Science is aware of a great
number of artificial cultural systems of theoretical
interest. Parallel to the visual alphabet used by all
humanity is a specially created tactile alphabet for
the blind-Braille. Dactylology, (i.e., the finger
alphabet) and the gesticulated, mimed speech of the
deaf-mute have been created alongside the phonetic
alphabet of the rest of mankind. By comparison with
the use of the usual cultural means, the process of
acquiring and using these auxiliary cultural systems
is distinguished by profoundly distinctive features.
To read with the hand, as blind children do, and to
read with the eye are different psychological
processes, even if they fulfill one and the same
cultural function in the child’s behavior and have
similar physiological mechanisms at their base.
To formulate the problem of cultural development
in a handicapped child as a particular line of
development, governed by special laws, with its own
particular difficulties and means of overcoming them,
represents a serious goal for modem defectology.
The notion of primitivism in a child is basic here. At
the moment, it seems as though singling out a special
type of psychological development among children,
namely, the development pattern of the primitive
child, meets with no objections from any direction,
although there is still some controversy about the
content of this idea. The meaning of the concept of
primitivism is defined by its opposite--acculturation.
Just as being handicapped is the polar opposite of
ability, so primitiveness is the polar opposite of
cultural development.
A primitive child is a child who has not completed
cultural development. The primitive mind is a
healthy one. In certain conditions the primitive child
completes
normal
cultural
development,
and
achieves the intellectual level of a cultured person. In
this respect, primitivism is distinct from mental
retardation. The latter is a result of a physical
handicap; the mentally retarded are limited in their
natural intellectual development and as a result of
this do not usually attain full cultural development.
With respect to natural development, on the other
hand, a “primitive child” does not deviate from the
norm. His practical intellect may reach a very high
level,
but
he
still
remains
outside
cultural
development. A “primitive” is an example of pure,
isolated natural development.
For a long time, primitivism in a child was
considered to be a pathological form of childhood
development
and
was
confused
with
mental
retardation. In fact, the outward appearances of these
two phenomena are often extremely similar. Limited
psychological
activity,
development,
deductive
stunted
intellectual
inaccuracy,
conceptual
absurdity, impressionability, and so forth, can be
symptoms of either. Because of the research methods
currently available (Binet and others), the primitive
child may be portrayed in a way that is similar to the
portrayal of the mentally retarded. Special research
methods are necessary to discover the true cause of
unhealthy symptoms and to distinguish between
primitivism and mental retardation. In particular, the
methods for analyzing practical, natural intellect
(natuerliche
Intelligenz)
may
easily
reveal
primitivism with a completely healthy mind. A. E.
Petrova, in giving us an excellent study of childhood
primitivism and outlining its most important types,
demonstrated that primitivism may equally combine
with an exceptional, an average, and a pathological
child’s mind (“Children Are Primitives,” in Gurevich
(Ed),
Questions
of
Pedology
and
Childhood
Psycho-neurology. Moscow, 1925.
Instances in which primitivism combines with
certain pathological forms of development are
particularly interesting for the study of defects, since
such instances occur most frequently in the histories
of handicapped children’s cultural development. For
example, psychological primitivism and delays in
cultural development may very often be combined
with mental retardation. It would be more accurate to
say that delays in the cultural development of a child
occur as a result of mental retardation. But in such
mixed forms, primitivism and mental retardation
remain two different natural phenomena. It is in just
such a way that congenital or early childhood
deafness usually combines with a primitive type of
childhood development. But primitivism may occur
without a defect. It may even coexist with a highly
gifted mind. Similarly, a defect does not necessarily
lead to primitivism but may also coexist with a
highly cultured type of mind. A defect and
psychological primitivism are two different things,
and when they are found together, they must be
separated and distinguished from one another.
An issue of particular theoretical interest is alleged
pathology in a primitive individual. When analyzing
a primitive little girl who spoke Tatar and Russian
simultaneously and who was acknowledged to be
psychologically abnormal, Petrova demonstrated that
the entire complex of symptoms, implying illness,
stemmed in fact from primitivism, which, in turn,
was conditioned by the lack of command of either
language. “Our numerous observations prove,”
Petrova says, “that complete substitution of one
poorly grasped language for another, equally lacking
in fluency, does not occur without psychological
repercussions. This substitution of one form of
thought for another diminishes mental activity
particularly when it is already not abundant” (ibid.,
p. 85). This conclusion permits us to establish
precisely what constitutes cultural development from
a psychological point of view and what, if missing,
causes primitivism in a child. In the given example,
primitivism is created by an imperfect command of
language. But more generally, the process of cultural
development basically depends on acquiring cultural
psychological tools, which were created by mankind
during its historical development and which are
analogous
to
language from a
psychological
perspective. Primitiveness boils down to the inability
to use such tools and to the natural forms in which
psychological operations appear. Like all other
higher psychological operations, all the higher forms
of intellectual activity become possible only when
given the use of similar kinds of cultural tools.
“Language,” says Stern, “becomes a tool of great
power in the development of his [the child’s – L.V.]
life, his ideas, emotions and will; it alone ultimately
makes possible any real thought, generalization and
comparison, synthesis and comprehension” (W.
Stern, 1923, p. 73).
These artificial devices, which by analogy with
technology are sometimes called psychological tools,
are
directed
toward
mastering
behavioral
processes-someone else’s or one’s own-in the same
way that technology attempts to control the
processes of nature. In this sense, T. Ribot (1892)
has called reflex attention natural and conscious
attention artificial, seeing in it a product of historical
development. The use of psychological tools
modifies the whole course and structure of
psychological function, giving them a new form.
During childhood, the development of many
natural psychological functions (memory, attention)
either are not observable to any significant degree or
take place in insignificant quantities. There is no way,
therefore, that the development of these functions
alone can account for the enormous difference in the
corresponding activities of children and adults. In the
process of development, a child is armed and
rearmed with the most varied of tools. A child in the
more advanced stages is as different from a child in
the younger stages as an adult is from a child--not
only in the greater development of functions, but
also in the degree and character of cultural
preparedness, in the tools at his disposal, that is, in
the degree and means he has of controlling the
activity of his psychological functions. Thus, older
children are distinguished from the younger ones in
the same way adults are distinguished from children,
and normal children are distinguished from the
handicapped ones. They are distinguished not only
by a more developed memory, but also by the fact
that they remember differently, in different manners,
by different methods; they use memory to a different
degree.
The inability to use natural psychological functions
and to master psychological tools in the most basic
sense determines the kind of cultural development a
handicapped
child
will
attain.
Mastering
a
psychological tool and, by means of it, one’s own
natural
psychological
functions
generates
an
artificial development, as it were; that is, it raises a
given function to a higher level, increases and
expands its activity. Binet explained experimentally
the significance of making use of a psychological
function with the help of a tool. In analyzing the
memory
of
computational
individuals
skills,
he
with
happened
exceptional
upon
one
individual with an average memory, but armed with
a skill in remembering equal to and, in many
respects, superior to that of those with exceptional
computational skills. Binet called this phenomenon a
simulated exceptional memory. “The majority of
psychological operations can be simulated,” he says,
“that is, they can be replaced by others, which are
similar to them in externals alone, but which are
different in nature” (A. Binet, 1894, p. 155). In
the ,given case a difference was discovered between
natural memory and artificial or technical-mnemonic
memory, that is, a difference between two ways of
using memory. Each of them, in Binet’s opinion,
possesses its own kind of rudimentary and instinctive
technical mnemonics. Technical mnemonics should
be introduced in schools along with mental
arithmetic and stenography---not in order to develop
the intellect, but to make available a way of using
memory (ibid., p. 164). It is easy to see in this
example how natural development and the use of
some functions as tools may not coincide.
There are three fundamental points which define
the problem of cultural development for an abnormal
child: the degree of primitivism in the childhood
mind; the nature of his adoption of cultural and
psychological tools; and the means by which he
makes use of his own psychological functions. The
primitive child is differentiated not by a lesser
degree of accumulated experience, but by the
different (natural) way in which it was accumulated.
It is possible to combat primitivism by creating new
cultural tools, whose use makes culture accessible to
the child. Braille’s script and finger spelling
(dactylology) are
most
powerful
methods
of
overcoming primitivism. We know how often
mentally retarded children are found to have not only
a normal, but a highly developed, memory. Its use,
however, almost always remains at the lowest level.
Evidently, the degree of development of memory is
one thing, and the degree of its use quite another.
The first experimental research into the use of
psychological tools in handicapped children was
recently carried out by followers of N. Ach. Ach
himself, having created a method for analyzing
functional word use as a means, or as a tool, for
elaborating
conceptualization,
pointed
out
the
fundamental similarity between this process and the
process by which the deaf acquire language (1932
[sic], but probably 192 1). Bacher (1925) applied this
method to an investigation of learning disabled
children (debiles) and showed that this is the best
method for analyzing mental retardation qualitatively.
The correlation between theoretical and practical
intellect turned out to be insignificant, and mentally
retarded children (to the extent of their debilitation)
could apply their practical intellect much better than
their theoretical intellect. The author sees in this a
correspondence with similar results achieved by Ach
in his experiments with brain-damaged individuals.
Because the mentally retarded do not use words as
tools for working out ideas, higher forms of
intellectual activity based on the use of abstract
concepts are impossible for them (ibid.). How the
mastering of one’s own psychological activity
influences the execution of intellectual operations
was discovered at the time of Bacher’s research. But
this is precisely the problem. Stern considers these
two means of using language as different stages in
speech development. He said: “...But subsequently a
decisive turnabout in speech development occurs
again, a vague awareness of the meaning of language
and the will to conquer it awakens” (1922, p. 89).
The child makes the most important discovery of his
life, that “everything has a name” (ibid.); that words
are signs-they are the means of naming and
communicating. It is this full, conscious, voluntary
use of speech that a mentally retarded child
apparently does not attain. As a result, higher
intellectual activity remains inaccessible to him. F.
Rimat 7 was completely justified in selecting this
method as a test for examining mental ability; the
ability or inability to use words is a decisive criterion
of intellectual development (F. Rimat, 1925). The
fate of all cultural development depends on whether
children themselves make the discovery about which
Stern speaks. Do they master words as fundamental
psychological tools?
Studies of primitive children reveal literally the
same thing. “How do a tree and a log differ?”
Petrova asks one such child. “I haven’t seen a tree, I
swear I haven’t seen one” (There is a linden tree
growing in front of the window). In response to the
question (while pointing to the linden tree) “And
what is this?” comes the answer: “It’s a linden.” This
is a primitive answer, in the spirit of those primitive
people whose language has no word for “tree;” it is
too abstract for the concrete nature of the boy’s mind.
The boy was correct: none of us has seen a tree.
We’ve seen birches, willows, pines and so forth, that
is, specific species of trees (A.E. Petrova, in
Gurevich (Ed.), 1925, p. 64). Or take another
example. A girl “with two languages” was asked: “In
one school some children write well, and some draw
well. Do all the children in this school write and
draw well?” “How should I know? What I haven’t
seen with my own eyes, I cannot explain it as if I had
seen with my own eyes...” (a primitive visual
response) (ibid., p. 86). This nine-year old girl is
absolutely normal, but she is primitive. She is totally
unable to use words as a means of solving mental
tasks, although she talks; she knows how to use
words as a means of communication. She can
explain only what she has seen with her own eyes. In
the very same way, a “debile” draws conclusions
from concrete object to concrete object. His
inadequacy for higher forms of abstract thought is
not a direct result of an intellectual defect; he is
completely capable of other forms of logical thinking,
of operations governed by common sense and so
forth. He simply has not mastered the use of words
as tools for abstract thinking. This incapacity is a
result and a symptom of his primitivism, but not of
his mental retardation.
Kruenegel (1926) is fully justified when he states
that G. Kerschensteiner’s basic axiom does not apply
to cultural development in a mentally retarded child.
That axiom says that the congruence of one or
another cultural form with the psychological
structures of a child’s personality lies at the base of
cultural development: the emotional structure of
cultural forms should be entirely or partially
adequate to the emotional structure of individuality
(G.
Kerschensteiner,
problem
in
a
development
is
1924).
handicapped
inadequacy,
The
fundamental
child’s
the
cultural
incongruence
between his psychological structure and the structure
of cultural forms. What remains is the necessity of
creating special cultural tools suitable to the
psychological make-up of such a child, or of
mastering common cultural forms with the help of
special pedagogical methods, because the most
important and decisive
development-precisely
condition
the
ability
of cultural
to
use
psychological tools-is preserved in such children.
Their
cultural
development
is,
in
principle,
completely possible. In the use of artificial means
(Hilfer) aimed at overcoming a defect, W. Eliasberg
justifiably perceived a symptom which is differential,
which allows us to distinguish mental retardation
(demenz) from aphasia (W. Eliasberg, 1925). The
use of psychological tools is, indeed, the most
essential aspect of a child’s cultural behavior. It is
totally lacking only in the mentally retarded.
7
We have taken a theoretical cross section of the most
important problems of modem defectology noted above
because a theoretical approach to the problem provides the
most comprehensive, the most concise view, exposing the
very essence, the nucleus, of the question. In fact, however,
each of the issues merges with a series of
practical-pedagogical, and concrete-methodological
problems or, more precisely, boils down to a series of
separate concrete questions. In order to tackle these issues,
special considerations of each question would have been
necessary. By limiting ourselves to the most general
formulation of the problems, we will concisely indicate the
presence of concrete, practical tasks in each problem. Thus,
the problem of motor skills and motor deficiency is directly
connected to the questions of physical training, and
vocational and professional education for handicapped
children. The problem of practical intellect is as closely
connected with vocational training and with practical
experience in acquiring daily living skills, the crux of all
education for handicapped children. The problem of cultural
development embraces all major questions of academic
instruction. The problem of the analytical and artificial
methods used in teaching speech to the deaf, which is
particularly worrisome to defectologists, can be formulated
with the following question: Should children be
mechanically drilled in the simplest elements of speech
skills, in the same fashion in which fine motor skills are
cultivated? Or should children first and foremost be taught
the ability to use speech, in other words, be taught the
functional use of words as “intellectual tools?” as J. Dewey
put it. The problem of compensation in a handicapped
child’s development and the problem of social conditioning
in this development includes all the issues involved in
organizing communal living for children, in a children’s
social movement, in sociopolitical education, in personality
formation, and so forth.
Our account of the basic problems of being
handicapped would stop short of its most essential
point if we did not attempt to project a base line in
practical defectology, which inevitably derives from
this formulation of theoretical problems. What we
have designated in theory as the transition from a
quantitative
understanding
of
a
disability
corresponds completely with the primary feature of
practical defectology; the formulation of positive
tasks confronting special schools. In special schools
we can no longer be satisfied with simply a limited
version of the public school curriculum or with the
use of modified and simplified methods. The special
schools confront the task of positive activity, of
creating forms of work which meet the special needs
and character of its pupils. Among those who have
written on this question, A. S. Griboedov has
expressed this thought most concisely, as we have
already observed. If we reject the idea that a
handicapped child is a lesser likeness of a normal
child, then, unavoidably, we must also reject the
view that special schools are prolonged versions of
public schools. Of course, it is extremely important
to establish with the greatest possible accuracy the
qualitative differences between handicapped and
normal children, but we cannot stop here. For
example, we learn from numerous contemporary
observations of the mentally retarded that these
children
have
smaller
cranial
circumferences,
smaller stature, smaller chest size, less muscle
strength, reduced motor ability, lowered resistance to
negative influences, delayed
associations, and
decreased attention and memory span, and that they
are more prone to fatigue and exhaustion, less able to
exert their will, and so forth (A. S. Griboedov, 1926).
But
we
still
know
nothing
about
positive
characteristics, about the children’s uniqueness: such
is the research of the future. It is only half true to
characterize such children as developmentally
delayed in physical and psychological terms,
weakened, and so forth; such negative characteristics
in no way exhaust these children’s positive and
unique features. It is not the individual fault of one
researcher or another that positive material is lacking.
Rather, it is a calamity shared by all of defectology,
which is just beginning to reorganize its principal
bases and thus to give new direction to pedological
research. In any case, Griboedov’s basic conclusion
formulates precisely this view: “In studying the
pedology of retarded children, we can clearly see
that the differences between them and normal
children are not only quantitative, but also
qualitative, and that consequently they need not stay
longer in school, nor attend smaller classes, nor
even associate with those who have similar levels
and tempo of psychological development. Rather,
they need to attend special schools, with their own
programs, with unique methodologies and special
pedagogical personnel” (1927, p. 19).
There is, however, a serious danger in formulating
the question this way. It would be a theoretical
mistake to make an absolute concept out of the
developmental uniqueness of a child with one kind
of defect or another, while forgetting that there are
limits to this uniqueness prescribed by the social
conditioning of the development. It is equally
inaccurate to forget that the parameters of the special
school’s uniqueness are described by the common
social goals and tasks confronting both public and
special schools. Indeed, as has already been said,
children with a defect do not constitute “a special
breed of people,” in K. Buerklen’s phrase. Instead,
we discover that all developmental uniqueness tends
to approximate determined, normal, social types.
And, the school must play a decisive role in this
“approximation.” The special school can set a
general goal for itself; after all, its pupils will live
and function not as “a special breed of people,” but
as workers, craftspeople, and so forth, that is, as
specific social units. The greatest difficulty and
profoundest uniqueness of the special schools (and
of all practical defectology) is precisely to achieve
these common goals, while using unusual means to
reach them. Similarly, the most important feature for
the handicapped child is the final point, one held in
common with normal children, but attained through
unique developmental processes. If special means (a
special school) were used to attain special goals, this
would not warrant being called a problem; the entire
issue stems from the apparent contradiction of
special means to achieve precisely the same goals,
which the public schools also set themselves. This
contradiction is really only an apparent one: it is
precisely in order that handicapped children achieve
the same things as normal children, that we must
employ utterly different means.
Chapter 1: Defect and Compensation
1
In those systems of psychology, which place at their center
an integral approach to personality, the idea of
overcompensation plays a dominant role. “What does not
destroy me, makes me stronger” is the idea formulated by W.
Stern when he pointed out that strength arises from
weakness and ability from deficiencies (W. Stern, 1923, p.
145). The psychological trend created by the school of Adler,
the Austrian psychiatrist, is very widespread and influential
in Europe and America. This so-called “individual
psychology” (i.e. the psychology of personality) has
developed the idea of overcompensation into a whole system,
into a complete doctrine about the mind. Overcompensation
is not some rare or exceptional phenomenon in the life of an
organism. An endless number of examples can be given
demonstrating this concept. Rather, it is to the highest degree,
a common and extremely widespread feature of living matter.
True, until now no one has worked out an inexhaustible and
comprehensive biological theory of overcompensation. In a
series of separate areas of organic life, these phenomena
have been studied so thoroughly and their practical
application is so extensive that we have substantial grounds
for talking about overcompensation as a scientifically
established, fundamental fact in the life of an organism.
We inoculate a healthy child with a vaccine. The
child endures a mild case of the disease and upon
recovering becomes immune to smallpox for many
years. This organism acquires an immunity, i.e. it not
only has recovered from a mild illness which was
brought on by inoculation, but comes out of the
disease healthier than before. This organism
succeeded in producing an antidote which was
considerably stronger than the vaccine administered.
If we now compare our child with others who have
not been vaccinated, then we shall see that with
respect to this terrible illness he is overly healthy: he
will not only not become ill now, like other healthy
children will, but he will not even be able to become
sick, he will remain healthy even when this poison
again infiltrates the bloodstream.
While at first glance paradoxical, this organic
process which transforms sickness into superior
health, weakness into strength, and infection into
immunity,
bears
the
label
of
superior
overdevelopment or “overcompensation,” as some
authors say. This means, essentially, that any injury
to or negative influence on an organism evokes from
it defensive reactions which are considerably more
energetic and stronger than is necessary to render the
immediate danger harmless. An organism represents
a relatively closed, internally connected system of
organs which possesses a large reserve of potential
energy and concealed strengths. In a moment of
danger it acts as a unified (integral) whole, which
mobilizes its latent reserves of accumulated strengths
and bombards the endangered location with much
larger doses of the antidotes than the dose of bacteria
threatening it. In this way, the organism not only
compensates for the harm inflicted on it but always
generates a surplus (of the antidote), gaining
superiority over the danger and rendering the
organism considerably more able to defend itself
than before the onset of danger.
White blood cells rush to the infected area in
greater quantity than is needed to combat the
infection.
This,
too,
is
an
example
of
overcompensation. If a tuberculosis patient is treated
with an injection of tuberculin (i.e. tubercle bacillus)
then the organism is being counted on to overcome it.
The discrepancy between irritation and reaction, the
inequality between the action and the counteraction
within the organism, the surplus of the antidote, the
cultivation of superior health through disease, and
the ascendancy to a higher stage by overcoming
danger are all important factors for medicine and
pedagogy,
treatment
and
education.
Even
in
psychology this phenomenon was widely adopted
when the mind began to be studied not in isolation
from the organism --a soul dissected from the
body-but within the organism’s system, as its distinct,
unique and higher function. Overcompensation was
found to play no lesser role in the system of
personality. It will suffice to look at modem
psychotechnics where such an important personality
forming function as physical exercise essentially
amounts to the phenomenon of overcompensation.
Adler turned his attention to defectively functioning
organs which had been impeded or destroyed as a
result of a handicap. Such organs out of necessity
enter into combat and struggle with the external
world to which they must adjust. This struggle is
accompanied at times by increased illness and
fatality but it also bears the seeds of increased
possibilities for overcompensation (A. Adler, 1927).
In the case of illness or removal of one of two organs
(a kidney, a lung), the other organ takes over the full
function of both and develops in a compensatory
manner. Similarly, the central nervous system takes
over the compensation of a single impaired organ,
determining more precisely and perfecting the work
of
that
organ.
superimposes
on
The
that
psychological
organ
a
system
psychological
superstructure which elevates and increases the
efficiency of the remaining organ’s operation.
“The sensation of having a defective organ
constantly stimulates the individual’s psychological
development,” Adler quotes O. Ruele (1926, p. 10).
The feeling or consciousness of one’s inferiority,
caused by an individual’s defect, reflects an
evaluation of one’s social position. This feeling
becomes
the
psychological
primary
driving
development.
force
behind
“Significantly
intensifying the phenomena of presentiment and
foresight along with their operating factors such as
memory, intuition, attention, sensitivity, interest, in a
word, all the psychological features” (p. I 11),
overcompensation leads to the consciousness of
superior health in a diseased organism, to the
transformation of an inferiority complex into a
superiority complex, a defect into giftedness and
ability. Having struggled with a speech defect,
Demosthenes went on to become one of Greece’s
greatest orators. It was said of him that he acquired
his great art by increasing his natural handicap, by
magnifying and multiplying the obstacles. He
practiced his speech pronunciation, filling his mouth
with stones and trying to overcome the roar of the
ocean waves which muffled his voice. “Se non vero,
ben trovato” (Even if it is not true, it is well thought
up), goes the Italian proverb. The way to perfection
is through the conquest of obstacles. The obstruction
of a function stimulates a higher level of its
operation. In similar ways, L. von Beethoven and A.
S. Suvorov serve as examples of this. The stuttering
K. Demulen was an outstanding orator; the blind,
deaf-mute Helen Keller a famous writer and prophet
of optimism.
2
Two circumstances force us to take a special look at this
doctrine. First of all, particularly in the circles of German
social democracy, it is often linked with the teachings of K.
Marx. Second, this doctrine is intrinsically tied to pedagogy
in theory and in practice. We will put this question aside
inasmuch as the doctrine of individual psychology is
connected with Marxism; the solution of this question would
demand a special investigation. We note only that there have
already been attempts made to synthesize Marx and Adler
and to study personality within the context of the
philosophical and social system of dialectical materialism.
We are attempting to understand the reasoning behind the
rapprochement of these two lines of thought.
A new direction has already emerged, separating
itself from the school of S. Freud as a result of the
differences in political and social views of the
advocates of psychoanalysis. Apparently the political
side played a significant role here inasmuch as F.
Wittel (1925) tells how Adler and some of his
supporters withdrew from the psychoanalytical circle.
Adler and his nine friends were Social Democrats.
Many of his followers like to stress this point. Ruele
(1926, p. 5), who attempted to synthesize Marx and
Adler in his work on the psychology of the
proletarian child, states that “Sigmund Freud up until
now has done every thing to make his teachings
available and useful only to the reigning social strata.
As
a
counterbalance,
A.
Adler’s
individual
psychology bears a revolutionary character and its
conclusions fully coincide with the principles of
Marxist revolutionary socialism.”
As has already been mentioned, all this is
debatable, but there are two aspects which make
such a rapprochement psychologically possible and
warrant attention.
The first is the dialectical character of the new
doctrine; the second is the social basis of the
psychology of personality. Adler thinks dialectically:
personality develops by means of opposition. A
defect, ineptitude, or inferiority is not simply a
minus, a shortcoming, a negative attribute, but also a
stimulus for overcompensation. Adler introduces
“the
basic
psychological
law
of
dialectical
transformation: as a result of a subjective feeling of
inferiority, an organic defect will be transformed into
a
psychological
drive
to
compensate
and
overcompensate” (A. Adler, 1927, p. 57). From this
position Adler allows us to include psychology in the
context of a broad biological and social doctrine.
Indeed, all true scientific thought is advanced by
means of dialectics. Even Charles Darwin taught that
adaptation results from unfitness, from struggle,
destruction, selection. Marx, too, taught that in
contrast to utopian socialism, the development of
capitalism will inevitably lead to communism
through the demise of the capitalistic dictatorship of
the proletariat and will not retreat to the sidelines
somewhere, as might seem possible from a
superficial glance. Adler’s teachings also attempt to
illustrate how an expedient and higher level arises
from an inexpedient lower level.
As A. B. Zalkind correctly noted, the psychology
of personality breaks away from the “biological
stimulus approach to personality” and manifests
itself “as a really revolutionary characterological
movement” because, in contrast to the teachings of
Freud, it puts the dynamic, formulating forces of
history and social life in the place of biological fate
(1926, p. 177). Adler’s teachings stand in opposition
not only to the reactionary biological schemes of E.
Kretschmer, for whom an innate constitution defines
body structure, while character and “the entire
subsequent development of human character is
equated with a passive unfolding of that basic
biological type inherent in man” (Zalkind, ibid. p.
174). Adler’s teachings, however, are also in
opposition to Freud’s characterological system. Two
ideas set Adler apart from Freud: the idea of the
social basis for the development of personality and
the idea of the ultimate direction of this process.
Individual
psychology
negates
the
essential
connection between the organic substrata and the
overall psychological development of personality
and character. The entire psychological life of an
individual consists of a succession of combative
objectives, directed at the resolution of a single task:
to secure a definite position with respect to the
immanent logic of human society, or to the demands
of the social environment. In the last analysis, the
fate of personality is decided not by the existence of
a defect in itself but by its social consequences, by
its socio-psychological realization. In connection
with this, it becomes necessary for the psychologist
to understand each psychological act not only with
respect to the past but also in conjunction with the
future direction of personality. We may call this the
ultimate direction of our behavior. Simply put,
understanding psychological phenomena from the
perspective of both the future and the past essentially
represents
the
dialectical
need
to
perceive
phenomena in eternal movement, and to bring to
light their future oriented tendencies, determined by
the present. Adler’s teachings on the structure of
personality and character introduce a new and
profound future-oriented perspective, which is
valuable for psychology. It frees us from the
conservative, backward-looking teachings of Freud
and Kretschmer.
Just as the life of each organism is directed by the
biological need to adapt, so, too, the dynamics of
personality are guided by daily social demands. “We
are not in a position to think, feel, want, or act
without some kind of goal before us,” states Adler
(1927, p. 2). Both a single act and the development
of personality as a whole may be understood on the
basis of their future-oriented tendencies. In other
words, “The psychological life of a man, like a
dramatic character created by a good playwright,
strives for its final denouement of the fifth ace’ (ibid.,
pp. 2-3).
The future-oriented perspective, introduced by this
interpretation of psychological processes, brings us
to one of the two aspects of Adler’s method which
compels our attention: individual psychological
pedagogy. In Wittel’s opinion, pedagogy is the main
area of application of Adler’s psychology. At the
same time, with respect to the psychological trend
we have just described, pedagogy occupies the same
place that medicine does for the biological sciences,
engineering for physics, and chemistry and politics
for the social sciences: namely, the highest category
of truth, since man proves the truth of his thoughts
only by application. From the outset, it is clear why
precisely this psychological movement helps us
understand child development and child rearing: in
the unsocialized and unadapted state of childhood lie
the very seeds of overcompensation, or the superior
overdevelopment of functions. The more adapted
some young animal species are, the smaller their
potential for future development and rearing. A
guarantee of superiority is given only in the presence
of
inferiority.
Hence,
ineptness
and
overcompensation represent the motive forces of
childhood development. Such an understanding
gives us the key to classical psychology and
pedagogy. Just as the flow of a current is defined by
its shores and its river beds, similarly, the main
psychological line of a growing child’s development
is defined out of objective necessity by the social
channel and social shorelines shaping personality.
3
The doctrine of overcompensation has an important
significance and serves as a psychological basis for the
theory and practice of educating a child with a loss of
hearing, sight, and so forth. What horizons will open up to
the pedagogue, when he recognizes that a defect is not only
a minus, a deficit, or a weakness but also a plus, a source of
strength and that it has some positive implications! In
essence, psychologists learned this a long time ago;
pedagogues have also known this. Only now, however, has
this most fundamental law been formulated with scientific
accuracy. A child will want to see everything if he is
nearsighted, hear everything if he has a hearing loss; he will
want to speak if he has a speech problem or a stutter. The
desire to fly will appear in children who experience great
difficulty even jumping (A. Adler, 1927, p. 57). The
dynamic forces of any educational system spring precisely
from this opposition between a given organic defect and
desires, fantasies, and dreams, that is, the psychological
drive to compensate for the defect or loss. In educational
practice, this is confirmed at every step. If we hear that a boy
limps and therefore runs better than anyone else, we
understand that it is a question of this very law. If
experimental research shows that, in comparison with the
maximum reactions occurring under normal conditions,
greatly accelerated and intensified reactions will occur in the
face of obstacles, then again we have the same law.
The concept of exemplary human personality
which includes an understanding of its organic unity
must serve as the basis for educating an abnormal
child.
In contrast with other psychologists, W. Stem
examined the structure of personality in greater
depth. He presumed the following, “We have no
right to conclude that a person with an established
abnormality has a propensity for abnormality. In the
same light it is impossible to reduce a given
abnormal
personality
to
a
specific
isolated
characteristic as the sole primary cause” (W. Stem,
192 1, pp. 163 -164).
We shall apply this law to somatics and
psychology, to medicine and pedagogy. In medicine,
there is a growing tendency to base the sole criterion
for health or illness on the question of whether or not
the entire organism functions expediently, while
individual abnormalities are taken into account only
inasmuch as they are normally or insufficiently
compensated for by other functions of the organism
(ibid.,
p.
164).
Moreover,
in
psychology,
microscopic analysis of abnormalities has led to
reevaluation and an examination of these functions
as an expression of an overall abnormality in the
personality. If we are to apply Stern’s ideas to
education, then it will be necessary to reject both the
concept and the term “defective (handicapped)
children.”
T. Lipps examined this question in the light of a
general law for all psychological activity, which he
called the law of damned up energy (zakon zaprudy).
“If any psychological event is interrupted or
impeded in its natural course, or if, at some point, an
alien element intrudes, then there occurs a flood of
energy at the point of interruption, delay, or agitation
in the course of the psychological event” (T. Lipps,
1907, p. 127). “Energy is concentrated at the given
point; it is increased and can overcome the delay. It
may continue to flow but in a roundabout way. Here,
among other things, the high value placed on things
lost or damaged is relevant” (ibid., p. 122). This
constitutes the main idea of overcompensation. Lipps
gave this law universal significance. In general, he
viewed any drive as a manifestation of this
phenomenon (“of flooding’). He explained not only
comic and tragic experiences but also cognitive
processes by the operation of this law: “When there
appears some obstacle, any purposeful activity will
necessarily be channeled through some previous
aimless, automatic event.” Present in the dammed up
energy is the “tendency to move to one side. The
goal, which is impossible to reach by a direct path, is
attained thanks to an overflow of force channeled by
one such detour” (ibid., p. 279).
The goal of any mental process can be attained
only thanks to some difficulty, delay, or obstacle.
The point of interruption of any automatic function
becomes a goal for other functions; now directed at
this point, they are transformed into purposeful
(goal-oriented) activity. For this reason, a defect and
the resultant disruption of the normal functioning of
personality become the ultimate developmental goal
-for all individual mental powers. This is why Adler
called a defect the basic motivating force in
development and the final goal in life’s plan. The
formula “defect overcompensation” is the main line
of development for a child with some functional or
organic defect. Thus, the “goal” is defined
beforehand, yet it only seems to be the goal, when in
fact it is the primary cause of development.
The education and rearing of handicapped children
should be based on the fact that along with a defect
come combative psychological tendencies and the
potential for overcoming the defect. Education of
these children should take into account that precisely
these tendencies emerge in the foreground of a
child’s development and must be included in the
educational process as his motivating strength.
Constructing the entire educational process on the
basis of natural compensatory drives does not mean
alleviating all difficulties that arise as a result of the
defect. It means instead concentrating all strengths
on the compensation of the defect, selecting, in the
appropriate sequential order, those tasks which will
bring about the gradual formation of the entire
personality from a new standpoint.
What a liberating truth for the pedagogue! A blind
child
develops
a
psychological
superstructure
circumventing his impaired vision with only one
goal in mind: to replace sight. Using every possible
means available to him, a deaf child works out ways
to overcome the isolation and seclusion caused by
his deafness. Up to now we have neglected these
psychological powers. We have not taken into
account the desire with which such a child struggles
to be healthy and fully accepted socially. A defect
has been statically viewed as merely a defect, a
minus.
Education has neglected the positive forces created
by a defect. Psychologists and pedagogues have not
been acquainted with Adler’s law of the opposition
between a physical handicap and the psychological
drives to compensate. They have taken into account
only the former, the defect. They didn’t understand
that a handicap is not just an impoverished
psychological state but also a source of wealth, not
just a weakness but a strength. They thought that the
development of a blind child centers on his blindness.
As it turns out, his development strives to transcend
blindness. The psychology of blindness is essentially
the psychology of victory over blindness.
An inaccurate understanding of the psychology of
the handicapped has caused the failure of traditional
education for blind and deaf children. The previous
understanding of a defect only as a defect is similar
to the view that the vaccination of a healthy child
merely cultivates disease in him. In fact, it produces
superior health. It is most important that education
depend not only on the development of natural
strengths but also on the ultimate goal toward which
they must be oriented. Full social esteem is the
ultimate aim of education inasmuch as all the
processes of overcompensation are directed at
achieving social status.
Compensation strives not for further deviation
from the norm, even in a positive sense, but for a
superior,
if
hypertrophied
somewhat
development
one-sided,
of
twisted,
personality,
it
nevertheless strives in the direction of the norm and
toward an approximation of a certain normal social
type. A definite social type always serves as the
norm for overcompensation. We will find in a
deaf-mute child, cut off from the world and excluded
from all social contact, not a decreased desire to
communicate but an intensified desire to be included
in social life. Such a child’s psychological capacity
for speech is in reverse proportion to his physical
ability to produce speech. Although it may seem
paradoxical, a deaf child, even more than a normal
child, wants to speak and vigorously (impetuously)
gravitates toward speech. Our educational system
has sidestepped this issue, and the deaf, without any
instruction and in spite of it, have created their own
language, arising from this desire to communicate.
This is something for the psychologist to examine.
Herein lies the reason why the deaf-mute have failed
to develop oral speech. In exactly the same way, a
blind child develops an increased ability to master
space. In comparison with a seeing child, the blind
child has a greater sensitivity toward that world
which is accessible to us without the slightest
difficulty, thanks to sight. A defect is not only a
weakness but also a strength. In this psychological
truth lie the alpha and omega of social education for
children.
4
The ideas of T. Lipps, W. Stern, and A. Adler contain a
wholesome nucleus for the psychology of the education of
handicapped children. These ideas, however, are obscured
by their vagueness, and in order to completely grasp their
significance, we must explain more precisely how they
relate to other psychological theories and views which are
similar in form or spirit.
First of all, the unscientific optimism which
spawned these ideas easily arouses our suspicions. If
every defect gives reign to some compensatory
strength, then it can be seen as a blessing. Is this
really true? Overcompensation, in fact, is only one
extreme of two opposite outcomes, one of two
possible poles of development affected by a defect.
The other extreme is the total failure to compensate,
retreat into illness, neurosis, complete asociality
from a psychological standpoint. Unsuccessful
compensation transforms the child’s energies into a
defensive battle with illness, directed toward a false
goal, heading life’s entire course along a false path.
Between these two extremes we find every possible
degree of compensation from minimal to maximal.
Secondly, these ideas are easily confused with
directly opposing views and can be mistaken for a
return to the past, to a Christian mystical notion of
weakness and suffering. Do we not find in the ideas
indicated above a high value placed on the
superiority of illness at the expense of health, on the
recognition of the benefit of suffering, and, in
general, on the cultivation of weak, wretched, and
impotent forms of life to the detriment of the strong,
the normal, and the powerful? No, the new doctrine
places a high value not on suffering itself but on
overcoming it; not on the humble acceptance of a
defect but on mutiny against it; not on weakness
alone, but on the impulses and sources of strength
engendered in it. Thus, the new doctrine is
diametrically opposed to the Christian understanding
of the sick. At issue is not poverty but potential
wealth of spirit; misery becomes the impulse for
overcoming weakness and building up strength.
There is a close affinity between Adler’s ideal of
strength or power and the philosophy of F. Nietzsche,
for whom the will to power was the primary
motivating drive in man’s psychological makeup.
However, Adler’s view that social significance is the
ultimate goal of compensation just as clearly
divorces psychology both from the Christian ideal of
weakness and from the Nietzschean cult of
individual strength.
Third, we must distinguish the doctrine of
defect-overcompensation
from
the
old,
naive
biological theory of organic compensation or, in any
case, from the theory of the substitution of sensory
organs [lit.: vicarious sensory organs]. Doubtless,
this view already contained the first presentiment of
that truth which states that the failure of one function
serves as the impetus for the development of other
compensatory functions. But this presentiment is
expressed naively and is distorted. The relationship
between sensory organs may be compared to the
relationship between paired organs; touch and
hearing directly compensate for the loss of sight in
the same manner as one healthy kidney will take
over the function of the other diseased one. In this
case the impaired organ (the eye) automatically
capitulates to the healthy organs and recedes into the
background while the ear and skin, leaping over all
sociopsychological instances, are stimulated to
compensate. After all, loss of sight does not affect
the vital and necessary functions. Science and
practice have long since exposed the shortcomings of
this theory. Factual research has shown that
intensification of hearing and touch does not occur
automatically as a result of impaired vision (K.
Buerklen, 1924). On the contrary, in a blind child we
are dealing not with the possibility of sight being
automatically replaced but with the difficulties
arising from its absence. These difficulties are
resolved by the development of a psychological
superstructure. Thus, we encounter the view that the
blind possess a heightened memory, intensified
attention, and enhanced verbal skills. A. Petzeld,
who has written the best work on the psychology of
the blind (Petzeld, 1925), saw precisely the basic
characteristic
of
overcompensation
in
this
phenomenon. He proposes that what is the most
distinctive feature in the personality of the blind is
the power to internalize by means of speech the
social experience of the seeing. H. Grisbach has
shown that the teachings on the transference of one
sense organ have not withstood criticism: a blind
person is brought just as near to the seeing world as
he is removed from it by this theory of transference
(ibid., pp. 30-3 1). There really is a kernel of truth in
the theory that a defect is not, limited to its isolated
functional failure but also involves a radical
reconstruction of the entire personality. A defect
brings to life new psychological powers and gives
them new direction. Only a naive understanding of
the purely organic nature of compensation, a
disregard of the sociopsychological aspect of this
process, and an ignorance of the ultimate direction
and overall nature of overcompensation distinguish
the old doctrine from the new one.
Fourth, we must finally ascertain the true
implications of Adler’s doctrine judging by our
recently formed therapeutic social pedagogy based
on the data of reflex psychology. The distinction
between these two circles of ideas can be summed up
with the statement that our doctrine of conditional
reflexes offers a new basis for constructing a
mechanism for the educational process, the doctrine
of overcompensation offers a new mechanism for
understanding the very process of child development.
Many authors, including this one, have analyzed the
education of the blind and deaf from the point of
view of conditional reflexes and have come to a
more profound and important conclusion: There is
no fundamental difference between the education of
a seeing and a blind child. New conditional
connections are formed identically from any input.
The effect of organized external influences is a
determining factor in education. The first school
directed by I. A. Sokolianskii worked out a new
method for teaching deaf-blind children speech on
the basis of this doctrine and with it achieved both
amazing practical results and theoretical positions,
which surpass the most progressive systems of
European special education for the hearing impaired.
We must not, however, stop here. It is impossible to
think that theoretically all differences between the
education of the blind, deaf, and normal children can
be limited. This is impossible because, in fact, a
difference
exists
and
makes
itself
known.
Historically, all past experiences with education for
the deaf and the blind attest to this. It is still
absolutely necessary to take into account the specific
developmental characteristics of a child with a defect.
The educator must become aware of those specific
features and factors in children’s development which
respond to their uniqueness and which demand it.
From a pedagogical point of view, a blind or deaf
child may, in principle, be equated with a normal
child, but the deaf or blind child achieves the goals
of a normal child by different means and by a
different path. It is also particularly important for the
educator to know precisely the uniqueness of the
path on which he must lead the child since it is
impossible to state that blindness does not cause a
profoundly unique main line of development.
Essentially,
the
ultimate
character
of
all
psychological acts-their future-oriented directedness
-becomes apparent in the most elementary forms of
behavior. Goal-oriented behavior had already been
observed in the simplest forms of behavior which the
Pavlovian school studied from the point of view of
conditional reflex mechanisms. Among innate
reflexes, Pavlov discovered a unique goal-oriented
reflex. With this contradictory label he probably
intended to point out two factors: (1) the fact that
even here we are dealing with a reflex mechanism;
and (2) the fact that this mechanism takes on the
appearance of purposeful activity, that is, becomes
intelligible only in relation to the future. “All life is
the realization of one goal,” says Pavlov, “the
preservation of life..” (195 1, p. 308). Indeed, he
called this reflex the reflex of life. “All of life’s
advancements, all its culture, are achieved by means
of this goal-directed reflex and is achieved only by
those people striving to attain a specific goal which
they themselves have set” (ibid., p. 3 10). Pavlov
straightforwardly formulated the significance of this
reflex for education. His ideas coincide with the
theory of compensation. “For a complete, true and
fruitful manifestation of the goal reflex,” he says, it
must be placed under a specific amount of stress. An
Anglo-Saxon, the highest embodiment of this reflex,
knows this well, and therefore he will answer the
question: ‘What is the main condition for achieving a
goal?’ in a manner most unexpected and incredible
to a Russian’s eye and ear with the answer: ‘The
existence of obstacles.’ It is as if he were saying:
‘Let my goal-reflex exert itself in response to some
obstacle and precisely then I will attain my goal, no
matter how difficult it may be.’ It is interesting that
the possibility of failure is totally ignored with such
an answer” (ibid., p. 311). Pavlov regretted that we
do not have “any practical knowledge about such an
important factor in life as the goal reflex; this
knowledge is so essential in all areas of life,
beginning with the most fundamental education”
(ibid., pp. 311-312).
C. Sherrington has said the same about this reflex.
In his opinion, a reflex reaction cannot really be
understood by a physiologist without knowledge of
its goal, and he can ]eam about this goal only by
examining reaction in light of the whole organic
complex
of
normal
functions.
This
position
guarantees the right to synthesize both psychological
theories. “The strategic position of the Adlerites,” A.
B. Zalkind states, “represents the very same
dominant point, not only in general physiological
terms but also in clinical and psychotherapeutic
formulations”
(quoted
in
Advancements
in
Reflexology, 1925, p. vi). The author sees the actual
theoretical correspondence of these two theories as a
confirmation of the “correctness of this basic path,”
along which both are headed (ibid.).
The
experimental
research,
already
cited,
demonstrating that reaction may be strengthened and
accelerated in the presence of opposing and
obstructing
stimulations,
may
be
analyzed
simultaneously with respect both to a manifestation
of [an impulse for] dominance and a manifestation of
overcompensation. L. L. Vasil’ev and I have
described these phenomena under the label of
dominant processes (Bekhterev, and. Vasil’ev, 1926,
L.S. Vygotsky, 1982). V.P. Protopopov has shown
that, judging by the greater persistency and intensity
of concentration developing as reaction, “The
physically handicapped surpass normal people”
(1925, p. 26); he explained this by the characteristics
of the dominant process. This means that the
potential for overcompensation is greater in the
handicapped.
It is impossible to analyze questions of education
without a future perspective. Detailed examination
will lead us to conclusions which attest to this fact.
Thus, I. A. Sokolianskii came to the paradoxical
conclusion that the education of the deaf-blind is
easier than the education of the deaf-mute, the
education of the deaf-mute easier than that of the
blind, that of the blind easier than that of normal
children while, in fact, this sequence is really
established by the degree of complexity and
difficulty of the pedagogical process. He saw in this
the direct result of the application of reflexology to a
reexamination of the views on abnormality. “This is
not a paradox,” asserts Sokolianskii, “but the natural
deduction of the new views on the nature of man and
the essence of speech” (in The Ukrainian Herald of
Reflexology..., 1926). Protopopov came to a similar
conclusion in his experimental research, namely that
for the blind-deaf “the opportunity for social
communication can be established with extreme ease
(1925, p. 10).
How do
such
psychological
presuppositions
benefit pedagogy? It is absolutely clear that it is
beneficial to compare the education of blind-deaf
children with that of normal children on the basis of
the degree of difficulty and complexity only when
we have in mind equal pedagogical goals under
various conditions (normal, hearing children). Only a
common task and a single level of pedagogical
achievements can serve as the overall measure of
difficulty of education in both cases. It would be
foolish to ask which is more difficult: to teach a
gifted eight-year-old child the multiplication table or
a retarded child advanced math. Here the ease in the
first case is conditioned not by specific traits but by
the easiness of the task. It is easier to teach a
blind-deaf child because the level of his development,
the aspiration for his development, and the
educational goals to be met are minimal. If we wish
to teach the normal child only the minimum, hardly
anyone will argue that this would demand more
work. On the contrary, if we were to assign the
teacher of the deaf the same large-scale tasks facing
the educator of a normal child, hardly anyone would
undertake the task, let alone seek to do it with less
effort. Who can more easily be developed into a
specific social unit such as a worker, a shop-assistant
or a journalist; a normal child or one who is blind
and deaf.? One can only answer this question in
more than one way. As Protopopov states, for the
deaf-mute
the
opportunities
for
social
communication are easily established, however, in
minimal proportions. A club for the deaf or a
boarding school (internat) will never become the
center of social life. Or let it first be proven that it is
easier to teach a blind-deaf child to read a newspaper
or to enter into social discourse, than it is a normal
child. Such conclusions inevitably arise if we
examine only the mechanics of education without
taking into consideration the course of development
of the child himself and his perspectives.
The operation of overcompensation is determined
by two features: by the range and extent of a child’s
disability, the degree of divergence in his behavior,
and the social demands made for his education, on
the one hand, and by the compensatory reserve and
the wealth and diversity of functions on the other
hand. This reserve is meager in a blind-deaf child;
his ineptness is huge. Therefore, it is not easier but
immeasurably more difficult to educate blind-deaf
children than normal children, if the same results are
desired. As a result of all these constraints, what
remains and has a deciding significance for
education is the possibility that a child with defects
may achieve full, even superior social standing. This
is achieved exceedingly seldom. However, the
possibility itself for successful overcompensation
stands out like a blazing torch, like a lighthouse
guiding the path of education.
To think that every defect will I inevitably have a
fortunate outcome is just as naive as it is to think that
every illness will certainly be ultimately cured.
Above all, we need a temperate view and realistic
evaluations. We know that the problems in
overcompensating such defects as blindness and
deafness are enormous: the compensatory reserve is
poor and insufficient and the developmental path
exceedingly difficult.
Therefore it is even more important to know the
correct direction. In fact, even Sokolianskii took this
into account, and to it he owes the large success of
his system. It is not this theoretical paradox which is
so important for his method, but an excellent,
practical,
conditional
setting
for
education.
According to his method mimicry (sign language)
not only becomes absolutely pointless but the
children themselves do not use it even on their own
initiative. On the contrary, oral speech becomes an
insurmountable physiological need for them (in The
Ukrainian Herald of Reflexology..., 1926). This is
something about which not a single method in the
world can boast and which serves as the clue for the
education of the deaf-mute. If oral speech becomes a
necessity and supplants mimicry for the children,
then it means that instruction is directed along a line
of natural overcompensation of deafness; its
direction is in line with and not in conflict with the
children’s interests.
Traditional instruction in oral speech, like a worn
cogwheel, did not mesh with the whole mechanism
of a child’s natural strengths and drives. It did not
stimulate inner compensatory activity and was
therefore ineffectual. Beaten into children with
classical cruelty, oral speech became the official
language of the deaf. The task of education, however,
must be summed up as a mastery of a child’s inner
developmental strengths. If Sokolianskii’s chain
method has achieved this, then it is because the
method in fact incorporated and mastered the forces
of overcompensation. These initial successes are not
a reliable indicator of the merits of the method; this
is a question of techniques and their perfection.
Finally, it is a question of practical success. Only the
physiological need for speech ensures success and is
of primary importance here. If the secret for creating
this need (i.e., establishing the goal) has been
discovered, it is speech itself.
The position established by Petzeld has the same
meaning and value for the education of the blind: the
possibility of knowledge for a blind person means
the possibility of acquiring full knowledge of
everything;
a
blind
person’s
potential
for
understanding means basically the possibility of
understanding everything completely (A. Petzeld,
1925). As the author sees it, two characterological
features categorize the entire psychological makeup
and structure of personality in a blind person: an
unusual spatial limitation and a total mastery of
speech. A blind person’s personality grows out of the
struggle between these two factors. To what extent
Petzeld’s principle will be realized in a blind
person’s life, what measures and what time frame
will be needed for its implementation, are questions
for the practical development of education. After all,
even normal children, more often than not, fail to
realize their full potential in the course of their
education. Does the proletarian child really achieve
that degree of development for which he has the
potential? The same can be said of blind children.
However, in order to correctly design even a modest
educational plan, it is extremely important to discard
the constraints limiting our mental outlook, that is,
those constraints which supposedly, by their very
nature, frame the special development of such a child.
It is important that education aim to realize social
potential fully and consider this to be a real and
definite target. Education should not nurture the
thought that a blind child is doomed to social
inferiority.
Summing up, let us dwell on one example.
Although in recent times scientific analysis has
worked to deemphasize the legend of H. Keller,
nevertheless her fate best illustrates the entire course
of our thoughts developed here. One psychologist
noted absolutely correctly that if Keller had not been
blind and deaf, she would never have achieved the
development, influence, and fame, which came her
way. How is one to understand this? First of all, it
means that her serious handicaps evoked enormous
compensatory powers. But this is still not all: you
see, her reserve of compensations was excessively
meager. Secondly, this means that if it had not been
for an exceptionally fortunate concurrence of
circumstances, which transformed her handicap into
social pluses, she would have remained an
underdeveloped, plain inhabitant of provincial
America. But Helen Keller became a sensation; she
became the center of social attention; she turned into
a celebrity, a national hero, into a miracle for many
millions of American citizens. She became the pride
of the people, a fetish. Her handicap became socially
useful to her; it did not create an inferiority complex.
She was surrounded by luxury and fame; special
steamboats were even made available for her
educational excursions. Her education became the
concern of the entire country. Immense social
demands were made of her: there were those who
wanted to see her become a doctor, a writer, a
preacher! And she became all of these. Now it is
almost impossible to tell what really belonged to her
and what was done for her by citizen demand. This
fact best illustrates the role played by the social
demand for her education. Keller herself wrote that if
she had been born into a different setting, she would
have sat in eternal darkness and her life would have
been a wasteland, cut off from any communication
with the outside world (1910). In her biography
everyone recognized living proof of independence,
strength and spiritual life, entrapped in the body’s
prison. Even given “ideal external influences on
Helen Keller,” one author writes, -we would not
have seen her rare book, if her dynamic, powerful,
albeit caged-in spirit had not burst forth irrepressibly
to meet this influence from the outside"* (H. Keller,
1910, p. 8). Understanding that the condition of
being deaf-blind is not only the sum of two
components and that “the essence of the concept of
deafness and blindness goes much deeper” (ibid., p.
6), the author seeks this essence in a traditional
religious, spiritual interpretation; yet the life of
Helen Keller did not contain anything mysterious.
Her life graphically demonstrates that the process of
overcompensation can be defined entirely by two
factors: by the popular social demand for her
development and education, and by her reserve of
psychological forces. This widespread social demand
for Helen Keller’s development and for a successful
social victory over her handicaps determined her fate.
Her defect not only did not become a brake but was
transformed into a drive which insured her
development. This is why Adler is right when he
advises us to examine and act in connection with the
integral life plan and its ultimate goal (A. Adler,
1927). Even Kant thought, according to A. Neyer,
that we will understand an organism, if we analyze it
as a rationally constructed machine; Adler advises us
to examine the individual as a personified tendency
toward development.
There is not a grain of stoicism in the traditional
education of children with mental defects. This
education has been weakened by a tendency toward
pity and philanthropy; it has been poisoned by
morbidness and sickliness. Our education is insipid;
it nips the pupil in the bud; there is no salt to this
education. We need tempered and courageous ideas.
Our ideal is not to cover over a sore place with
cotton wadding and protect it by various methods
from further bruises but to clear a wide path for
overcoming the defect, for overcompensation. For
this we need to assimilate these socially oriented
processes. However, in our psychological grounding
for education, we are beginning to lose the
distinction between the upbringing of animal
offspring and the upbringing of children, between
training and true education. Voltaire joked that,
having read J. J. Rousseau, he felt like walking on all
fours. This is precisely the feeling which almost all
our new science about the child evokes: it often
examines a child as if he were on all fours. This
notably, is what P. P. Blonskii recognized. “I like
very much to put a toothless child in the pose of a
four legged animal: it always tells me a lot
personally” (1927, p. 27). Strictly speaking, science
has studied the child only in this position. A. B.
Zalkind calls this the zoological approach to
childhood (1926). There can be no argument: this
approach to the study of a human being as one of the
animal species, as a higher mammal form, is very
important. But this is not all and not even the main
thing for the theory and practice of education. S. L.
Frank, 5 continuing Voltaire’s symbolic joke, says
that, in contrast to Rousseau, nature for Goethe
“does not negate, but straightforwardly demands the
vertical position for man; it does not call man back
to a simplified prehistoric primitivity, but forward
toward the development and a greater complexity of
human nature” (1910, p. 358). Of these two poles,
the ideas expressed here are closer to those of
Goethe than to those of Rousseau. If the doctrine on
conditional reflexes traces man’s horizontal course
then, the theory of overcompensation gives him a
vertical line.
Chapter 2: Principles of Education for Physically
Handicapped Children
1
The Revolution, which redesigned our schools from top to
bottom, barely affected the special schools for handicapped
children. In schools for blind, deaf-mute and mentally
retarded children, everything stands now precisely as it did
before the Revolution, if one does not take into account a
few unessential mechanical changes. Thus, work remains
even now unrelated in theory and in practice to general
principles of social education and to our Republic’s system
of public education. The problem is that in order to connect
abnormal child education (education for the deaf, the blind,
the mentally retarded, and so forth) with the general
principles and methods of social education, we must find a
system which would successfully coordinate special
education with normal education. Before us stands the
enormous creative task of rebuilding our schools on new
principles. We must project basic policies for such an
undertaking, in other words, start from the beginning.
Given all of its merits, our special school is noted
for one basic shortcoming: be they blind, deaf-mute,
or mentally retarded children, the special school
locks its pupils into the narrow circle of the school
collective; it creates a small, separated, and secluded
world; everything is adjusted and adapted to the
child’s defect. Everything focuses attention on the
physical handicap of the child and does not introduce
the child to real life. Instead of helping children
escape from their isolated worlds, our special school
usually develops in them tendencies which direct
them toward greater and greater isolation and which
enhance
their
separatism.
Because
of
these
shortcomings, not only does the overall upbringing
of the child become paralyzed but even special
education sometimes amounts to almost naught.
Take, for example, the speech of a deaf-mute child.
In spite of excellent instruction in oral speech, the
speech of a deaf child remains in embryo because the
secluded world in which he lives does not create a
need for it.
Such a secluded system of education for the blind,
deaf-mute, and mentally retarded came to us from
Germany, where it flourished and was developed to
its logical limits.
Therefore, at first glance, it served as a tempting
example. If you read the description of German
special schools, you will see that they represent far
from-ordinary-schools. They grew into a series of
very complex institutions, which have as their final
goal the expansion and advancement of certain
special devices for blind and deaf-mute children, to
which they have become accustomed in school and
which they cannot do without. The number of
institutions often exceeds several dozen. If you
pursue this, you will learn that some well endowed
schools even own small banks in order to open up
credit for the blind and deaf-mute for the purpose of
trading and trade activity in their future lives. All
such institutions serve the same goal: social charity.
In this way, a certain type of fortress is created,
solidly conquering for itself a comer of the outside
world, and nevertheless bequeathing a certain
position on the defective child, even after leaving
school. In Germany, even a university education for
the blind has until now worn a certain distinction for
its special system. The well-known Marburg
University includes courses for the blind, which
hospitably invite blind citizens from the USSR to
come to receive a higher education. It is assumed
that those blind persons who wish to specialize in an
area of higher education should be separated from
the general mass of the student population and
placed under special conditions. Precisely because of
this, on the one hand, Germany claims to have only
an insignificant number of defective children, and,
on the other, thanks to the fact that Germany has
established maximum isolation of these institutions,
many share an opinion about the strength and merit
of the German system.
This system differs radically from our pedagogical
practice. In our country, instruction and education of
the blind and other handicapped children must be
seen as a problem of social education; both
psychologically and educationally this is a question
of social education. In fact, it is exceedingly easy to
notice that each physical handicap (be it blindness,
deafness or mental retardation) causes, as it were, a
social aberration. As soon as his defect is noted, a
blind child, from the first days of his birth, acquires
some special position even in his own family. His
relations with the surrounding world begin to take a
different course from that of a normal child. One can
say that blindness and deafness mean not only a
breach of the child’s activity with respect to the
physical world but, most importantly, a rupture of all
systems which determine all functions of the child’s
social behavior. That this is actually so will become
absolutely clear, it seems, if we fully explain this
point of view. It is self-explanatory that blindness
and deafness are biological factors, and in no way
social. The fact of the matter is that education must
cope not so much with these biological factors as
with their social consequences.
When we have before us a blind child as a subject
for education, then we have to deal not so much with
blindness by itself as with those conflicts which face
the blind child on his entrance into the world. At that
time, all the systems which determine the child’s
social behavior are disrupted. And therefore, it seems
to me from a pedagogical point of view, the
education of such a child amounts to rectifying
completely these social ruptures. It is as if we have
before us a physically disjointed hand. We have to
set the affected organ. The main goal is to correct the
break in social interaction by using some other path.
I shall not go into a scientific analysis of the
psychological conception
of
deaf-muteness
or
blindness. I permit myself to dwell only on those
generally accepted notions which can usually be
found in literature. Blindness or deafness as
psychological factors do not exist for the blind or
deaf person himself. We are wrong to imagine that a
blind person is submerged in darkness, that he feels
as though he has fallen into a dark pit. Corroborated
both by objective analysis and the subjective
impressions of the deaf themselves, sufficiently
authoritative research has testified to the fact that
such a conception is absolutely false. The blind do
not directly sense their blindness, just as the deaf do
not feel that they live in an oppressive silence. I
would like to point out only that for the educator, as
for any person dealing with a blind child in hopes of
educating him, blindness exists not so much as a
direct physiological factor but as a result of the
social consequences of blindness with which he must
cope.
In scientific literature and in public opinion, a false
conception has taken firm hold about the nature of
the biological compensation for a defect. It is
believed that nature, in depriving us of one of the
senses, seems to compensate by an extraordinary
development of the remaining sense, that is, that the
blind have an extremely acute sense of touch and
that the deaf stand out for their strongly developed
sight. Blindness and deafness have been understood
in
narrowly
organic
terms.
The
pedagogical
approach to such children has also been from the
point of view of biological compensation (for
example, if we take out one kidney, then the other
takes over the former’s function). In other words, the
question of defects has always been posed in crude
physical terms. Our whole system of special
education
[has
been],
from
this
perspective,
therapeutic or medicinal pedagogy. Moreover, it is
clear to every educator that a blind or deaf-mute
child is first of all a child and, on a second level, as
the German psychologists say, a special child, a
blind child or a deaf-mute child.
If, in good conscience, you accept the recently
conducted psychological analysis of experiences
connected with blindness and deafness (I refer to the
most fundamental work in the area of the psychology
of the blind, the work published by Buerklen this
year), you will be able to see how the psychological
makeup of a blind person arises not primarily from
the physical handicap itself, but secondarily as a
result of those social consequences caused by the
defect. Our task consists of seeing to it that
medicinal-therapeutical pedagogy does not deprive a
child of normal nourishment, because the doctor is
wrong who, when prescribing medicine for an ill
person, forgets that the sick must also eat normally
and that it is impossible to live by medicine alone.
Such pedagogy produces an education which from
the outset focuses on disability as a principle; as a
result, we have something radically different from
the fundamentals of social education.
The place of special education in the general
educational system is extremely easy and simple to
determine if we proceed from its position in relation
to education as a whole. In the final analysis, any
educational process may, as the physiologists now
put it be reduced to the creation of certain new forms
of behavior; to the formation of conditional reactions
or
conditional
reflexes.
However,
from
a
physiological point of view (a position more
dangerous for us in this respect), the education of a
defective child does not differ in principle from the
education of a normal child. Blindness and deafness
physiologically mean simply the absence of one of
the sensory organs, as we used to say, or one of the
analyzers, as the physiologists now say. This means
that under the condition in which one of the paths of
contact with the outside world is absent, it may, to a
large measure, be compensated for by other paths.
The view of external, experimental physiology
[sic], which is a very important view for pedagogy,
holds that conditional forms of behavior are in
principle connected by the same path with the
various sensory organs, or various analyzers. A
conditional reflex may be induced from the eye just
as well as from the ear, from the ear just as from the
skin, and consequently, when in the educational
process, we exchange one analyzer for another, one
channel for another, we have embarked on the path
of social compensation for a given defect.
After all, it is not important that the blind should
see letters. It is important that they should know how
to read and to read in the same way that you and I
read, and that they learn to do this just as normal
children do. It is important that a blind person write,
and not just move his pen around the paper. If he
learns to write by perforating paper with a pen, we
again have the same principle and practically an
identical phenomenon. Therefore, the formula by
Kurtman, who agrees that it is impossible to measure
the blind, the deaf-mute and the mentally retarded by
the same standard as the normal child must be
reversed.
One should and must approach a blind and a
deaf-mute child, psychologically and pedagogically,
with the same standard used for a normal child.
Essentially there is no difference either in the
educational approach to a handicapped child and to a
normal one, or in the psychological organization of
their personalities. P. Ia. Troshin’s book (1915), now
famous in our country, includes this extremely
important idea. It is an error to see only illness in
abnormality. In an abnormal child, we perceive only
the defect, and therefore, our teachings about these
children and our approaches to them are limited to
ascertaining the percentages of their blindness,
deafness or distortion of taste. We dwell on the
“nuggets” of illness and not on the “mountains” of
health. We notice only defects which are minuscule
in comparison with the colossal areas of wealth
which handicapped children possess. These absurd
truisms, which, it would seem, are difficult to dispute,
radically conflict with what we have to say in theory
and practice about special education.
I have in my hand a booklet published in
Switzerland this year. In it we read some notions
which to our educators sound like a great and
important discovery: It is necessary to relate to a
blind child just as one would to a seeing child, that is,
to teach him to walk at the same time as a seeing
child learns to walk, and to give him as much
opportunity as possible to play with all children. In
Switzerland, these notions are considered absurdities
while in our country we believe the opposite to be
true. It seems to me that there are two directions in
special education implied here: orientation toward
illness; orientation toward health. Both the statistics
of our practical experience and the data from our
scientific theory force us to recognize the first as a
false direction for our special education. I could cite
some data in this field but will limit myself to a
reference to the accounts of the last congress in
Stuttgart, which took place this year, on questions of
the education and well-being of the blind. Here, the
German and the American systems came into
conflict. The educational system of the former is
oriented towards the shortcomings of a blind child,
the other toward the child’s remaining reserve of
health. Although the collision of the two systems
occurred in Germany, it turned out to be a shattering
experience for the Germans. The German position
proved to have no justification in life.
I allow myself to illustrate one point of special
education upon which I am advancing as the main
thesis. It can be formulated as follows: any question
of special education is at the same time a question of
special education in its entirety. For the deaf, only
the organ for hearing is affected; all remaining
organs are healthy. Because of his hearing
impairment, the deaf child cannot learn human
speech. It is possible to teach the deaf child oral
speech by means of lipreading, by connecting the
different representations of lip movement which
accompany speech; in other words, it is possible to
teach a child “to hear with his eyes.” In this way, we
can successfully teach the deaf to speak not only one
specific language, but several languages with the
help of kinesthetic (motor) sensations evoked during
articulation.
This method of instruction (the German method)
has all the advantages over other methods, such as
the methods of mimicry (the French method), or the
method of manual alphabet (dactylology, writing in
the air), because such speech makes communication
possible between the deaf and the hearing and serves
as a too] for developing thought and consciousness.
For us, there was no doubt about the fact that it is
precisely oral speech, the oral method, which must
be placed at the head of the agenda in education for
the deaf-mute. However, as soon as you turn to
practice, you will immediately see that this particular
question is a question of social education as a whole.
In practice, it turns out that instruction in oral speech
has produced exceedingly deplorable results. This
instruction takes up so much time, and it usually
does not teach one to build phrases logically but
produces pronunciation in place of speech; it limits
vocabulary.
Thus, this approach causes an extremely difficult
and confused situation, which theoretically is
favorably resolved by one method, but in practice
produces the opposite results. In German schools,
where this method of teaching the deaf-mute oral
speech is used, the greatest distortions of scientific
pedagogy can be observed. Because of the
exceptional cruelty and coercion applied to the child,
he successfully learns oral speech, but his personal
interest is lost along the way. Mimicry is forbidden
in these schools and is cause for punishment.
Nevertheless, educators have not found the means to
eliminate mimicry. The famous school for the deaf,
named after J. Vatter, is renowned for its outstanding
successes in this respect, but the lessons in oral
speech are conducted with enormous cruelty. When
forcing a pupil to master a difficult sound, the
teacher could knock out his tooth and, having wiped
the blood from his hand, he would proceed to the
next sound.
This practical side of life is at odds with the
method itself. The pedagogues assert that oral speech
is unnatural for the deaf-mute; that this method is
unnatural, since it contradicts the child’s nature. In
this case, we are convinced that neither the French,
the German, the Italian, nor a combined method can
offer a way out of this dilemma, that only the
socialization of education can offer the solution. If a
child has a need for oral speech, if the need for
mimicry is eliminated, only then can we be assured
that oral speech will develop. I am forced to address
the specialists, and they find that the oral method is
better verified by life. Within a few years after
completion of school, when the students gather
together, it turns out that, if oral speech was the
condition for the children’s existence, then they
mastered this speech completely; if they had no need
for oral speech, then they returned to the muteness
with which they first entered school.
In our schools for the deaf-mute, everything
conflicts with the children’s real interests. All their
instincts and drives become not our allies in the
cause of education, but our enemies. We have
produced a special method, which in advance is at
odds with the child; before beginning, we want to
break the child in order to engraft speech onto his
muteness. And in practice this forced method turns
out to be unacceptable, by its very nature it dooms
speech to atrophy. From this I will not draw the
conclusion that oral speech is unsuitable for our
schools. I want only to say that not a single issue of
special education can be addressed solely within the
narrow framework of special education. Ile question
of instruction in oral speech is not a question of
methods of articulation. We must approach it from a
different, unexpected angle.
If we [seek to] teach the deaf-mute to work [but] if
he learns to make Negro rag dolls to sell and to make
“surprises” and carry them around to restaurants,
offering them to the guests, this is not vocational
education but training to be beggars who find it more
convenient to beg for alms with something in their
hands. In such a situation, it might be more
advantageous for a deaf person than for a speaking
person because people will buy more readily from
the former. If, however, life demanded oral speech as
an inescapable necessity, and if in general the
question of vocational training were posed in normal
terms, then one could be assured that the acquisition
of oral speech in the schools for the deaf-mute would
not pose such a problem. Any method may be
carried to an absurdity. This has happened with the
oral method in our schools. This question can be
correctly resolved only if we pose it in all its breadth,
as a question of social education as a whole. This is
why it seems to me that all our work should be
reexamined from beginning to end.
The question of vocational education for the blind
compels us to come to the same conclusions. Labor
is presented to children in an artificially prepared
form,
while
the
organization
and
collective
components of labor have been excluded; these
components are taken on by the seeing for
themselves, and the blind person is left to work in
isolation. What results can be expected when the
pupil is only a laborer, on whose behalf someone
else carries out the organizational work and who, not
being accustomed to cooperation with others at work,
turns into an invalid upon graduation from school? If
our school introduced the blind child to industrial
and professional labor which included the social and
organizational
elements,
the
most
valuable
educational elements resulting from vocational
training for the blind might be totally different.
Therefore, it seems to me that maximum orientation
toward normal child activity must serve as the point
of departure for our reexamination of special
education. The entire problem is extremely simple
and clear. No one would think of denying the need
for special education. It is impossible to say that no
special skills are needed by the blind, by the deaf and
the mentally retarded. But these special skills and
training must be subordinated to general education,
to general training. Special education must merge
with the overall child activity.
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3
Let us turn to mentally retarded children. Even here, the
basic problem is the same: the fusion of special and general
education. Here, it seems the air is a bit fresher, and new
ideas from the public school have already penetrated this
area. But even here, the basic problem has remained
unsolved up until now, and in this case, the puny calves of
special education push out the fatted calves of mainstream
education. In order to illustrate, I will dwell on how A. N.
Graborov resolved this question in his book The Auxiliary
School (1925), the best book we have at our disposal in this
area. I will say in advance that here this question has been
decided basically in the old way-to the advantage of the fat
calves. The author is completely right when he says that
methods developed from practical experiences of educating
mentally retarded children have significance not only for the
auxiliary school, but also for the regular public school. It is
so much more important to be able to clearly and distinctly
define the fundamental positions of auxiliary education. It is
even more important for special education to understand
definitively certain fundamental laws of general education.
Unfortunately, neither foreign nor Russian literature clearly
defines either. Scientific thought has still not penetrated the
barrier between the theory of normal child development and
the theory of abnormal development. Until this is
accomplished, until accounts have been completely squared
off between abnormal pedagogy and general pedagogy, both
will remain incomplete, and defectology will inevitably be
without principles. This could not have been more clearly
stated in Graborov’s book. The book is a breath of fresh air
without any doubt, and the author wants to keep abreast of
the new approach to education-he wants to but he is not able
to.
These are only a few minor points, which when
carefully reviewed turn out to be not simply details,
but indications of the groundlessness which we have
just mentioned. In actual studies of abnormal
development and its various forms, physical
abnormality
has
been
distinguished
from
psychological abnormality. In the second category,
we find mentally retarded children (but are they
physically healthy?) as well as children “with partial
failure in only the emotional, volitional sphere.” “In
this
case
you
almost
always
find
deficient
development of the intellect” (A. N. Graborov, 1925,
p. 6). Here you have a model of the vague manner in
which the question of moral deficiency has been
conceptualized.
Precisely in
these
few lines,
mentioned
passing,
find
pedagogical
negligence,
in
carelessness,
we
inconsistency,
and
weakness. We also find the weak psychological
hypothesis that insufficient mental development
causes problems in the emotional-volitional sphere:
“In any discussion or effort to arrive at a decision,
the struggle among motives is usually insignificant;
motives of a moralistic or lawful nature are usually
ignored by the subject, and egotistical tendencies
tend to prevail” (ibid.).
How simple it all is! The trouble is not that the
author expresses himself at times with vagueness and
confusion; the trouble is, rather, that we have no
clear-cut conception of child defectology, and it is
impossible to build any pedagogical theory on such
fogginess. Whenever there is a “prevalence” of
egotistical motives, any approach to child education
becomes impossible. After this, we are not surprised
by the author’s following assertion: “A defective
child in the classroom means the breeding ground for
contagion within the school” (ibid., p. 20). It comes
as no surprise that the German system is partial to an
isolated educational system, in which the “auxiliary
school makes no attempt to return to the normal
[mainstream] school within a certain time period the
children entrusted to them” (ibid., p. 29). The
fundamental understanding of child defectology, as it
is practiced according to English law and American
juridical practice, with all types of organic
idiosyncrasies, is suddenly transformed into a new
pedagogical theory. The pedagogical side of the
matter is therefore overflowing with judgmental
errors. No, the judgments, taken separately are
approximately true, (that is to say they are
sometimes true but at the same time not true)
because the theory as a whole is full of that
fundamental groundlessness which has characterized
psychological theory. Third, the author says that
during schooling “we must implant in him the
child – L.V. firmly established habits of social
behavior” (ibid., p. 59). And finally, fourth, “it is
necessary to adequately orient the child to his
surrounding world” (ibid.).
The above named necessities come third and fourth.
Well, what comes first and second? Enculturation of
the senses and psychological medical support. Here
again we have not details but the cornerstone. If
enculturation of the senses and psychological
support are of primary importance, and social habits
and orientation to the surrounding world are third
and fourth, we have not traveled a single step from
the “classical” system of therapeutic pedagogy with
its nursing home atmosphere, with its zealous
attention to microscopic illnesses, with its naive
confidence that the psychological makeup may be
developed, cured, “brought into harmony” and so
forth, by therapeutic measures without regard for the
general development of “habits of social behavior.”
Inasmuch as our system resolves the main issue of
any educational program in defectology, – namely
the
interaction
between
general
and
special
education-it is reflected in a basic view of the
problem. Must we medically treat the defect “in a
handicapped child,” concentrating three-fourths of
his education on the correction of this defect, or must
we develop the enormous deposits and deep layers of
psychological health within the child? “All work is
of a compensatory, corrective nature,” says the
author (ibid., p. 60); and with that statement the core
of his system is revealed. Other approaches, such as
the biogenetic point of view, “the discipline of the
natural causes” (ibid., pp. 64, 72), concur totally with
this statement. And the same could be said of the
vague phraseology which accompanies attempts to
define the “final” goal for “vocational education” as
“harmonious development,” and so forth (ibid., p.
77). One asks oneself. Are these details which the
editor inadvertently left in, or are they essential
elements of a theory doomed to scientific and
pedagogical
groundlessness
inasmuch
as
they
represent a system of education without a precise
point of departure? For a resolution one turns, of
course, not to comments made in passing, but to
those chapters which elaborate on the question,
where there is to be found a system of “exercises in
psychological orthopedy” (a psychological support
system) (ibid., Chapter 14) with its classic “lessons
in silence” and, along the same lines, Egyptian labor
for children, senseless, burdensome, synthetic and
futile. I have selected a few items as examples:
Exercise #1... On the count of one, two,
three,
complete
silence
is
to
be
established. The end of the exercise is
signaled by the teacher’s rap on the table.
Repeat 3 or 4 times, hold to the count of
10, then 15, 20, 30 seconds. The pupil
who does not hold out (who turns around,
begins to talk, etc.), has to continue on an
individual basis or in groups of 2-3
people. The class follows...
Exercise #2. On command silence is
established. The teacher gives one of the
pupils a task which must be executed as
quietly as possible. After each exercise is
completed, a 20-30 second rest follows,
then discussion. The number of exercises
equals the number of pupils in the class ...
Examples: 1) Misha, going up to the
board, takes chalk and puts it on the table.
Then, he is to take his seat quietly, and so
forth. Quiet.
And so on and so on. In another exercise: “hold the
position you have assumed as long as possible” (ibid.,
pp. 158-159).
Give each child a thin book with a hard
cover or a small board of an appropriate
size, which must be held horizontally. On
this plane he must hold a piece of chalk,
or even better, a small stick whittled out
of wood about 10- 12 cm. in length and
about 1-1.5 cm. in diameter. The slightest
movement will topple this stick over. In
the first position, a child stands, with his
heels together, toes apart, and holds the
small board in both hands; another pupil
sets the stick on it they should take a
photograph! – L.V.) ...
Exercise #4: the same exercises ... only
without spreading the feet: toes together”
(ibid., p. 159).
One can say without a vestige of polemical fervor
or exaggeration that the senselessness of these
exercises is striking and by far exceeds the nonsense
of the old German book of translations, although
they are both in the same category: “Do you play the
violin?” ‘No, my little friend, but this man’s aunt is
going abroad.” The exact same senselessness.
Moreover, all the exercises in psychological
support and the cultivation of the senses constitute
similar nonsense: one must learn to finish as quickly
as possible the tasks of carrying a dish full of water,
threading beads, throwing rings, unstringing beads,
tracing
letters,
comparing
tables,
striking
an
expressive pose, studying smells, comparing the
strength of smells. Who can be reared from all of this?
Does this not sooner transform a normal child into a
mentally retarded child rather than develop in the
retarded child those mechanisms of behavior,
psychology, and personality which have not yet
meshed with the sharp teeth of life’s intricate gears?
How does this all differ from “the sharp teeth of the
little mice of our neighbor” in the French primer? If
you bear in mind that “each exercise is repeated
frequently in the course of a series of lessons” (ibid.,
p. 157), and that precisely these exercises constitute
“the first and second place” among the school’s
priorities (ibid., p. 59), then it becomes clear that
until we dispense with pre-scientific pedagogy and
turn the auxiliary school 180 degrees on its axis, we
will develop nothing with our conical stick (of 10-12
cm. length and 1-1.5 cm. in diameter) on a thin board
and will achieve nothing in our attempt to educate
the retarded child, but instead only force him into
greater retardation.
This is not the place for a full development of all
the
positive
possibilities
for
exercises
in
psychological support and sensorimotor control at
play, at work activity, and in a child’s social conduct.
However, one cannot help but mention that these
same lessons in silence, if conducted without
commands and with meaning, regulated by real need,
and by the mechanism of play, would suddenly lose
the character of Egyptian torture and would serve as
an excellent educational means. The argument is not
whether or not to teach a child to observe silence, but
which means to employ to this end. Do we need
lessons in obedience upon command or lessons in
purposeful, meaningful silence? This frequently
cited example illustrates the overall description of
the difference between the two different systems: the
old, therapeutic system and the new social pedagogy.
And what does segregation of the sexes mean in the
education of mentally retarded children other than a
harsh retreat into the recesses of the old theory and
digression into its isolated positions (A. N. Graborov,
1925)? It is embarrassing to repeat these absurd
truths about the pointless separation of the sexes and
about the direct benefit of acquainting boys and girls
with each other, as if these truths applied tenfold to a
retarded child. Where, if not in school, will a
retarded boy have real human contact with girls?
What will seclusion in his already extremely barren
and meager life do for him besides intensify his
instinctual drives? And all the wise reasoning about
the “appropriate exercise of satisfaction” will not
save the theory at its most vulnerable point. “You
cannot give a child candy and then use it as an
incentive to do something right. The reverse should
be true ... Suffering precedes pleasure” (ibid., p. 100).
As a result the candy comes afterward, and that’s all
there is to it.
No, it is impossible to construct a theory and
system of education on good intentions alone, just as
it is impossible to build a house on sand. If we begin
to say as well that the “goal of education is to create
a harmonious education,” and by harmony we mean
“the manifestation of a creative individuality,” etc.,
we will create nothing. The new pedagogy for the
handicapped child demands, first of all, a courageous
and
decisive
rejection
of
the
outdated
as-old-as-Adam systems, with lessons in silence,
beads, orthopedy and cultivation of the senses, and
second of all, a disciplined, sober, and conscientious
assessment of the real goals of social education for
such a child. These are the necessary and
unavoidable prerequisites for the long-overdue and
slow-in-coming
revolutionary
reform
of
[the
education for] handicapped children. For all their
freshness, such books as that by A. N. Graborov
have come only halfway. From these examples, it is
clearly seen that the special problemssuch as
teaching speech to deaf-mute children, training blind
children in vocations, establishing sensorimotor
control among the mentally retarded, and, indeed all
questions of special education-can be answered only
on the basis of social education as a whole. It is
impossible to decide them in isolation.
4
It appears to me that the development of our school
represents an extremely outdated form of education in
comparison with the practice of the West Europeans and the
Americans. We are a good ten years behind in comparison
with the techniques and devices of the West European
schools, and it would seem to us that it is necessary to be on
an equal footing with them. But, there are two answers to the
question of what constitutes success in Europe and America.
On the one hand, this success includes features which we
need to cultivate in our schools, and on the other hand,
these steps were taken in precisely a direction which we
must categorically reject. For example, the achievements by
the Germans in the area of work with the blind have caused
quite a sensation around the world. (I dwell on this aspect,
because it is elucidated in S. S. Golovin’s book.) The work is
connected with the name of P. Perls, and the results can be
formulated in one phrase: the introduction of the blind into
heavy industry on the basis of real, very successful
experience.
For the first time in the history of mankind, the
blind have begun to work with complex machinery,
and this experiment has proved very fruitful. The
Berlin
Commission
on
the
Investigation
of
Professions Suitable for the Blind recognized 122
professions beyond of that narrow circle of
professions set aside for the blind (blind musicians,
choristers, craftsmen and the helpless), the greater
part of which are connected with jobs in heavy
industry.
In other words, the highest form of labor
(polytechnical skills and social, organizational
experience) turned out to be absolutely suitable for
the blind. Nothing needs to be said about the colossal
value such a statement has for pedagogy. It is
tantamount to the notion that it is possible to
overcome this handicap by granting the blind full
entry into the labor force.
One must take into consideration that this
experiment involved those who became blind during
the war and that we make expect to encounter some
difficulties when we turn to those who were born
blind. Yet there is no doubt that theoretically and
practically, this experience, on the whole, can be
applied to those born blind. Let us note two
important principles which serve as the basis of
assumption for this work. The first is that the blind
will work side by side with the seeing. In no job will
the blind work by themselves, alone in isolation.
They will definitely work together in cooperation
with the seeing. Such a system of cooperation has
been worked out so that it is easier to apply it to the
blind. The second principle is that the blind are not
to specialize in one machine or job alone. For
pedagogical reasons, they are to transfer from one
division of machinery to another; they are to switch
from one machine to another because general
polytechnical
fundamentals
are
needed
for
participation in production as a conscientious worker.
I will not begin to cite passages. I suggest, however,
reading those sections from Golovin’s work where
he lists the machines on which the blind are to work:
presses,
punching
presses,
cutting
machines,
threading machines, drills, electric lathes, and so
forth. Hence, the labor of the blind turns out to be
fully suitable for heavy industry.
This is the healthy and positive side of European
and American special pedagogy to which I have
already referred. This aspect we must adopt for our
special schools. But I must say that in all countries
up until now, these accomplishments have been
directed along a course which is at its very core
profoundly alien to us. You know how sharply our
social education differs from that of the Americans
and the Germans. According to our general direction,
the use of new pedagogical technology must proceed
along a completely different path; it should be swung
around 180 degrees. I shall not begin now to
comment concretely about how this path will be
realized, because I would have to repeat the truisms
of overall social pedagogy, on the basis of which our
system of social education is constructed and
contained. I allow myself simply to make the
following points: There is only one essential guiding
principle for overcoming and compensating for the
various defects-pedagogy must orient itself to a
lesser degree toward deficiency and illness and to a
greater degree toward the norm and the child’s
overall health.
What constitutes our radical divergence from the
West with respect to this question? Only the fact that
there it is a question of social welfare, whereas for us
it is a question of social education. There it is a
question of charity for invalids and social insurance
against crime and begging. It is extremely difficult to
get rid of the philanthropic, invalid-oriented point of
view. We often hear assertions that biogenetic cases
are of interest not as much for special education as
for social disdain. The way the question was posed
amounts to a radical untruth. The question of
educating handicapped children has until now been
kept in the background mainly because more
pressing questions demanded our attention during
the first years of the Revolution. Now the time has
come to bring the question before wide public
attention.
Week 15（鍾宜興）: History of Behaviour 1930 Этюды
по истории поведения
Week 16（陳正乾）: 1930 Tool and Symbol in Child
Development, (Mind in Society, Chapt.1), Орудие и
знак в развитии ребенка
（請見 PDF 檔案）
Week 16: Tool and Symbol in Child Development
Week 17（張漢良）: 1934 The Problem of
Consciousness
The Problem of Consciousness
Source: Collected Works of L. S. Vygotsky, Volume III, Part 1:
Problems of the Theory and Methods of Psychology, Chapter
9: The Problem of Consciousness, pp 129-138;
First Published: in The Psychology of Grammar, Moscow
1968;
Not published during Vygotsky’s life. Based on material
found in A. N. Leont'ev’s private archives.
Foreword by A A Leont'ev from “The
Psychology of Grammar,” Moscow 1968.
The notes of Vygotsky’s talks are published on
the basis of the manuscript copybooks preserved
in the archives of A. N. Leont'ev. In these
notebooks the main text is written on the right
(odd) pages, while the insertions and additions
which were particularly made by Zaporozhec are
on the opposite left (even) pages. All notes
(except for some that we ignored as they were
obviously added later and only summarized what
Vygotsky said in more modern wordings) were
written with a pen.
Naturally, in our publication we first of all made
use of the basic text. It is supplemented with the
corresponding insertions from the even pages of
the notebooks, which are given in angle brackets
< > . We did not cut the material. Following the
original, halfway through the notes we added the
notes of Vygotsky’s speech on the occasion of
Luria’s talk, which according to its theme
corresponds to the specific part of the talk “The
problem of consciousness.”
All highlightings in the manuscript made by A.
N. Leont'ev have been preserved.
All parentheses and square brackets belong to the
original. The passages in quotation marks are
direct quotes from Vygotsky’s oral speech. In the
published excerpt from the record of Vygotsky’s
speech about the theses for the debates in
1933-1934, we have followed the same
principles with the only difference being that
between the angle brackets are given the
insertions made with the same ink by A. N.
Leont'ev himself.
Introduction
Toward the end of the twenties, a small group of
young psychologists had gathered around
Vygotsky and began to work under his guidance.
Apart from the discussions of scientific problems
that were systematically conducted at the
meetings of the department and the laboratory
where we carried out our investigations at the
time and during private talks, Vygotsky now and
then gathered his closest collaborators and
students in meetings which we called internal
conferences. Their purpose was to theoretically
think through what had been accomplished, to
discuss problems that had arisen in the
discussions, to plan future work. Usually such
internal conferences proceeded in the form of a
free exchange of opinions about the issues that
had been raised; in other cases we listened to and
discussed full-blown talks especially prepared
for the occasion. No minutes were taken in either
the first or the second case. For that reason only
some of Vygotsky’s presentations have been
preserved in the personal notes of the
participants in these conferences.
The notes of Vygotsky’s talk relate to the
moment when the inner necessity arose to sum
up the results of the investigations of the higher
mental processes thus far carried out from the
perspective of the theory of human
consciousness, to present an analysis of its inner
structure. This talk, which was written down by
me in a very condensed thesis-like form, rested
on an overview of many investigations carried
out under the supervision of Vygotsky and with
his participation. Therefore, its exposition by the
author took tremendous time – with a pause of
approximately two hours it lasted more than
seven hours, and another day was devoted to its
discussion.
As far as I remember, apart from Leont'ev and
Luria in this internal conference Bozhovic,
Zaporozhec, Levina, Morozova and Slavina also
participated.
Some clarification is required about the notes of
Vygotsky’s talk at the internal conference where
the problem of the theses was discussed which
had been prepared for a public debate about the
works of Vygotsky and his school. Such a debate
was expected in 1933 or 1934, but before
Vygotsky’s death it did not take place. What was
left was the unfinished and provisional work
prepared for this debate. The published
fragments of the notes concern only those
questions which coincide with those raised in his
talk about the problem of consciousness.
1. Introduction
Psychology has defined itself as the science of
consciousness, but about consciousness psychology
hardly knew anything.
The statement of the problem in the older
psychology. Lipps, for example: “unconsciousness is
the problem of psychology.” The problem of
consciousness was stated outside, before psychology.
In descriptive psychology: in contrast to the
subject of natural sciences, phenomenon and being
coincide. That is why psychology is a speculative
science. But since in the experience of consciousness
only fragments of consciousness are given, the study
of consciousness as a whole is impossible for the
investigator.
We
know a number of
consciousness:
the
formal laws
uninterrupted
nature
for
of
consciousness, the relative clarity of consciousness,
the
unity
of
consciousness,
the
identity
of
consciousness, the stream of consciousness.
The theory of consciousness in classic psychology.
Two basic ideas about consciousness.
The first idea. Consciousness is regarded as
something nonspatial in comparison to the mental
functions, as some mental space (for example,
Jaspers: consciousness as the stage on which a drama
is
being
performed;
in
psychopathology
we
correspondingly also distinguish two basic cases:
either the action is disturbed, or the stage itself).
According to this idea, consciousness (as every other
space) thus has no qualitative characteristics. That
is why the science of consciousness is presented as
the science of ideal relations (Husserl’s geometry,
Dilthey’s “geometry of the spirit”).
The second idea. Consciousness is some intrinsic
general quality of all psychological processes. This
quality can therefore be discounted, not taken into
account. In this idea as well, consciousness is
presented as something which is nonqualitative,
nonspatial, immutable, not developing.
“Psychology’s sterility was caused by the fact that
the problem of consciousness was not yet worked
out.”
The most important problem. [Consciousness was
now considered as a system of functions, now as a
system of phenomena (Stumpf).]
< The problem of orientation points [in the history
of psychology].
[Two basic viewpoints existed about the question
of consciousness’ relation to the psychological
functions]:
1. Functional systems. The prototype was faculty
psychology. The idea of a mental organism
possessing activities.
2. The psychology of emotional experience which
studied the mirror image without studying the mirror
(particularly obvious in association psychology,
paradoxically Gestalt). The second (the psychology
of emotional experience) (a) was never and could not
be consistent, (b) always transferred the laws of one
function to all others, etc.
[Questions that arise in this connection]:
1. The relation between activity and emotional
experience (the problem of meaning).
2. The relation between functions. Can one
function explain all others? (the system problem).
3. The relation between function and phenomenon
(the problem of intentionality) > .
How did psychology understand the relation
between the different activities of consciousness?
(This problem was of minor importance; for us it is
of paramount importance). Psychology answered this
question with three postulates:
1. All activities of consciousness work together.
2. The link between the activities of consciousness
does not essentially change these activities, for they
are not necessarily connected, but only because they
belong to one personality (“they have one boss”;
James in a letter to Stumpf).
3. This link is accepted as a postulate but not as a
problem < the connection between the functions is
immutable > .
2. Our Main Hypothesis Presented from Outside
Our problem. The connection between the activities of
consciousness is not constant. It is essential for each
different activity. We must make this connection the
problem of our research.
A remark. Our position is a position opposite to
Gestaltpsychologie. Gestaltpsychologie “made a
postulate out of the problem” – assumed in advance
that each activity is structural; [for us the opposite is
characteristic: we make a problem out of the
postulate].
The connection between the activities – this is the
central point in the study of each system.
A clarification. From the very beginning the
problem of the connection must be opposed to the
atomistic problem. Consciousness is primordially
something unitary – this we postulate. Consciousness
determines the fate of the system, just like the
organism determines the fate of the functions. Each
interfunctional change must be explained by a
change of consciousness as a whole.
3. The Hypothesis “From Within” (From the Viewpoint of
our Works)
(Introduction: the importance of the sign; its social meaning).
In older works we ignored that the sign has meaning. < But
there is “a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather
stones together” (Ecclesiastes). > We proceeded from the
principle of the constancy of meaning, we discounted
meaning. But the problem of meaning was already present in
the older investigations. Whereas before our task was to
demonstrate what “the knot” and logical memory have in
common, now our task is to demonstrate the difference that
exists between them.
From our works it follows that the sign changes the
interfunctional relationships.
4. The Hypothesis “From Below”
The psychology of animals.
After Köhler began a new era in zoopsychology
Vagner’s conception: (1) development along pure
and mixed lines; (2) ... (p. 38); (3) along pure lines –
mutationist development; (4) along mixed lines –
adaptive development; (5) ... (pp. 69-70).
Is the behavior of anthropoid apes human-like?
Are Köhlers criteria for intelligence correct? The
closed integral action in accordance with the
structure of the field and the swallow ... The limited
nature of the ape’s action is due to the fact that its
actions are bound. For the ape things have no
constant meaning. For the ape the stick does not
become a tool, it does not have the meaning of a tool.
The ape only “completes” the triangle, and that’s it.
The same is true for Gibier’s dogs.
Conclusions that follow from this. Three levels.
Conditional reflex activity is activity that elicits the
instinct. The ape’s activity is instinctive as well, it is
no more than an intellectual variation of the instinct,
i.e., a new mechanism of the same activity. The
ape’s intellect is the result of development along
pure lines: the intellect has not yet restructured its
consciousness.
(Köhler’s apologia in Selz.[1] In the new edition,
Köhler remarks that Selz “is the only one who
interpreted
my
experiments
correctly”
[pp.
675-677].)
In Koffka: “The deep similarity” of the ape’s
behavior to human intellect; but a restriction as well:
in the ape the action is elicited by the instinct and
only the method used is rational. These actions are
not voluntary. For will implies freedom from the
situation (the sportsman stops competing when he
sees that he has no chance of winning the
competition).
Man wants the stick, the ape wants the fruit. < The
ape does not want the tool. It does not prepare it for
the future. For the ape it is a means to satisfy an
instinctive wish. >
The tool. The tool requires abstraction from the
situation. Tool use requires another type of
stimulation and motivation. The tool is connected
with meaning (of the object).
(Köhler) (Köhler wrote his work in a polemic with
Thorndike).
Conclusions
1. In the animal world the appearance of new functions is
connected with a change of the brain (according to
Edinger’s formula); this is not the case in man. < The
parallelism between psychological and morphological
development in the animal world, in any case when it
proceeds along pure lines. >
2. In the animal world – development along pure
lines. Adaptive development already proceeds
according to the system principle < Man cannot be
distinguished by a single feature (intellect, will), but
in principle by his relation to reality. >
3. The intellect of Köhler’s apes is in the realm of
the instinct. Two aspects that distinguish it: (a) the
intellect does not restructure the system of behavior,
(b) there is no tool, the tool has no meaning, no
objective meaning either. The stimulation remains
instinctive (“A tool requires abstraction.”).
Buytendijk: The animal does not detach itself
from the situation, is not consciously aware of it.
The animal differs from man because its
consciousness is organized in another way. “Man
differs from the animal by his consciousness.”
James:
In animals
In man
isolate
abstract
construct
recept
concept
influent
(Gestalt
psychology)
[Our
difference
from
structural psychology: structural psychology is a
naturalistic
psychology,
just
like
reflexology.
Meaning and structure are often identified in this
psychology.]
5. “Inside”
1. A Sign-Based [Semicheskyjl Analysis in the Strict
Sense
Each word has meaning; what is the meaning of a
word? – Meaning does not coincide with logical
meaning (nonsense has meaning). What are the
characteristics of our statement of the problem? –
Speech has been considered as the clothing of
thought
(the
Würzburg
school)
or
a
habit
(behaviorism). When meaning was studied, it was
studied either (a) from the associationist viewpoint,
i.e., meaning was the reminder of the thing, or (b)
from the viewpoint of what goes on inside us
(phenomenologically) in the perception of word
meanings (Watt[2]).
[Speech is not essential for thinking – Würzburg;
speech is equal to thinkingthe behaviorists.]
The constant claim in all authors: the meaning of
all words is fixed, meaning does not develop.
The change of words has been examined:
in linguistics – as the development of the word;
the common character is the abstract character, this
is the linguistic meaning, not the psychological one;
in psychology (Paulhan); meaning remains frozen;
it is the sense that changes. The sense of the word is
equal to all the psychological processes elicited by
the given word. Neither here do we see development
or movement, for the principle of sense formation
remains the same. Paulhan broadens the concept of
“sense”;
in psychological linguistics and in psychology
the change of meaning by the context was examined
(metaphorical meaning, ironic meaning, etc.).
In all these theories (+ W. Stern) the development
of meaning is given as the starting point which
terminates the process as well.
(Stern: the child discovers the nominative function.
This remains the constant principle of the relation
between sign and meaning. Development in Stern is
reduced to the broadening of vocabulary, to the
development of grammar and syntax, to the
broadening or tightening of meaning. But the
principle remains the same.)
“At the basis of the analysis was always the claim
that meaning is constant, i.e., that the relation of the
thought to the word remains constant.”
“Meaning is the path from the thought to the
word.” < Meaning is not the sum of all the
psychological operations which stand behind the
word. Meaning is something more specific-it is the
internal structure of the sign operation. It is what is
lying between the thought and the word. Meaning is
not equal to the word, not equal to the thought. This
disparity is revealed by the fact that their lines of
development do not coincide. >
2. From External Speech to Inner Speech
a. External Speech
What does it mean to discover meaning?
In speech we may distinguish the semiotic
[semicheskyj] and the phasic sides; they are
connected by a relation of unity but not identity. The
word is not simply the substitute for the thing. For
example, Ingenieros’ experiments with “meanings
which are present.”
The proof. The first word is phasically a word but
semiotically [semicheskyj] it is a sentence.
Development
proceeds:
phasically
from
the
isolated word to the sentence, to the subordinate
clause, semiotically [semicheskyj] from the sentence
to the name. i.e. , “the development of the semiotic
[semicheskyj] side of speech does not go in parallel
with (does not coincide with) the development of its
phasic side.” [The development of the phasic side of
speech runs ahead of the development of its semiotic
[semicheskyj] side.]
“Logic and grammar do not coincide.” Neither in
thought nor in speech do the psychological predicate
and subject and the grammatical predicate and
subject coincide. < “The mind’s grammar.” It was
thought that the phasic aspect was the stamp of the
mind on speech. > There are two syntaxes – the
semantic one and the phasic one.
Gelb: the grammar of thinking and the grammar of
speech.
“The grammar of speech does not coincide with the
grammar of thought.”
[What kind of changes are provided by the
psychopathological material? (a) a person may speak
awkwardly ...; (b) the speaker himself doesn’t know
what he wants to say; (c) the limits of language are
hindering (a conscious, realized divergence); (d)
grammatical competition.]
[The example from Dostoyevsky (“Diary of a
writer”).]
Thus: the semiotic [semicheskyj] and phasic sides
of speech do not coincide.
Notes of Vygotsky’s Speech on the Occasion of
Luria’s Talk
[The shortcoming of Lévy-Bruhl is that he takes
speech for something constant. This leads him to
paradoxes. If only we accept that the meanings and
their combinations (syntax) are different from ours,
then all absurdities disappear. The same with the
investigations into aphasia – phoneme and meaning
are not distinguished.]
< Earlier we carried out our analysis in the plane of
behavior and not in the plane of consciousness
-hence the abstract nature of our conclusions. (Now)
most important for us is the development of
meanings. For example, the similarity between the
external structure of the sign operations in aphasics,
schizophrenics, idiots, and primitives. But the
semiotic analysis reveals that their inner structure,
their meanings are different (the problem of semiotic
aphasia). >
Meaning is not the same as thought expressed in a
word.
In speech the semiotic [semicheskyj] and phasic
sides
do
not
coincide:
thus,
phasically
the
development of speech proceeds from the word to
the phrase, but semiotically [semicheskyj] the child
begins with the phrase [cf. the merging of words in
the phrases of illiterates].
Neither do the logical and syntactical coincide. An
example: “The clock fell” – syntactically here
“clock” is the subject, “fell” the predicate. But when
it is said in reply to the question “What happened?”;
“What fell?,” then logically “fell” is the subject and
“clock” is the subject (i.e., what is new). Another
example: “My brother has read this book” – the
logical emphasis can be on each word.
[Speech
without
microcephaly, etc.]
judgment
in
cases
of
The thought which the person wants to express
neither coincides with the phasical nor with the
semiotical [semicheskyj] side of speech. An example:
the thought “I couldn’t help it” can be expressed in
the meanings: “I wanted to dust it”; “I did not touch
it”; “The clock fell of itself,” etc. Neither does “I
couldn’t help it” itself absolutely express a thought
(is not identical with it?); this phrase itself has its
semiotic syntax.
The thought is a cloud from which speech is shed
in drops.
The thought has another structure besides its verbal
expression. The thought cannot be directly expressed
in the word.
(Stanislavsky: behind the text lies a hidden
meaning.) All speech has an ulterior motive. All
speech is allegory. [In what does this ulterior motive
consist? Uspensky’s peasant petitioner says: “Our
sort does not have language.”]
But a thought is not something ready-made which
must be expressed. The thought strives, fulfills some
function and work. This work of the thought is the
transition from the feeling of the task-via the
formation of meaning-to the unfolding of the thought
itself.
[Semiotically [semicheskyj] “the clock has fallen”
stands to the corresponding thought as the semantic
connection in mediated memorization stands to what
needs to be memorized.]
The thought is completed in the word and not just
expressed in it.
A thought is an internally mediated process. < It is
the path from a vague wish to the mediated
expression through meaning, more correctly, not to
its expression but to the perfection of the thought in
the word. >
Inner speech exists already primordially (?).
There is no sign without meaning. The formation
of meaning is the main function of the sign. Meaning
is everywhere where there is a sign. This is the
internal aspect of the sign. But in consciousness
there is also something which does not mean
anything.
[The] Würzburg approach consisted in the attempt
to fight one’s way to the thought. The task of
psychology is to study not only these clots, but also
their mediation, i.e., to study how these clots act,
how the thought is completed in the word. < It is
incorrect to think (as did the Würzburgians) that the
task of psychology is to investigate these clouds
which did not shed their water. >
b. Inner Speech
In inner speech the noncoincidence of the semantic
and phasic sides is still more acute.
What is inner speech?
(1) Speech minus the sign (i.e., everything that
precedes phonation). < We must distinguish between
unspoken speech and inner speech (Here Jackson
and Head were mistaken). >
(2) The pronunciation of words in thought (verbal
memory – Charcot). Here the theory of types of
inner speech coincides with types of ideas (of
memory). It is, as it were, the preparation of external
speech.
(3) The modern (our) conception of inner speech.
Inner speech has an entirely different structure than
external speech. It has another relation between the
phasic and the semiotic [semicheskyj] aspects.
Inner speech is abstract in two respects: (a) it is
abstract in relation to all vocal speech i.e., it
reproduces
only
its
semasiologized
phonetic
characteristics (for example: three r’s in the word
rrrevolution ... ), and (b) it is a-grammatical; each of
its words is predicative. It has a different grammar
from the grammar of semiotic external speech: in
inner speech the meanings are interconnected in a
different way than in external speech; the merging in
inner
speech
proceeds
along
the
lines
of
agglutination.
[The agglutination of words is possible due to the
inner agglutination.] < Idioms are most widely
spread in inner speech. >
The influence of sense: the word in a context
becomes both restricted and enriched; the word
absorbs the sense of the contexts = agglutination.
The next word contains its predecessor.
“Inner speech is built predicatively.”
[The difficulty of translation depends on the
complex path of the transitions from one plane to
another: thought → meanings → phasic external
speech.
Written speech [The difficulties of written speech:
there is no intonation, no interlocutor. It represents
the symbolization of symbols; motivation is more
difficult.
Written speech stands in another relation to inner
speech, it develops later than inner speech, it is the
most grammatical. But it stands closer to inner
speech than external speech; it is associated with
meanings and passes by external speech.]
Summary: in inner speech we meet with a new
form of speech where everything is different.
c. Thought
The thought also has independent existence; it does
not coincide with the meanings..
We have to find a certain construction of the
meanings in order to be able to express a thought
[text and ulterior motive].
Clarification. This can he clarified with the
example of amnesia. One can forget:
(a) the motive, intention;
(b) what exactly? (the thought?);
(c) the meanings through which one
wished to express something;
(d) the words.
“The thought is completed in the word.” The
difficulties of the completion. < The impossibility of
expressing a thought directly. The levels of
amnesia-the levels of mediation (transition) from the
thought to the word-are levels of mediation of the
word by meaning. >
Understanding. Real understanding lies in the
penetration into the motives of the interlocutor.
The sense of the words is changed by the motive.
Therefore, the ultimate explanation lies in motivation;
this is especially obvious in infancy < The
investigation by Katz of children’s utterances. The
work of Stolz (psychologist - linguist - mail censor
in war time); the analysis of the letters of prisoners
of war about hunger. >
Conclusions from this part. Word meaning is not
a simple thing given once and for all (against
Paulhan).
Word meaning is always a generalization; behind
the word is always a process of generalization
-meaning
develops
with
generalization.
The
development of meaning = the development of
generalization!
The principles of generalization may change. “The
structure
of
generalization
is
changed
in
development” (develops, becomes stratified, the
process is realized differently).
[The process of the realization of the thought in
meaning is a complex phenomenon which proceeds
inward “from motives to speaking” (?).]
In meaning it is always a generalized reality that is
given (L. S.).
6. In Breadth and Afar
[The basic questions]: (1) word meaning germinates in
consciousness; what does this mean for consciousness
itself?; (2) as a result of what and how does meaning
change?
[First answers]: (1) the word that germinates in
consciousness
processes;
(2)
changes
all
relationships
word
meaning
itself
and
develops
depending on changes in consciousness.
The Role of Meaning in the Life of Consciousness
“To speak = to present a theory.”
“The world of objects develops with the world of
names” (L.S. – J.S. Mill).
“The constancy and categorical objectivity of the
object is the meaning of the object” [Lenin about
distinguishing oneself from the world]. < This
meaning, this objectivity is already given in
perception. >
‘All our perception has meaning.” All meaningless
things we perceive (as meaningful), attaching
meaning to it.
The meaning of the object is not the meaning of the
word. “The object has meaning” – this means that it
enters into communication.
To know the meaning is to know the singular as the
universal.
“The processes of human consciousness have their
meaning due to the fact that they are given a name,
i.e., are being generalized” (not in the sense as with
the word. L.S.).
Meaning is inherent in the sign.
Sense is what enters into meaning (the result of the
meaning) but is not consolidated behind the sign.
The formation of sense is the result, the product of
meaning. Sense is broader than meaning.
Consciousness is (1) knowledge in connection; (2)
consciousness (social).
[The first questions of children are never questions
about names; they are questions about the sense of
the object.] < The meaningful is not imply the
structural (against Gestalt theory). >
Consciousness as a whole has a semantic structure.
We judge consciousness by its semantic structure,
for sense, the structure of consciousness, is the
relation to the external world.
New
semantic
connections
develop
in
consciousness (shame, pride – hierarchy ... the dream
of the Kaffir, Masha Bolkonskaya prays when
another would think ... ).
The sense-creating activity of meanings leads to a
certain semantic structure of consciousness itself.
Speech was thus incorrectly considered only in its
relation to thinking. Speech produces changes in
consciousness.
“Speech
is
a
correlate
of
consciousness, not of thinking”
“Thinking is no gateway through which speech
enters into consciousness” (L. S.). Speech is a sign
for the communication between consciousnesses.
The relation between speech and consciousness is a
psychophysical problem < And at the same time
transgresses the boundaries of consciousness. >
The first communications of the child, just like
early praxis, are not intellectual < Nobody tried to
prove that the first communication is intellectual. > It
is not at all true that the child is only speaking when
he thinks.
“By its appearance speech fundamentally changes
consciousness.” What moves the meanings, what
determines their development? “The cooperation of
consciousnesses.” The process of alienation of
consciousness.
Consciousness
is
prone
to
splintering.
Consciousness is prone to merging. < They are
essential for consciousness. >
How does generalization develop? How does the
structure of consciousness change?
Either: man has resort to the sign; the sign gives
birth to meaning; meaning sprouts in consciousness.
It is not like that.
Meaning is determined by he relationships = by
consciousness,
by the activity of consciousness. “The structure of
meaning is determined by the systemic structure of
consciousness.” Consciousness has a systemic
structure. The systems are stable and characterize
consciousness.
Conclusion
“Semiotic analysis is the only adequate method for
the study of the systemic and semantic structure of
consciousness.” Just like the structural method is an
adequate method for the investigation of animal
consciousness.
Our word in psychology: away from superficial
psychology
–
in
consciousness,
being
and
phenomenon are not equal. But we also oppose depth
psychology. Our psychology is a peak psychology
(does not determine the “depths” of the personality
but its “peaks”).
The path toward internal hidden developments as a
tendency in modern science (chemistry toward the
structure of the atom, the physiology of digestion
toward vitamins, etc). In psychology we first
attempted to understand logical memory as the tying
of a knot, now as semantic memorization. Depth
psychology claims that
things are what they always have been. The
unconscious does not develop-this is a great
discovery. The dream shines with reflected light, just
like the moon.
This is clear from the way we understand
development. As a transformation of what was given
initially? As a novel form? In that case most
important is what developed last!
“In the beginning was the thing (and not: the thing
was in the beginning), in the end came the word, and
this is the most important” (L. S.). What is the
meaning of what has been said? “For me this
knowledge is enough,” i.e., now it is enough that the
problem has been stated
Appendix
(From the preparatory work for the theses for the debate
in the years 1933-1934. Record of Vygotsky’s speeches on
the 5th and 9th of December, 1933).
The central fact of our psychology is the fact of
mediation.
Communication and generalization. The internal
side of mediation is revealed in the double function
of the sign: (1) communication, (2) generalization.
For: all communication requires generalization.
Communication is also possible directly, but
mediated communication is communication in signs,
here generalization is necessary. (“Each word
(speech) already generalizes.”)
A
fact:
for
the
child
communication
and
generalization do not coincide: that is why
communication is direct here.
Intermediate is the pointing gesture. The gesture is
a sign that can mean anything.
A law: the form of generalization corresponds to
the form of communication. “Communication and
generalization are internally connected.”
People communicate with meanings insofar as
these meanings develop.
The schema here is: not person-thing (Stern), not
person-person (Piaget). But: person-thing-person.
Generalization. What is generalization?
Generalization is the exclusion from visual
structures and the inclusion in thought structures, in
semantic structures.
Meaning and the system of functions are internally
connected.
Meaning does not belong to thinking but to
consciousness as a whole.
Footnotes
1. Selz, Otto (1881-1944). German psychologist.
Investigated the problems of thinking.
2. Watt, Henri (1879-1925). English psychologist.
Representative of the Würzburg school.
Week 18（洪振耀）: Final Exam