CREATIVE EVOLUTION, by Henri Bergson

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Part 1 of 3

Chapter 3: On the Meaning of Life -- The Order of Nature and the Form of Intelligence

In the course of our first chapter we traced a line of demarcation between the inorganic and the organized, but we pointed out that the division of unorganized matter into separate bodies is relative to our senses and to our intellect, and that matter, looked at as an undivided whole, must be a flux rather than a thing. In this we were preparing the way for a reconciliation between the inert and the living.

On the other side, we have shown in our second chapter that the same opposition is found again between instinct and intelligence, the one turned to certain determinations of life, the other molded on the configuration of matter. But instinct and intelligence, we have also said, stand out from the same background, which, for want of a better name, we may call consciousness in general, and which must be coextensive with universal life. In this way, we have disclosed the possibility of showing the genesis of intelligence in setting out from general consciousness, which embraces it.

We are now, then, to attempt a genesis of intellect at the same time as a genesis of material bodies—two enterprises that are evidently correlative, if it be true that the main lines of our intellect mark out the general form of our action on matter, and that the detail of matter is ruled by the requirements of our action. Intellectuality and materiality have been constituted, in detail, by reciprocal adaptation. Both are derived from a wider and higher form of existence. It is there that we must replace them, in order to see them issue forth.

Such an attempt may appear, at first, more daring than the boldest speculations of metaphysicians. It claims to go further than psychology, further than cosmology, further than traditional metaphysics; for psychology, cosmology and metaphysics take intelligence, in all that is essential to it, as given, instead of, as we now propose, engendering it in its form and in its matter. The enterprise is in reality much more modest, as we are going to show. But let us first say how it differs from others.

To begin with psychology, we are not to believe that it engenders intelligence when it follows the progressive development of it through the animal series. Comparative psychology teaches us that the more an animal is intelligent, the more it tends to reflect on the actions by which it makes use of things, and thus to approximate to man. But its actions have already by themselves adopted the principal lines of human action; they have made out the same general directions in the material world as we have; they depend upon the same objects bound together by the same relations; so that animal intelligence, although it does not form concepts properly so called, already moves in a conceptual atmosphere. Absorbed at every instant by the actions it performs and the attitudes it must adopt, drawn outward by them and so externalized in relation to itself, it no doubt plays rather than thinks its ideas; this play none the less already corresponds, in the main, to the general plan of human intelligence. [78] To explain the intelligence of man by that of the animal consists then simply in following the development of an embryo of humanity into complete humanity. We show how a certain direction has been followed further and further by beings more and more intelligent. But the moment we admit the direction, intelligence is given.

In a cosmogony like that of Spencer, intelligence is taken for granted, as matter also at the same time. We are shown matter obeying laws, objects connected with objects and facts with facts by constant relations, consciousness receiving the imprint of these relations and laws, and thus adopting the general configuration of nature and shaping itself into intellect. But how can we fail to see that intelligence is supposed when we admit objects and facts? A priori and apart from any hypothesis on the nature of the matter, it is evident that the materiality of a body does not stop at the point at which we touch it: a body is present wherever its influence is felt; its attractive force, to speak only of that, is exerted on the sun, on the planets, perhaps on the entire universe. The more physics advances, the more it effaces the individuality of bodies and even of the particles into which the scientific imagination began by decomposing them: bodies and corpuscles tend to dissolve into a universal interaction. Our perceptions give us the plan of our eventual action on things much more than that of things themselves. The outlines we find in objects simply mark what we can attain and modify in them. The lines we see traced through matter are just the paths on which we are called to move. Outlines and paths have declared themselves in the measure and proportion that consciousness has prepared for action on unorganized matter—that is to say, in the measure and proportion that intelligence has been formed. It is doubtful whether animals built on a different plan—a mollusc or an insect, for instance—cut matter up along the same articulations. It is not indeed necessary that they should separate it into bodies at all. In order to follow the indications of instinct, there is no need to perceive objects, it is enough to distinguish properties. Intelligence, on the contrary, even in its humblest form, already aims at getting matter to act on matter. If on one side matter lends itself to a division into active and passive bodies, or more simply into coexistent and distinct fragments, it is from this side that intelligence will regard it; and the more it busies itself with dividing, the more it will spread out in space, in the form of extension adjoining extension, a matter that undoubtedly itself has a tendency to spatiality, but whose parts are yet in a state of reciprocal implication and interpenetration. Thus the same movement by which the mind is brought to form itself into intellect, that is to say, into distinct concepts, brings matter to break itself up into objects excluding one another. The more consciousness is intellectualized, the more is matter spatialized. So that the evolutionist philosophy, when it imagines in space a matter cut up on the very lines that our action will follow, has given itself in advance, ready made, the intelligence of which it claims to show the genesis.

Metaphysics applies itself to a work of the same kind, though subtler and more self-conscious, when it deduces a priori the categories of thought. It compresses intellect, reduces it to its quintessence, holds it tight in a principle so simple that it can be thought empty: from this principle we then draw out what we have virtually put into it. In this way we may no doubt show the coherence of intelligence, define intellect, give its formula, but we do not trace its genesis. An enterprise like that of Fichte, although more philosophical than that of Spencer, in that it pays more respect to the true order of things, hardly leads us any further. Fichte takes thought in a concentrated state, and expands it into reality; Spencer starts from external reality, and condenses it into intellect. But, in the one case as in the other, the intellect must be taken at the beginning as given—either condensed or expanded, grasped in itself by a direct vision or perceived by reflection in nature, as in a mirror.

The agreement of most philosophers on this point comes from the fact that they are at one in affirming the unity of nature, and in representing this unity under an abstract and geometrical form. Between the organized and the unorganized they do not see and they will not see the cleft. Some start from the inorganic, and, by compounding it with itself, claim to form the living; others place life first, and proceed towards matter by a skilfully managed decrescendo; but, for both, there are only differences of degree in nature—degrees of complexity in the first hypothesis, of intensity in the second. Once this principle is admitted, intelligence becomes as vast as reality; for it is unquestionable that whatever is geometrical in things is entirely accessible to human intelligence, and if the continuity between geometry and the rest is perfect, all the rest must indeed be equally intelligible, equally intelligent. Such is the postulate of most systems. Any one can easily be convinced of this by comparing doctrines that seem to have no common point, no common measure, those of Fichte and Spencer for instance, two names that we happen to have just brought together.

At the root of these speculations, then, there are the two convictions correlative and complementary, that nature is one and that the function of intellect is to embrace it in its entirety. The faculty of knowing being supposed coextensive with the whole of experience, there can no longer be any question of engendering it. It is already given, and we merely have to use it, as we use our sight to take in the horizon. It is true that opinions differ as to the value of the result. For some, it is reality itself that the intellect embraces; for others, it is only a phantom. But, phantom or reality, what intelligence grasps is thought to be all that can be attained.

Hence the exaggerated confidence of philosophy in the powers of the individual mind. Whether it is dogmatic or critical, whether it admits the relativity of our knowledge or claims to be established within the absolute, a philosophy is generally the work of a philosopher, a single and unitary vision of the whole. It is to be taken or left.

More modest, and also alone capable of being completed and perfected, is the philosophy we advocate. Human intelligence, as we represent it, is not at all what Plato taught in the allegory of the cave. Its function is not to look at passing shadows nor yet to turn itself round and contemplate the glaring sun. It has something else to do. Harnessed, like yoked oxen, to a heavy task, we feel the play of our muscles and joints, the weight of the plow and the resistance of the soil. To act and to know that we are acting, to come into touch with reality and even to live it, but only in the measure in which it concerns the work that is being accomplished and the furrow that is being plowed, such is the function of human intelligence. Yet a beneficent fluid bathes us, whence we draw the very force to labor and to live. From this ocean of life, in which we are immersed, we are continually drawing something, and we feel that our being, or at least the intellect that guides it, has been formed therein by a kind of local concentration. Philosophy can only be an effort to dissolve again into the Whole. Intelligence, reabsorbed into its principle, may thus live back again its own genesis. But the enterprise cannot be achieved in one stroke; it is necessarily collective and progressive. It consists in an interchange of impressions which, correcting and adding to each other, will end by expanding the humanity in us and making us even transcend it.

But this method has against it the most inveterate habits of the mind. It at once suggests the idea of a vicious circle. In vain, we shall be told, you claim to go beyond intelligence: how can you do that except by intelligence? All that is clear in your consciousness is intelligence. You are inside your own thought; you cannot get out of it. Say, if you like, that the intellect is capable of progress, that it will see more and more clearly into a greater and greater number of things; but do not speak of engendering it, for it is with your intellect itself that you would have to do the work.

The objection presents itself naturally to the mind. But the same reasoning would prove also the impossibility of acquiring any new habit. It is of the essence of reasoning to shut us up in the circle of the given. But action breaks the circle. If we had never seen a man swim, we might say that swimming is an impossible thing, inasmuch as, to learn to swim, we must begin by holding ourselves up in the water and, consequently, already know how to swim. Reasoning, in fact, always nails us down to the solid ground. But if, quite simply, I throw myself into the water without fear, I may keep myself up well enough at first by merely struggling, and gradually adapt myself to the new environment: I shall thus have learnt to swim. So, in theory, there is a kind of absurdity in trying to know otherwise than by intelligence; but if the risk be frankly accepted, action will perhaps cut the knot that reasoning has tied and will not unloose.

Besides, the risk will appear to grow less, the more our point of view is adopted. We have shown that intellect has detached itself from a vastly wider reality, but that there has never been a clean cut between the two; all around conceptual thought there remains an indistinct fringe which recalls its origin. And further we compared the intellect to a solid nucleus formed by means of condensation. This nucleus does not differ radically from the fluid surrounding it. It can only be reabsorbed in it because it is made of the same substance. He who throws himself into the water, having known only the resistance of the solid earth, will immediately be drowned if he does not struggle against the fluidity of the new environment: he must perforce still cling to that solidity, so to speak, which even water presents. Only on this condition can he get used to the fluid's fluidity. So of our thought, when it has decided to make the leap.

But leap it must, that is, leave its own environment. Reason, reasoning on its powers, will never succeed in extending them, though the extension would not appear at all unreasonable once it were accomplished. Thousands and thousands of variations on the theme of walking will never yield a rule for swimming: come, enter the water, and when you know how to swim, you will understand how the mechanism of swimming is connected with that of walking. Swimming is an extension of walking, but walking would never have pushed you on to swimming. So you may speculate as intelligently as you will on the mechanism of intelligence; you will never, by this method, succeed in going beyond it. You may get something more complex, but not something higher nor even something different. You must take things by storm: you must thrust intelligence outside itself by an act of will.

So the vicious circle is only apparent. It is, on the contrary, real, we think, in every other method of philosophy. This we must try to show in a few words, if only to prove that philosophy cannot and must not accept the relation established by pure intellectualism between the theory of knowledge and the theory of the known, between metaphysics and science.

***

At first sight, it may seem prudent to leave the consideration of facts to positive science, to let physics and chemistry busy themselves with matter, the biological and psychological sciences with life. The task of the philosopher is then clearly defined. He takes facts and laws from the scientists' hand; and whether he tries to go beyond them in order to reach their deeper causes, or whether he thinks it impossible to go further and even proves it by the analysis of scientific knowledge, in both cases he has for the facts and relations, handed over by science, the sort of respect that is due to a final verdict. To this knowledge he adds a critique of the faculty of knowing, and also, if he thinks proper, a metaphysic; but the matter of knowledge he regards as the affair of science and not of philosophy.

But how does he fail to see that the real result of this so-called division of labor is to mix up everything and confuse everything? The metaphysic or the critique that the philosopher has reserved for himself he has to receive, ready-made, from positive science, it being already contained in the descriptions and analyses, the whole care of which he left to the scientists. For not having wished to intervene, at the beginning, in questions of fact, he finds himself reduced, in questions of principle, to formulating purely and simply in more precise terms the unconscious and consequently inconsistent metaphysic and critique which the very attitude of science to reality marks out. Let us not be deceived by an apparent analogy between natural things and human things. Here we are not in the judiciary domain, where the description of fact and the judgment on the fact are two distinct things, distinct for the very simple reason that above the fact, and independent of it, there is a law promulgated by a legislator. Here the laws are internal to the facts and relative to the lines that have been followed in cutting the real into distinct facts. We cannot describe the outward appearance of the object without prejudging its inner nature and its organization. Form is no longer entirely isolable from matter, and he who has begun by reserving to philosophy questions of principle, and who has thereby tried to put philosophy above the sciences, as a "court of cassation" is above the courts of assizes and of appeal, will gradually come to make no more of philosophy than a registration court, charged at most with wording more precisely the sentences that are brought to it, pronounced and irrevocable.

Positive science is, in fact, a work of pure intellect. Now, whether our conception of the intellect be accepted or rejected, there is one point on which everybody will agree with us, and that is that the intellect is at home in the presence of unorganized matter. This matter it makes use of more and more by mechanical inventions, and mechanical inventions become the easier to it the more it thinks matter as mechanism. The intellect bears within itself, in the form of natural logic, a latent geometrism that is set free in the measure and proportion that the intellect penetrates into the inner nature of inert matter. Intelligence is in tune with this matter, and that is why the physics and metaphysics of inert matter are so near each other. Now, when the intellect undertakes the study of life, it necessarily treats the living like the inert, applying the same forms to this new object, carrying over into this new field the same habits that have succeeded so well in the old; and it is right to do so, for only on such terms does the living offer to our action the same hold as inert matter. But the truth we thus arrive at becomes altogether relative to our faculty of action. It is no more than a symbolic verity. It cannot have the same value as the physical verity, being only an extension of physics to an object which we are a priori agreed to look at only in its external aspect. The duty of philosophy should be to intervene here actively, to examine the living without any reservation as to practical utility, by freeing itself from forms and habits that are strictly intellectual. Its own special object is to speculate, that is to say, to see; its attitude toward the living should not be that of science, which aims only at action, and which, being able to act only by means of inert matter, presents to itself the rest of reality in this single respect. What must the result be, if it leave biological and psychological facts to positive science alone, as it has left, and rightly left, physical facts? It will accept a priori a mechanistic conception of all nature, a conception unreflected and even unconscious, the outcome of the material need. It will a priori accept the doctrine of the simple unity of knowledge and of the abstract unity of nature.

The moment it does so, its fate is sealed. The philosopher has no longer any choice save between a metaphysical dogmatism and a metaphysical skepticism, both of which rest, at bottom, on the same postulate, and neither of which adds anything to positive science. He may hypostasize the unity of nature, or, what comes to the same thing, the unity of science, in a being who is nothing since he does nothing, an ineffectual God who simply sums up in himself all the given; or in an eternal Matter from whose womb have been poured out the properties of things and the laws of nature; or, again, in a pure Form which endeavors to seize an unseizable multiplicity, and which is, as we will, the form of nature or the form of thought. All these philosophies tell us, in their different languages, that science is right to treat the living as the inert, and that there is no difference of value, no distinction to be made between the results which intellect arrives at in applying its categories, whether it rests on inert matter or attacks life.

In many cases, however, we feel the frame cracking. But as we did not begin by distinguishing between the inert and the living, the one adapted in advance to the frame in which we insert it, the other incapable of being held in the frame otherwise than by a convention which eliminates from it all that is essential, we find ourselves, in the end, reduced to regarding everything the frame contains with equal suspicion. To a metaphysical dogmatism, which has erected into an absolute the factitious unity of science, there succeeds a skepticism or a relativism that universalizes and extends to all the results of science the artificial character of some among them. So philosophy swings to and fro between the doctrine that regards absolute reality as unknowable and that which, in the idea it gives us of this reality, says nothing more than science has said. For having wished to prevent all conflict between science and philosophy, we have sacrificed philosophy without any appreciable gain to science. And for having tried to avoid the seeming vicious circle which consists in using the intellect to transcend the intellect, we find ourselves turning in a real circle, that which consists in laboriously rediscovering by metaphysics a unity that we began by positing a priori, a unity that we admitted blindly and unconsciously by the very act of abandoning the whole of experience to science and the whole of reality to the pure understanding.

Let us begin, on the contrary, by tracing a line of demarcation between the inert and the living. We shall find that the inert enters naturally into the frames of the intellect, but that the living is adapted to these frames only artificially, so that we must adopt a special attitude towards it and examine it with other eyes than those of positive science. Philosophy, then, invades the domain of experience. She busies herself with many things which hitherto have not concerned her. Science, theory of knowledge, and metaphysics find themselves on the same ground. At first there may be a certain confusion. All three may think they have lost something. But all three will profit from the meeting.

Positive science, indeed, may pride itself on the uniform value attributed to its affirmations in the whole field of experience. But, if they are all placed on the same footing, they are all tainted with the same relativity. It is not so, if we begin by making the distinction which, in our view, is forced upon us. The understanding is at home in the domain of unorganized matter. On this matter human action is naturally exercised; and action, as we said above, cannot be set in motion in the unreal. Thus, of physics—so long as we are considering only its general form and not the particular cutting out of matter in which it is manifested—we may say that it touches the absolute. On the contrary, it is by accident—chance or convention, as you please—that science obtains a hold on the living analogous to the hold it has on matter. Here the use of conceptual frames is no longer natural. I do not wish to say that it is not legitimate, in the scientific meaning of the term. If science is to extend our action on things, and if we can act only with inert matter for instrument, science can and must continue to treat the living as it has treated the inert. But, in doing so, it must be understood that the further it penetrates the depths of life, the more symbolic, the more relative to the contingencies of action, the knowledge it supplies to us becomes. On this new ground philosophy ought then to follow science, in order to superpose on scientific truth a knowledge of another kind, which may be called metaphysical. Thus combined, all our knowledge, both scientific and metaphysical, is heightened. In the absolute we live and move and have our being. The knowledge we possess of it is incomplete, no doubt, but not external or relative. It is reality itself, in the profoundest meaning of the word, that we reach by the combined and progressive development of science and of philosophy.

Thus, in renouncing the factitious unity which the understanding imposes on nature from outside, we shall perhaps find its true, inward and living unity. For the effort we make to transcend the pure understanding introduces us into that more vast something out of which our understanding is cut, and from which it has detached itself. And, as matter is determined by intelligence, as there is between them an evident agreement, we cannot make the genesis of the one without making the genesis of the other. An identical process must have cut out matter and the intellect, at the same time, from a stuff that contained both. Into this reality we shall get back more and more completely, in proportion as we compel ourselves to transcend pure intelligence.

***

Let us then concentrate attention on that which we have that is at the same time the most removed from externality and the least penetrated with intellectuality. Let us seek, in the depths of our experience, the point where we feel ourselves most intimately within our own life. It is into pure duration that we then plunge back, a duration in which the past, always moving on, is swelling unceasingly with a present that is absolutely new. But, at the same time, we feel the spring of our will strained to its utmost limit. We must, by a strong recoil of our personality on itself, gather up our past which is slipping away, in order to thrust it, compact and undivided, into a present which it will create by entering. Rare indeed are the moments when we are self-possessed to this extent: it is then that our actions are truly free. And even at these moments we do not completely possess ourselves. Our feeling of duration, I should say the actual coinciding of ourself with itself, admits of degrees. But the more the feeling is deep and the coincidence complete, the more the life in which it replaces us absorbs intellectuality by transcending it. For the natural function of the intellect is to bind like to like, and it is only facts that can be repeated that are entirely adaptable to intellectual conceptions. Now, our intellect does undoubtedly grasp the real moments of real duration after they are past; we do so by reconstituting the new state of consciousness out of a series of views taken of it from the outside, each of which resembles as much as possible something already known; in this sense we may say that the state of consciousness contains intellectuality implicitly. Yet the state of consciousness overflows the intellect; it is indeed incommensurable with the intellect, being itself indivisible and new.

Now let us relax the strain, let us interrupt the effort to crowd as much as possible of the past into the present. If the relaxation were complete, there would no longer be either memory or will—which amounts to saying that, in fact, we never do fall into this absolute passivity, any more than we can make ourselves absolutely free. But, in the limit, we get a glimpse of an existence made of a present which recommences unceasingly—devoid of real duration, nothing but the instantaneous which dies and is born again endlessly. Is the existence of matter of this nature? Not altogether, for analysis resolves it into elementary vibrations, the shortest of which are of very slight duration, almost vanishing, but not nothing. It may be presumed, nevertheless, that physical existence inclines in this second direction, as psychical existence in the first.

Behind "spirituality" on the one hand, and "materiality" with intellectuality on the other, there are then two processes opposite in their direction, and we pass from the first to the second by way of inversion, or perhaps even by simple interruption, if it is true that inversion and interruption are two terms which in this case must be held to be synonymous, as we shall show at more length later on. This presumption is confirmed when we consider things from the point of view of extension, and no longer from that of duration alone.

The more we succeed in making ourselves conscious of our progress in pure duration, the more we feel the different parts of our being enter into each other, and our whole personality concentrate itself in a point, or rather a sharp edge, pressed against the future and cutting into it unceasingly. It is in this that life and action are free. But suppose we let ourselves go and, instead of acting, dream. At once the self is scattered; our past, which till then was gathered together into the indivisible impulsion it communicated to us, is broken up into a thousand recollections made external to one another. They give up interpenetrating in the degree that they become fixed. Our personality thus descends in the direction of space. It coasts around it continually in sensation. We will not dwell here on a point we have studied elsewhere. Let us merely recall that extension admits of degrees, that all sensation is extensive in a certain measure, and that the idea of unextended sensations, artificially localized in space, is a mere view of the mind, suggested by an unconscious metaphysic much more than by psychological observation.

No doubt we make only the first steps in the direction of the extended, even when we let ourselves go as much as we can. But suppose for a moment that matter consists in this very movement pushed further, and that physics is simply psychics inverted. We shall now understand why the mind feels at its ease, moves about naturally in space, when matter suggests the more distinct idea of it. This space it already possessed as an implicit idea in its own eventualdetension, that is to say, of its own possible extension. The mind finds space in things, but could have got it without them if it had had imagination strong enough to push the inversion of its own natural movement to the end. On the other hand, we are able to explain how matter accentuates still more its materiality, when viewed by the mind. Matter, at first, aided mind to run down its own incline; it gave the impulsion. But, the impulsion once received, mind continues its course. The idea that it forms of pure space is only the schema of the limit at which this movement would end. Once in possession of the form of space, mind uses it like a net with meshes that can be made and unmade at will, which, thrown over matter, divides it as the needs of our action demand. Thus, the space of our geometry and the spatiality of things are mutually engendered by the reciprocal action and reaction of two terms which are essentially the same, but which move each in the direction inverse of the other. Neither is space so foreign to our nature as we imagine, nor is matter as completely extended in space as our senses and intellect represent it.

We have treated of the first point elsewhere. As to the second, we will limit ourselves to pointing out that perfect spatiality would consist in a perfect externality of parts in their relation to one another, that is to say, in a complete reciprocal independence. Now, there is no material point that does not act on every other material point. When we observe that a thing really is there where it acts, we shall be led to say (as Faraday [79] was) that all the atoms interpenetrate and that each of them fills the world. On such a hypothesis, the atom or, more generally, the material point, becomes simply a view of the mind, a view which we come to take when we continue far enough the work (wholly relative to our faculty of acting) by which we subdivide matter into bodies. Yet it is undeniable that matter lends itself to this subdivision, and that, in supposing it breakable into parts external to one another, we are constructing a science sufficiently representative of the real. It is undeniable that if there be no entirely isolated system, yet science finds means of cutting up the universe into systems relatively independent of each other, and commits no appreciable error in doing so. What else can this mean but that matter extendsitself in space without being absolutely extended therein, and that in regarding matter as decomposable into isolated systems, in attributing to it quite distinct elements which change in relation to each other without changing in themselves (which are "displaced," shall we say, without being "altered"), in short, in conferring on matter the properties of pure space, we are transporting ourselves to the terminal point of the movement of which matter simply indicates the direction?

What the Transcendental Aesthetic of Kant appears to have established once for all is that extension is not a material attribute of the same kind as others. We cannot reason indefinitely on the notions of heat, color, or weight: in order to know the modalities of weight or of heat, we must have recourse to experience. Not so of the notion of space. Supposing even that it is given empirically by sight and touch (and Kant has not questioned the fact) there is this about it that is remarkable that our mind, speculating on it with its own powers alone, cuts out in it, a priori, figures whose properties we determine a priori: experience, with which we have not kept in touch, yet follows us through the infinite complications of our reasonings and invariably justifies them. That is the fact. Kant has set it in clear light. But the explanation of the fact, we believe, must be sought in a different direction to that which Kant followed.

Intelligence, as Kant represents it to us, is bathed in an atmosphere of spatiality to which it is as inseparably united as the living body to the air it breathes. Our perceptions reach us only after having passed through this atmosphere. They have been impregnated in advance by our geometry, so that our faculty of thinking only finds again in matter the mathematical properties which our faculty of perceiving has already deposed there. We are assured, therefore, of seeing matter yield itself with docility to our reasonings; but this matter, in all that it has that is intelligible, is our own work; of the reality "in itself" we know nothing and never shall know anything, since we only get its refraction through the forms of our faculty of perceiving. So that if we claim to affirm something of it, at once there rises the contrary affirmation, equally demonstrable, equally plausible. The ideality of space is proved directly by the analysis of knowledge indirectly by the antinomies to which the opposite theory leads. Such is the governing idea of the Kantian criticism. It has inspired Kant with a peremptory refutation of "empiricist" theories of knowledge. It is, in our opinion, definitive in what it denies. But, in what it affirms, does it give us the solution of the problem?

With Kant, space is given as a ready-made form of our perceptive faculty—a veritable deus ex machina, of which we see neither how it arises, nor why it is what it is rather than anything else. "Things-in-themselves" are also given, of which he claims that we can know nothing: by what right, then, can he affirm their existence, even as "problematic"? If the unknowable reality projects into our perceptive faculty a "sensuous manifold" capable of fitting into it exactly, is it not, by that very fact, in part known? And when we examine this exact fitting, shall we not be led, in one point at least, to suppose a pre-established harmony between things and our mind—an idle hypothesis, which Kant was right in wishing to avoid? At bottom, it is for not having distinguished degrees in spatiality that he has had to take space ready-made as given—whence the question how the "sensuous manifold" is adapted to it. It is for the same reason that he has supposed matter wholly developed into parts absolutely external to one another;—whence antinomies, of which we may plainly see that the thesis and antithesis suppose the perfect coincidence of matter with geometrical space, but which vanish the moment we cease to extend to matter what is true only of pure space. Whence, finally, the conclusion that there are three alternatives, and three only, among which to choose a theory of knowledge: either the mind is determined by things, or things are determined by the mind, or between mind and things we must suppose a mysterious agreement.

But the truth is that there is a fourth, which does not seem to have occurred to Kant—in the first place because he did not think that the mind overflowed the intellect, and in the second place (and this is at bottom the same thing) because he did not attribute to duration an absolute existence, having put time, a priori, on the same plane as space. This alternative consists, first of all, in regarding the intellect as a special function of the mind, essentially turned toward inert matter; then in saying that neither does matter determine the form of the intellect, nor does the intellect impose its form on matter, nor have matter and intellect been regulated in regard to one another by we know not what pre-established harmony, but that intellect and matter have progressively adapted themselves one to the other in order to attain at last a common form. This adaptation has, moreover, been brought about quite naturally, because it is the same inversion of the same movement which creates at once the intellectuality of mind and the materiality of things.

From this point of view the knowledge of matter that our perception on one hand and science on the other give to us appears, no doubt, as approximative, but not as relative. Our perception, whose rôle it is to hold up a light to our actions, works a dividing up of matter that is always too sharply defined, always subordinated to practical needs, consequently always requiring revision. Our science, which aspires to the mathematical form, over-accentuates the spatiality of matter; its formulae are, in general, too precise, and ever need remaking. For a scientific theory to be final, the mind would have to embrace the totality of things in block and place each thing in its exact relation to every other thing; but in reality we are obliged to consider problems one by one, in terms which are, for that very reason, provisional, so that the solution of each problem will have to be corrected indefinitely by the solution that will be given to the problems that will follow: thus, science as a whole is relative to the particular order in which the problems happen to have been put. It is in this meaning, and to this degree, that science must be regarded as conventional. But it is a conventionality of fact so to speak, and not of right. In principle, positive science bears on reality itself, provided it does not overstep the limits of its own domain, which is inert matter.

Scientific knowledge, thus regarded, rises to a higher plane. In return, the theory of knowledge becomes an infinitely difficult enterprise, and which passes the powers of the intellect alone. It is not enough to determine, by careful analysis, the categories of thought; we must engender them. As regards space, we must, by an effort of mind sui generis, follow the progression or rather the regression of the extra-spatial degrading itself into spatiality. When we make ourselves self-conscious in the highest possible degree and then let ourselves fall back little by little, we get the feeling of extension: we have an extension of the self into recollections that are fixed and external to one another, in place of the tension it possessed as an indivisible active will. But this is only a beginning. Our consciousness, sketching the movement, shows us its direction and reveals to us the possibility of continuing it to the end; but consciousness itself does not go so far. Now, on the other hand, if we consider matter, which seems to us at first coincident with space, we find that the more our attention is fixed on it, the more the parts which we said were laid side by side enter into each other, each of them undergoing the action of the whole, which is consequently somehow present in it. Thus, although matter stretches itself out in the direction of space, it does not completely attain it; whence we may conclude that it only carries very much further the movement that consciousness is able to sketch within us in its nascent state. We hold, therefore, the two ends of the chain, though we do not succeed in seizing the intermediate links. Will they always escape us? We must remember that philosophy, as we define it, has not yet become completely conscious of itself. Physics understands its rôle when it pushes matter in the direction of spatiality; but has metaphysics understood its rôle when it has simply trodden in the steps of physics, in the chimerical hope of going further in the same direction? Should not its own task be, on the contrary, to remount the incline that physics descends, to bring back matter to its origins, and to build up progressively a cosmology which would be, so to speak, a reversed psychology? All that which seems positive to the physicist and to the geometrician would become, from this new point of view, an interruption or inversion of the true positivity, which would have to be defined in psychological terms.

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When we consider the admirable order of mathematics, the perfect agreement of the objects it deals with, the immanent logic in numbers and figures, our certainty of always getting the same conclusion, however diverse and complex our reasonings on the same subject, we hesitate to see in properties apparently so positive a system of negations, the absence rather than the presence of a true reality. But we must not forget that our intellect, which finds this order and wonders at it, is directed in the same line of movement that leads to the materiality and spatiality of its object. The more complexity the intellect puts into its object by analyzing it, the more complex is the order it finds there. And this order and this complexity necessarily appear to the intellect as a positive reality, since reality and intellectuality are turned in the same direction.

When a poet reads me his verses, I can interest myself enough in him to enter into his thought, put myself into his feelings, live over again the simple state he has broken into phrases and words. I sympathize then with his inspiration, I follow it with a continuous movement which is, like the inspiration itself, an undivided act. Now, I need only relax my attention, let go the tension that there is in me, for the sounds, hitherto swallowed up in the sense, to appear to me distinctly, one by one, in their materiality. For this I have not to do anything; it is enough to withdraw something. In proportion as I let myself go, the successive sounds will become the more individualized; as the phrases were broken into words, so the words will scan in syllables which I shall perceive one after another. Let me go farther still in the direction of dream: the letters themselves will become loose and will be seen to dance along, hand in hand, on some fantastic sheet of paper. I shall then admire the precision of the interweavings, the marvelous order of the procession, the exact insertion of the letters into the syllables, of the syllables into the words and of the words into the sentences. The farther I pursue this quite negative direction of relaxation, the more extension and complexity I shall create; and the more the complexity in its turn increases, the more admirable will seem to be the order which continues to reign, undisturbed, among the elements. Yet this complexity and extension represent nothing positive; they express a deficiency of will. And, on the other hand, the order must grow with the complexity, since it is only an aspect of it. The more we perceive, symbolically, parts in an indivisible whole, the more the number of the relations that the parts have between themselves necessarily increases, since the same undividedness of the real whole continues to hover over the growing multiplicity of the symbolic elements into which the scattering of the attention has decomposed it. A comparison of this kind will enable us to understand, in some measure, how the same suppression of positive reality, the same inversion of a certain original movement, can create at once extension in space and the admirable order which mathematics finds there. There is, of course, this difference between the two cases, that words and letters have been invented by a positive effort of humanity, while space arises automatically, as the remainder of a subtraction arises once the two numbers are posited. [80] But, in the one case as in the other, the infinite complexity of the parts and their perfect coördination among themselves are created at one and the same time by an inversion which is, at bottom, an interruption, that is to say, a diminution of positive reality.

All the operations of our intellect tend to geometry, as to the goal where they find their perfect fulfilment. But, as geometry is necessarily prior to them (since these operations have not as their end to construct space and cannot do otherwise than take it as given) it is evident that it is a latent geometry, immanent in our idea of space, which is the main spring of our intellect and the cause of its working. We shall be convinced of this if we consider the two essential functions of intellect, the faculty of deduction and that of induction.

Let us begin with deduction. The same movement by which I trace a figure in space engenders its properties: they are visible and tangible in the movement itself; I feel, I see in space the relation of the definition to its consequences, of the premisses to the conclusion. All the other concepts of which experience suggests the idea to me are only in part constructible a priori; the definition of them is therefore imperfect, and the deductions into which these concepts enter, however closely the conclusion is linked to the premisses, participate in this imperfection. But when I trace roughly in the sand the base of a triangle, as I begin to form the two angles at the base, I know positively, and understand absolutely, that if these two angles are equal the sides will be equal also, the figure being then able to be turned over on itself without there being any change whatever. I know it before I have learnt geometry. Thus, prior to the science of geometry, there is a natural geometry whose clearness and evidence surpass the clearness and evidence of other deductions. Now, these other deductions bear on qualities, and not on magnitudes purely. They are, then, likely to have been formed on the model of the first, and to borrow their force from the fact that, behind quality, we see magnitude vaguely showing through. We may notice, as a fact, that questions of situation and of magnitude are the first that present themselves to our activity, those which intelligence externalized in action resolves even before reflective intelligence has appeared. The savage understands better than the civilized man how to judge distances, to determine a direction, to retrace by memory the often complicated plan of the road he has traveled, and so to return in a straight line to his starting-point. [81] If the animal does not deduce explicitly, if he does not form explicit concepts, neither does he form the idea of a homogeneous space. You cannot present this space to yourself without introducing, in the same act, a virtual geometry which will, of itself, degrade itself into logic. All the repugnance that philosophers manifest towards this manner of regarding things comes from this, that the logical work of the intellect represents to their eyes a positive spiritual effort. But, if we understand by spirituality a progress to ever new creations, to conclusions incommensurable with the premisses and indeterminable by relation to them, we must say of an idea that moves among relations of necessary determination, through premisses which contain their conclusion in advance, that it follows the inverse direction, that of materiality. What appears, from the point of view of the intellect, as an effort, is in itself a letting go. And while, from the point of view of the intellect, there is a petitio principii in making geometry arise automatically from space, and logic from geometry—on the contrary, if space is the ultimate goal of the mind's movement of detension, space cannot be given without positing also logic and geometry, which are along the course of the movement of which pure spatial intuition is the goal.

It has not been enough noticed how feeble is the reach of deduction in the psychological and moral sciences. From a proposition verified by facts, verifiable consequences can here be drawn only up to a certain point, only in a certain measure. Very soon appeal has to be made to common sense, that is to say, to the continuous experience of the real, in order to inflect the consequences deduced and bend them along the sinuosities of life. Deduction succeeds in things moral only metaphorically, so to speak, and just in the measure in which the moral is transposable into the physical, I should say translatable into spatial symbols. The metaphor never goes very far, any more than a curve can long be confused with its tangent. Must we not be struck by this feebleness of deduction as something very strange and even paradoxical? Here is a pure operation of the mind, accomplished solely by the power of the mind. It seems that, if anywhere it should feel at home and evolve at ease, it would be among the things of the mind, in the domain of the mind. Not at all; it is there that it is immediately at the end of its tether. On the contrary, in geometry, in astronomy, in physics, where we have to do with things external to us, deduction is all-powerful! Observation and experience are undoubtedly necessary in these sciences to arrive at the principle, that is, to discover the aspect under which things must be regarded; but, strictly speaking, we might, by good luck, have hit upon it at once; and, as soon as we possess this principle, we may draw from it, at any length, consequences which experience will always verify. Must we not conclude, therefore, that deduction is an operation governed by the properties of matter, molded on the mobile articulations of matter, implicitly given, in fact, with the space that underlies matter? As long as it turns upon space or spatialized time, it has only to let itself go. It is duration that puts spokes in its wheels.

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Part 2 of 3

Deduction, then, does not work unless there be spatial intuition behind it. But we may say the same of induction. It is not necessary indeed to think geometrically, nor even to think at all, in order to expect from the same conditions a repetition of the same fact. The consciousness of the animal already does this work, and indeed, independently of all consciousness, the living body itself is so constructed that it can extract from the successive situations in which it finds itself the similarities which interest it, and so respond to the stimuli by appropriate reactions. But it is a far cry from a mechanical expectation and reaction of the body, to induction properly so called, which is an intellectual operation. Induction rests on the belief that there are causes and effects, and that the same effects follow the same causes. Now, if we examine this double belief, this is what we find. It implies, in the first place, that reality is decomposable into groups, which can be practically regarded as isolated and independent. If I boil water in a kettle on a stove, the operation and the objects that support it are, in reality, bound up with a multitude of other objects and a multitude of other operations; in the end, I should find that our entire solar system is concerned in what is being done at this particular point of space. But, in a certain measure, and for the special end I am pursuing, I may admit that things happen as if the group water-kettle-stove were an independent microcosm. That is my first affirmation. Now, when I say that this microcosm will always behave in the same way, that the heat will necessarily, at the end of a certain time, cause the boiling of the water, I admit that it is sufficient that a certain number of elements of the system be given in order that the system should be complete; it completes itself automatically, I am not free to complete it in thought as I please. The stove, the kettle and the water being given, with a certain interval of duration, it seems to me that the boiling, which experience showed me yesterday to be the only thing wanting to complete the system, will complete it to-morrow, no matter when to-morrow may be. What is there at the base of this belief? Notice that the belief is more or less assured, according as the case may be, but that it is forced upon the mind as an absolute necessity when the microcosm considered contains only magnitudes. If two numbers be given, I am not free to choose their difference. If two sides of a triangle and the contained angle are given, the third side arises of itself and the triangle completes itself automatically. I can, it matters not where and it matters not when, trace the same two sides containing the same angle: it is evident that the new triangles so formed can be superposed on the first, and that consequently the same third side will come to complete the system. Now, if my certitude is perfect in the case in which I reason on pure space determinations, must I not suppose that, in the other cases, the certitude is greater the nearer it approaches this extreme case? Indeed, may it not be the limiting case which is seen through all the others and which colors them, accordingly as they are more or less transparent, with a more or less pronounced tinge of geometrical necessity? [82] In fact, when I say that the water on the fire will boil to-day as it did yesterday, and that this is an absolute necessity, I feel vaguely that my imagination is placing the stove of yesterday on that of to-day, kettle on kettle, water on water, duration on duration, and it seems then that the rest must coincide also, for the same reason that, when two triangles are superposed and two of their sides coincide, their third sides coincide also. But my imagination acts thus only because it shuts its eyes to two essential points. For the system of to-day actually to be superimposed on that of yesterday, the latter must have waited for the former, time must have halted, and everything become simultaneous: that happens in geometry, but in geometry alone. Induction therefore implies first that, in the world of the physicist as in that of the geometrician, time does not count. But it implies also that qualities can be superposed on each other like magnitudes. If, in imagination, I place the stove and fire of to-day on that of yesterday, I find indeed that the form has remained the same; it suffices, for that, that the surfaces and edges coincide; but what is the coincidence of two qualities, and how can they be superposed one on another in order to ensure that they are identical? Yet I extend to the second order of reality all that applies to the first. The physicist legitimates this operation later on by reducing, as far as possible, differences of quality to differences of magnitude; but, prior to all science, I incline to liken qualities to quantities, as if I perceived behind the qualities, as through a transparency, a geometrical mechanism. [83] The more complete this transparency, the more it seems to me that in the same conditions there must be a repetition of the same fact. Our inductions are certain, to our eyes, in the exact degree in which we make the qualitative differences melt into the homogeneity of the space which subtends them, so that geometry is the ideal limit of our inductions as well as of our deductions. The movement at the end of which is spatiality lays down along its course the faculty of induction as well as that of deduction, in fact, intellectuality entire.

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It creates them in the mind. But it creates also, in things, the "order" which our induction, aided by deduction, finds there. This order, on which our action leans and in which our intellect recognizes itself, seems to us marvelous. Not only do the same general causes always produce the same general effects, but beneath the visible causes and effects our science discovers an infinity of infinitesimal changes which work more and more exactly into one another, the further we push the analysis: so much so that, at the end of this analysis, matter becomes, it seems to us, geometry itself. Certainly, the intellect is right in admiring here the growing order in the growing complexity; both the one and the other must have a positive reality for it, since it looks upon itself as positive. But things change their aspect when we consider the whole of reality as an undivided advance forward to successive creations. It seems to us, then, that the complexity of the material elements and the mathematical order that binds them together must arise automatically when within the whole a partial interruption or inversion is produced. Moreover, as the intellect itself is cut out of mind by a process of the same kind, it is attuned to this order and complexity, and admires them because it recognizes itself in them. But what is admirable in itself, what really deserves to provoke wonder, is the ever-renewed creation which reality, whole and undivided, accomplishes in advancing; for no complication of the mathematical order with itself, however elaborate we may suppose it, can introduce an atom of novelty into the world, whereas this power of creation once given (and it exists, for we are conscious of it in ourselves, at least when we act freely) has only to be diverted from itself to relax its tension, only to relax its tension to extend, only to extend for the mathematical order of the elements so distinguished and the inflexible determinism connecting them to manifest the interruption of the creative act: in fact, inflexible determinism and mathematical order are one with this very interruption.

It is this merely negative tendency that the particular laws of the physical world express. None of them, taken separately, has objective reality; each is the work of an investigator who has regarded things from a certain bias, isolated certain variables, applied certain conventional units of measurement. And yet there is an order approximately mathematical immanent in matter, an objective order, which our science approaches in proportion to its progress. For if matter is a relaxation of the inextensive into the extensive and, thereby, of liberty into necessity, it does not indeed wholly coincide with pure homogeneous space, yet is constituted by the movement which leads to space, and is therefore on the way to geometry. It is true that laws of mathematical form will never apply to it completely. For that, it would have to be pure space and step out of duration.

We cannot insist too strongly that there is something artificial in the mathematical form of a physical law, and consequently in our scientific knowledge of things. [84] Our standards of measurement are conventional, and, so to say, foreign to the intentions of nature: can we suppose that nature has related all the modalities of heat to the expansion of the same mass of mercury, or to the change of pressure of the same mass of air kept at a constant volume? But we may go further. In a general way, measuring is a wholly human operation, which implies that we really or ideally superpose two objects one on another a certain number of times. Nature did not dream of this superposition. It does not measure, nor does it count. Yet physics counts, measures, relates "quantitative" variations to one another to obtain laws, and it succeeds. Its success would be inexplicable, if the movement which constitutes materiality were not the same movement which, prolonged by us to its end, that is to say, to homogeneous space, results in making us count, measure, follow in their respective variations terms that are functions one of another. To effect this prolongation of the movement, our intellect has only to let itself go, for it runs naturally to space and mathematics, intellectuality and materiality being of the same nature and having been produced in the same way.

If the mathematical order were a positive thing, if there were, immanent in matter, laws comparable to those of our codes, the success of our science would have in it something of the miraculous. What chances should we have indeed of finding the standard of nature and of isolating exactly, in order to determine their reciprocal relations, the very variables which nature has chosen? But the success of a science of mathematical form would be no less incomprehensible, if matter did not already possess everything necessary to adapt itself to our formulae. One hypothesis only, therefore, remains plausible, namely, that the mathematical order is nothing positive, that it is the form toward which a certain interruption tends of itself, and that materiality consists precisely in an interruption of this kind. We shall understand then why our science is contingent, relative to the variables it has chosen, relative to the order in which it has successively put the problems, and why nevertheless it succeeds. It might have been, as a whole, altogether different, and yet have succeeded. This is so, just because there is no definite system of mathematical laws, at the base of nature, and because mathematics in general represents simply the side to which matter inclines. Put one of those little cork dolls with leaden feet in any posture, lay it on its back, turn it up on its head, throw it into the air: it will always stand itself up again, automatically. So likewise with matter: we can take it by any end and handle it in any way, it will always fall back into some one of our mathematical formulae, because it is weighted with geometry.

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But the philosopher will perhaps refuse to found a theory of knowledge on such considerations. They will be repugnant to him, because the mathematical order, being order, will appear to him to contain something positive. It is in vain that we assert that this order produces itself automatically by the interruption of the inverse order, that it is this very interruption. The idea persists, none the less, that there might be no order at all, and that the mathematical order of things, being a conquest over disorder, possesses a positive reality. In examining this point, we shall see what a prominent part the idea of disorder plays in problems relative to the theory of knowledge. It does not appear explicitly, and that is why it escapes our attention. It is, however, with the criticism of this idea that a theory of knowledge ought to begin, for if the great problem is to know why and how reality submits itself to an order, it is because the absence of every kind of order appears possible or conceivable. It is this absence of order that realists and idealists alike believe they are thinking of—the realist when he speaks of the regularity that "objective" laws actually impose on a virtual disorder of nature, the idealist when he supposes a "sensuous manifold" which is coördinated (and consequently itself without order) under the organizing influence of our understanding. The idea of disorder, in the sense of absence of order, is then what must be analyzed first. Philosophy borrows it from daily life. And it is unquestionable that, when ordinarily we speak of disorder, we are thinking of something. But of what?

It will be seen in the next chapter how hard it is to determine the content of a negative idea, and what illusions one is liable to, what hopeless difficulties philosophy falls into, for not having undertaken this task. Difficulties and illusions are generally due to this, that we accept as final a manner of expression essentially provisional. They are due to our bringing into the domain of speculation a procedure made for practice. If I choose a volume in my library at random, I may put it back on the shelf after glancing at it and say, "This is not verse." Is this what I have really seen in turning over the leaves of the book? Obviously not. I have not seen, I never shall see, an absence of verse. I have seen prose. But as it is poetry I want, I express what I find as a function of what I am looking for, and instead of saying, "This is prose," I say, "This is not verse." In the same way, if the fancy takes me to read prose, and I happen on a volume of verse, I shall say, "This is not prose," thus expressing the data of my perception, which shows me verse, in the language of my expectation and attention, which are fixed on the idea of prose and will hear of nothing else. Now, if Mons. Jourdain heard me, he would infer, no doubt, from my two exclamations that prose and poetry are two forms of language reserved for books, and that these learned forms have come and overlaid a language which was neither prose nor verse. Speaking of this thing which is neither verse nor prose, he would suppose, moreover, that he was thinking of it: it would be only a pseudo-idea, however. Let us go further still: the pseudo-idea would create a pseudo-problem, if M. Jourdain were to ask his professor of philosophy how the prose form and the poetry form have been superadded to that which possessed neither the one nor the other, and if he wished the professor to construct a theory of the imposition of these two forms upon this formless matter. His question would be absurd, and the absurdity would lie in this, that he was hypostasizing as the substratum of prose and poetry the simultaneous negation of both, forgetting that the negation of the one consists in the affirmation of the other.

Now, suppose that there are two species of order, and that these two orders are two contraries within one and the same genus. Suppose also that the idea of disorder arises in our mind whenever, seeking one of the two kinds of order, we find the other. The idea of disorder would then have a clear meaning in the current practice of life: it would objectify, for the convenience of language, the disappointment of a mind that finds before it an order different from what it wants, an order with which it is not concerned at the moment, and which, in this sense, does not exist for it. But the idea would not admit a theoretical use. So if we claim, notwithstanding, to introduce it into philosophy, we shall inevitably lose sight of its true meaning. It denotes the absence of a certain order, but to the profit of another (with which we are not concerned); only, as it applies to each of the two in turn, and as it even goes and comes continually between the two, we take it on the way, or rather on the wing, like a shuttlecock between two battledores, and treat it as if it represented, not the absence of the one or other order as the case may be, but the absence of both together—a thing that is neither perceived nor conceived, a simple verbal entity. So there arises the problem how order is imposed on disorder, form on matter. In analyzing the idea of disorder thus subtilized, we shall see that it represents nothing at all, and at the same time the problems that have been raised around it will vanish.

It is true that we must begin by distinguishing, and even by opposing one to the other, two kinds of order which we generally confuse. As this confusion has created the principal difficulties of the problem of knowledge, it will not be useless to dwell once more on the marks by which the two orders are distinguished.

In a general way, reality is ordered exactly to the degree in which it satisfies our thought. Order is therefore a certain agreement between subject and object. It is the mind finding itself again in things. But the mind, we said, can go in two opposite ways. Sometimes it follows its natural direction: there is then progress in the form of tension, continuous creation, free activity. Sometimes it inverts it, and this inversion, pushed to the end, leads to extension, to the necessary reciprocal determination of elements externalized each by relation to the others, in short, to geometrical mechanism. Now, whether experience seems to us to adopt the first direction or whether it is drawn in the direction of the second, in both cases we say there is order, for in the two processes the mind finds itself again. The confusion between them is therefore natural. To escape it, different names would have to be given to the two kinds of order, and that is not easy, because of the variety and variability of the forms they take. The order of the second kind may be defined as geometry, which is its extreme limit; more generally, it is that kind of order that is concerned whenever a relation of necessary determination is found between causes and effects. It evokes ideas of inertia, of passivity, of automatism. As to the first kind of order, it oscillates no doubt around finality; and yet we cannot define it as finality, for it is sometimes above, sometimes below. In its highest forms, it is more than finality, for of a free action or a work of art we may say that they show a perfect order, and yet they can only be expressed in terms of ideas approximately, and after the event. Life in its entirety, regarded as a creative evolution, is something analogous; it transcends finality, if we understand by finality the realization of an idea conceived or conceivable in advance. The category of finality is therefore too narrow for life in its entirety. It is, on the other hand, often too wide for a particular manifestation of life taken separately. Be that as it may, it is with the vital that we have here to do, and the whole present study strives to prove that the vital is in the direction of the voluntary. We may say then that this first kind of order is that of the vital or of the willed, in opposition to the second, which is that of the inert and the automatic. Common sense instinctively distinguishes between the two kinds of order, at least in the extreme cases; instinctively, also, it brings them together. We say of astronomical phenomena that they manifest an admirable order, meaning by this that they can be foreseen mathematically. And we find an order no less admirable in a symphony of Beethoven, which is genius, originality, and therefore unforeseeability itself.

But it is exceptional for order of the first kind to take so distinct a form. Ordinarily, it presents features that we have every interest in confusing with those of the opposite order. It is quite certain, for instance, that if we could view the evolution of life in its entirety, the spontaneity of its movement and the unforeseeability of its procedures would thrust themselves on our attention. But what we meet in our daily experience is a certain determinate living being, certain special manifestations of life, which repeat, almost, forms and facts already known; indeed, the similarity of structure that we find everywhere between what generates and what is generated—a similarity that enables us to include any number of living individuals in the same group—is to our eyes the very type of the generic: the inorganic genera seem to us to take living genera as models. Thus the vital order, such as it is offered to us piecemeal in experience, presents the same character and performs the same function as the physical order: both cause experience to repeat itself, both enable our mind togeneralize. In reality, this character has entirely different origins in the two cases, and even opposite meanings. In the second case, the type of this character, its ideal limit, as also its foundation, is the geometrical necessity in virtue of which the same components give the same resultant. In the first case, this character involves, on the contrary, the intervention of something which manages to obtain the same total effect although the infinitely complex elementary causes may be quite different. We insisted on this last point in our first chapter, when we showed how identical structures are to be met with on independent lines of evolution. But, without looking so far, we may presume that the reproduction only of the type of the ancestor by his descendants is an entirely different thing from the repetition of the same composition of forces which yields an identical resultant. When we think of the infinity of infinitesimal elements and of infinitesimal causes that concur in the genesis of a living being, when we reflect that the absence or the deviation of one of them would spoil everything, the first impulse of the mind is to consider this army of little workers as watched over by a skilled foreman, the "vital principle," which is ever repairing faults, correcting effects of neglect or absentmindedness, putting things back in place: this is how we try to express the difference between the physical and the vital order, the former making the same combination of causes give the same combined effect, the latter securing the constancy of the effect even when there is some wavering in the causes. But that is only a comparison; on reflection, we find that there can be no foreman, for the very simple reason that there are no workers. The causes and elements that physico-chemical analysis discovers are real causes and elements, no doubt, as far as the facts of organic destruction are concerned; they are then limited in number. But vital phenomena, properly so called, or facts of organic creation open up to us, when we analyze them, the perspective of an analysis passing away to infinity: whence it may be inferred that the manifold causes and elements are here only views of the mind, attempting an ever closer and closer imitation of the operation of nature, while the operation imitated is an indivisible act. The likeness between individuals of the same species has thus an entirely different meaning, an entirely different origin, to that of the likeness between complex effects obtained by the same composition of the same causes. But in the one case as in the other, there is likeness, and consequently possible generalization. And as that is all that interests us in practice, since our daily life is and must be an expectation of the same things and the same situations, it is natural that this common character, essential from the point of view of our action, should bring the two orders together, in spite of a merely internal diversity between them which interests speculation only. Hence the idea of a general order of nature, everywhere the same, hovering over life and over matter alike. Hence our habit of designating by the same word and representing in the same way the existence of laws in the domain of inert matter and that of genera in the domain of life.

Now, it will be found that this confusion is the origin of most of the difficulties raised by the problem of knowledge, among the ancients as well as among the moderns. The generality of laws and that of genera having been designated by the same word and subsumed under the same idea, the geometrical order and the vital order are accordingly confused together. According to the point of view, the generality of laws is explained by that of genera, or that of genera by that of laws. The first view is characteristic of ancient thought; the second belongs to modern philosophy. But in both ancient and modern philosophy the idea of "generality" is an equivocal idea, uniting in its denotation and in its connotation incompatible objects and elements. In both there are grouped under the same concept two kinds of order which are alike only in the facility they give to our action on things. We bring together the two terms in virtue of a quite external likeness, which justifies no doubt their designation by the same word for practice, but which does not authorize us at all, in the speculative domain, to confuse them in the same definition.

The ancients, indeed, did not ask why nature submits to laws, but why it is ordered according to genera. The idea of genus corresponds more especially to an objective reality in the domain of life, where it expresses an unquestionable fact, heredity. Indeed, there can only be genera where there are individual objects; now, while the organized being is cut out from the general mass of matter by his very organization, that is to say naturally, it is our perception which cuts inert matter into distinct bodies. It is guided in this by the interests of action, by the nascent reactions that our body indicates—that is, as we have shown elsewhere, [85] by the potential genera that are trying to gain existence. In this, then, genera and individuals determine one another by a semi-artificial operation entirely relative to our future action on things. Nevertheless the ancients did not hesitate to put all genera in the same rank, to attribute the same absolute existence to all of them. Reality thus being a system of genera, it is to the generality of the genera (that is, in effect, to the generality expressive of the vital order) that the generality of laws itself had to be brought. It is interesting, in this respect, to compare the Aristotelian theory of the fall of bodies with the explanation furnished by Galileo. Aristotle is concerned solely with the concepts "high" and "low," "own proper place" as distinguished from "place occupied," "natural movement" and "forced movement;" [86] the physical law in virtue of which the stone falls expresses for him that the stone regains the "natural place" of all stones, to wit, the earth. The stone, in his view, is not quite stone so long as it is not in its normal place; in falling back into this place it aims at completing itself, like a living being that grows, thus realizing fully the essence of the genus stone. [87] If this conception of the physical law were exact, the law would no longer be a mere relation established by the mind; the subdivision of matter into bodies would no longer be relative to our faculty of perceiving; all bodies would have the same individuality as living bodies, and the laws of the physical universe would express relations of real kinship between real genera. We know what kind of physics grew out of this, and how, for having believed in a science unique and final, embracing the totality of the real and at one with the absolute, the ancients were confined, in fact, to a more or less clumsy interpretation of the physical in terms of the vital.

But there is the same confusion in the moderns, with this difference, however, that the relation between the two terms is inverted: laws are no longer reduced to genera, but genera to laws; and science, still supposed to be uniquely one, becomes altogether relative, instead of being, as the ancients wished, altogether at one with the absolute. A noteworthy fact is the eclipse of the problem of genera in modern philosophy. Our theory of knowledge turns almost entirely on the question of laws: genera are left to make shift with laws as best they can. The reason is, that modern philosophy has its point of departure in the great astronomical and physical discoveries of modern times. The laws of Kepler and of Galileo have remained for it the ideal and unique type of all knowledge. Now, a law is a relation between things or between facts. More precisely, a law of mathematical form expresses the fact that a certain magnitude is a function of one or several other variables appropriately chosen. Now, the choice of the variable magnitudes, the distribution of nature into objects and into facts, has already something of the contingent and the conventional. But, admitting that the choice is hinted at, if not prescribed, by experience, the law remains none the less a relation, and a relation is essentially a comparison; it has objective reality only for an intelligence that represents to itself several terms at the same time. This intelligence may be neither mine nor yours: a science which bears on laws may therefore be an objective science, which experience contains in advance and which we simply make it disgorge; but it is none the less true that a comparison of some kind must be effected here, impersonally if not by any one in particular, and that an experience made of laws, that is, of terms related to other terms, is an experience made of comparisons, which, before we receive it, has already had to pass through an atmosphere of intellectuality. The idea of a science and of an experience entirely relative to the human understanding was therefore implicitly contained in the conception of a science one and integral, composed of laws: Kant only brought it to light. But this conception is the result of an arbitrary confusion between the generality of laws and that of genera. Though an intelligence be necessary to condition terms by relation to each other, we may conceive that in certain cases the terms themselves may exist independently. And if, beside relations of term to term, experience also presents to us independent terms, the living genera being something quite different from systems of laws, one half, at least, of our knowledge bears on the "thing-in-itself," the very reality. This knowledge may be very difficult, just because it no longer builds up its own object and is obliged, on the contrary, to submit to it; but, however little it cuts into its object, it is into the absolute itself that it bites. We may go further: the other half of knowledge is no longer so radically, so definitely relative as certain philosophers say, if we can establish that it bears on a reality of inverse order, a reality which we always express in mathematical laws, that is to say in relations that imply comparisons, but which lends itself to this work only because it is weighted with spatiality and consequently with geometry. Be that as it may, it is the confusion of two kinds of order that lies behind the relativism of the moderns, as it lay behind the dogmatism of the ancients.

We have said enough to mark the origin of this confusion. It is due to the fact that the "vital" order, which is essentially creation, is manifested to us less in its essence than in some of its accidents, those which imitate the physical and geometrical order; like it, they present to us repetitions that make generalization possible, and in that we have all that interests us. There is no doubt that life as a whole is an evolution, that is, an unceasing transformation. But life can progress only by means of the living, which are its depositaries. Innumerable living beings, almost alike, have to repeat each other in space and in time for the novelty they are working out to grow and mature. It is like a book that advances towards a new edition by going through thousands of reprints with thousands of copies. There is, however, this difference between the two cases, that the successive impressions are identical, as well as the simultaneous copies of the same impression, whereas representatives of one and the same species are never entirely the same, either in different points of space or at different moments of time. Heredity does not only transmit characters; it transmits also the impetus in virtue of which the characters are modified, and this impetus is vitality itself. That is why we say that the repetition which serves as the base of our generalizations is essential in the physical order, accidental in the vital order. The physical order is "automatic;" the vital order is, I will not say voluntary, but analogous to the order "willed."

Now, as soon as we have clearly distinguished between the order that is "willed" and the order that is "automatic," the ambiguity that underlies the idea ofdisorder is dissipated, and, with it, one of the principal difficulties of the problem of knowledge.

The main problem of the theory of knowledge is to know how science is possible, that is to say, in effect, why there is order and not disorder in things. That order exists is a fact. But, on the other hand, disorder, which appears to us to be less than order, is, it seems, of right. The existence of order is then a mystery to be cleared up, at any rate a problem to be solved. More simply, when we undertake to found order, we regard it as contingent, if not in things, at least as viewed by the mind: of a thing that we do not judge to be contingent we do not require an explanation. If order did not appear to us as a conquest over something, or as an addition to something (which something is thought to be the "absence of order"), ancient realism would not have spoken of a "matter" to which the Idea superadded itself, nor would modern idealism have supposed a "sensuous manifold" that the understanding organizes into nature. Now, it is unquestionable that all order is contingent, and conceived as such. But contingent in relation to what?

The reply, to our thinking, is not doubtful. An order is contingent, and seems so, in relation to the inverse order, as verse is contingent in relation to prose and prose in relation to verse. But, just as all speech which is not prose is verse and necessarily conceived as verse, just as all speech which is not verse is prose and necessarily conceived as prose, so any state of things that is not one of the two orders is the other and is necessarily conceived as the other. But it may happen that we do not realize what we are actually thinking of, and perceive the idea really present to our mind only through a mist of affective states. Any one can be convinced of this by considering the use we make of the idea of disorder in daily life. When I enter a room and pronounce it to be "in disorder," what do I mean? The position of each object is explained by the automatic movements of the person who has slept in the room, or by the efficient causes, whatever they may be, that have caused each article of furniture, clothing, etc., to be where it is: the order, in the second sense of the word, is perfect. But it is order of the first kind that I am expecting, the order that a methodical person consciously puts into his life, the willed order and not the automatic: so I call the absence of this order "disorder." At bottom, all there is that is real, perceived and even conceived, in this absence of one of the two kinds of order, is the presence of the other. But the second is indifferent to me, I am interested only in the first, and I express the presence of the second as a function of the first, instead of expressing it, so to speak, as a function of itself, by saying it is disorder. Inversely, when we affirm that we are imagining a chaos, that is to say a state of things in which the physical world no longer obeys laws, what are we thinking of? We imagine facts that appear and disappear capriciously. First we think of the physical universe as we know it, with effects and causes well proportioned to each other; then, by a series of arbitrary decrees, we augment, diminish, suppress, so as to obtain what we call disorder. In reality we have substituted will for the mechanism of nature; we have replaced the "automatic order" by a multitude of elementary wills, just to the extent that we imagine the apparition or vanishing of phenomena. No doubt, for all these little wills to constitute a "willed order," they must have accepted the direction of a higher will. But, on looking closely at them, we see that that is just what they do: our own will is there, which objectifies itself in each of these capricious wills in turn, and takes good care not to connect the same with the same, nor to permit the effect to be proportional to the cause—in fact makes one simple intention hover over the whole of the elementary volitions. Thus, here again, the absence of one of the two orders consists in the presence of the other. In analyzing the idea of chance, which is closely akin to the idea of disorder, we find the same elements. When the wholly mechanical play of the causes which stop the wheel on a number makes me win, and consequently acts like a good genius, careful of my interests, or when the wholly mechanical force of the wind tears a tile off the roof and throws it on to my head, that is to say acts like a bad genius, conspiring against my person: in both cases I find a mechanism where I should have looked for, where, indeed, it seems as if I ought to have found, an intention. That is what I express in speaking of chance. And of an anarchical world, in which phenomena succeed each other capriciously, I should say again that it is a realm of chance, meaning that I find before me wills, or rather decrees, when what I am expecting is mechanism. Thus is explained the singular vacillation of the mind when it tries to define chance. Neither efficient cause nor final cause can furnish the definition sought. The mind swings to and fro, unable to rest, between the idea of an absence of final cause and that of an absence of efficient cause, each of these definitions sending it back to the other. The problem remains insoluble, in fact, so long as the idea of chance is regarded as a pure idea, without mixture of feeling. But, in reality, chance merely objectifies the state of mind of one who, expecting one of the two kinds of order, finds himself confronted with the other. Chance and disorder are therefore necessarily conceived as relative. So if we wish to represent them to ourselves as absolute, we perceive that we are going to and fro like a shuttle between the two kinds of order, passing into the one just at the moment at which we might catch ourself in the other, and that the supposed absence of all order is really the presence of both, with, besides, the swaying of a mind that cannot rest finally in either. Neither in things nor in our idea of things can there be any question of presenting this disorder as the substratum of order, since it implies the two kinds of order and is made of their combination.

But our intelligence is not stopped by this. By a simple sic jubeo it posits a disorder which is an "absence of order." In so doing it thinks a word or a set of words, nothing more. If it seeks to attach an idea to the word, it finds that disorder may indeed be the negation of order, but that this negation is then the implicit affirmation of the presence of the opposite order, which we shut our eyes to because it does not interest us, or which we evade by denying the second order in its turn—that is, at bottom, by re-establishing the first. How can we speak, then, of an incoherent diversity which an understanding organizes? It is no use for us to say that no one supposes this incoherence to be realized or realizable: when we speak of it, we believe we are thinking of it; now, in analyzing the idea actually present, we find, as we said before, only the disappointment of the mind confronted with an order that does not interest it, or a swaying of the mind between two kinds of order, or, finally, the idea pure and simple of the empty word that we have created by joining a negative prefix to a word which itself signifies something. But it is this analysis that we neglect to make. We omit it, precisely because it does not occur to us to distinguish two kinds of order that are irreducible to one another.

We said, indeed, that all order necessarily appears as contingent. If there are two kinds of order, this contingency of order is explained: one of the forms is contingent in relation to the other. Where I find the geometrical order, the vital was possible; where the order is vital, it might have been geometrical. But suppose that the order is everywhere of the same kind, and simply admits of degrees which go from the geometrical to the vital: if a determinate order still appears to me to be contingent, and can no longer be so by relation to an order of another kind, I shall necessarily believe that the order is contingent by relation to an absence of itself, that is to say by relation to a state of things "in which there is no order at all." And this state of things I shall believe that I am thinking of, because it is implied, it seems, in the very contingency of order, which is an unquestionable fact. I shall therefore place at the summit of the hierarchy the vital order; then, as a diminution or lower complication of it, the geometrical order; and finally, at the bottom of all, an absence of order, incoherence itself, on which order is superposed. This is why incoherence has the effect on me of a word behind which there must be something real, if not in things, at least in thought. But if I observe that the state of things implied by the contingency of a determinate order is simply the presence of the contrary order, and if by this very fact I posit two kinds of order, each the inverse of the other, I perceive that no intermediate degrees can be imagined between the two orders, and that there is no going down from the two orders to the "incoherent." Either the incoherent is only a word, devoid of meaning, or, if I give it a meaning, it is on condition of putting incoherence midway between the two orders, and not below both of them. There is not first the incoherent, then the geometrical, then the vital; there is only the geometrical and the vital, and then, by a swaying of the mind between them, the idea of the incoherent. To speak of an uncoördinated diversity to which order is superadded is therefore to commit a veritable petitio principii; for in imagining the uncoördinated we really posit an order, or rather two.

***

This long analysis was necessary to show how the real can pass from tension to extension and from freedom to mechanical necessity by way of inversion. It was not enough to prove that this relation between the two terms is suggested to us, at once, by consciousness and by sensible experience. It was necessary to prove that the geometrical order has no need of explanation, being purely and simply the suppression of the inverse order. And, for that, it was indispensable to prove that suppression is always a substitution and is even necessarily conceived as such: it is the requirements of practical life alone that suggest to us here a way of speaking that deceives us both as to what happens in things and as to what is present to our thought. We must now examine more closely the inversion whose consequences we have just described. What, then, is the principle that has only to let go its tension—may we say to detend—in order toextend, the interruption of the cause here being equivalent to a reversal of the effect?

For want of a better word we have called it consciousness. But we do not mean the narrowed consciousness that functions in each of us. Our own consciousness is the consciousness of a certain living being, placed in a certain point of space; and though it does indeed move in the same direction as its principle, it is continually drawn the opposite way, obliged, though it goes forward, to look behind. This retrospective vision is, as we have shown, the natural function of the intellect, and consequently of distinct consciousness. In order that our consciousness shall coincide with something of its principle, it must detach itself from the already-made and attach itself to the being-made. It needs that, turning back on itself and twisting on itself, the faculty of seeing should be made to be one with the act of willing—a painful effort which we can make suddenly, doing violence to our nature, but cannot sustain more than a few moments. In free action, when we contract our whole being in order to thrust it forward, we have the more or less clear consciousness of motives and of impelling forces, and even, at rare moments, of the becoming by which they are organized into an act: but the pure willing, the current that runs through this matter, communicating life to it, is a thing which we hardly feel, which at most we brush lightly as it passes. Let us try, however, to instal ourselves within it, if only for a moment; even then it is an individual and fragmentary will that we grasp. To get to the principle of all life, as also of all materiality, we must go further still. Is it impossible? No, by no means; the history of philosophy is there to bear witness. There is no durable system that is not, at least in some of its parts, vivified by intuition. Dialectic is necessary to put intuition to the proof, necessary also in order that intuition should break itself up into concepts and so be propagated to other men; but all it does, often enough, is to develop the result of that intuition which transcends it. The truth is, the two procedures are of opposite direction: the same effort, by which ideas are connected with ideas, causes the intuition which the ideas were storing up to vanish. The philosopher is obliged to abandon intuition, once he has received from it the impetus, and to rely on himself to carry on the movement by pushing the concepts one after another. But he soon feels he has lost foothold; he must come into touch with intuition again; he must undo most of what he has done. In short, dialectic is what ensures the agreement of our thought with itself. But by dialectic—which is only a relaxation of intuition—many different agreements are possible, while there is only one truth. Intuition, if it could be prolonged beyond a few instants, would not only make the philosopher agree with his own thought, but also all philosophers with each other. Such as it is, fugitive and incomplete, it is, in each system, what is worth more than the system and survives it. The object of philosophy would be reached if this intuition could be sustained, generalized and, above all, assured of external points of reference in order not to go astray. To that end a continual coming and going is necessary between nature and mind.

When we put back our being into our will, and our will itself into the impulsion it prolongs, we understand, we feel, that reality is a perpetual growth, a creation pursued without end. Our will already performs this miracle. Every human work in which there is invention, every voluntary act in which there is freedom, every movement of an organism that manifests spontaneity, brings something new into the world. True, these are only creations of form. How could they be anything else? We are not the vital current itself; we are this current already loaded with matter, that is, with congealed parts of its own substance which it carries along its course. In the composition of a work of genius, as in a simple free decision, we do, indeed, stretch the spring of our activity to the utmost and thus create what no mere assemblage of materials could have given (what assemblage of curves already known can ever be equivalent to the pencil-stroke of a great artist?) but there are, none the less, elements here that pre-exist and survive their organization. But if a simple arrest of the action that generates form could constitute matter (are not the original lines drawn by the artist themselves already the fixation and, as it were, congealment of a movement?), a creation of matter would be neither incomprehensible nor inadmissible. For we seize from within, we live at every instant, a creation of form, and it is just in those cases in which the form is pure, and in which the creative current is momentarily interrupted, that there is a creation of matter. Consider the letters of the alphabet that enter into the composition of everything that has ever been written: we do not conceive that new letters spring up and come to join themselves to the others in order to make a new poem. But that the poet creates the poem and that human thought is thereby made richer, we understand very well: this creation is a simple act of the mind, and action has only to make a pause, instead of continuing into a new creation, in order that, of itself, it may break up into words which dissociate themselves into letters which are added to all the letters there are already in the world. Thus, that the number of atoms composing the material universe at a given moment should increase runs counter to our habits of mind, contradicts the whole of our experience; but that a reality of quite another order, which contrasts with the atom as the thought of the poet with the letters of the alphabet, should increase by sudden additions, is not inadmissible; and the reverse of each addition might indeed be a world, which we then represent to ourselves, symbolically, as an assemblage of atoms.

The mystery that spreads over the existence of the universe comes in great part from this, that we want the genesis of it to have been accomplished at one stroke or the whole of matter to be eternal. Whether we speak of creation or posit an uncreated matter, it is the totality of the universe that we are considering at once. At the root of this habit of mind lies the prejudice which we will analyze in our next chapter, the idea, common to materialists and to their opponents, that there is no really acting duration, and that the absolute—matter or mind—can have no place in concrete time, in the time which we feel to be the very stuff of our life. From which it follows that everything is given once for all, and that it is necessary to posit from all eternity either material multiplicity itself, or the act creating this multiplicity, given in block in the divine essence. Once this prejudice is eradicated, the idea of creation becomes more clear, for it is merged in that of growth. But it is no longer then of the universe in its totality that we must speak.

Why should we speak of it? The universe is an assemblage of solar systems which we have every reason to believe analogous to our own. No doubt they are not absolutely independent of one another. Our sun radiates heat and light beyond the farthest planet, and, on the other hand, our entire solar system is moving in a definite direction as if it were drawn. There is, then, a bond between the worlds. But this bond may be regarded as infinitely loose in comparison with the mutual dependence which unites the parts of the same world among themselves; so that it is not artificially, for reasons of mere convenience, that we isolate our solar system: nature itself invites us to isolate it. As living beings, we depend on the planet on which we are, and on the sun that provides for it, but on nothing else. As thinking beings, we may apply the laws of our physics to our own world, and extend them to each of the worlds taken separately; but nothing tells us that they apply to the entire universe, nor even that such an affirmation has any meaning; for the universe is not made, but is being made continually. It is growing, perhaps indefinitely, by the addition of new worlds.

Let us extend, then, to the whole of our solar system the two most general laws of our science, the principle of conservation of energy and that of its degradation—limiting them, however, to this relatively closed system and to other systems relatively closed. Let us see what will follow. We must remark, first of all, that these two principles have not the same metaphysical scope. The first is a quantitative law, and consequently relative, in part, to our methods of measurement. It says that, in a system presumed to be closed, the total energy, that is to say the sum of its kinetic and potential energy, remains constant. Now, if there were only kinetic energy in the world, or even if there were, besides kinetic energy, only one single kind of potential energy, but no more, the artifice of measurement would not make the law artificial. The law of the conservation of energy would express indeed that something is preserved in constant quantity. But there are, in fact, energies of various kinds, [88] and the measurement of each of them has evidently been so chosen as to justify the principle of conservation of energy. Convention, therefore, plays a large part in this principle, although there is undoubtedly, between the variations of the different energies composing one and the same system, a mutual dependence which is just what has made the extension of the principle possible by measurements suitably chosen. If, therefore, the philosopher applies this principle to the solar system complete, he must at least soften its outlines. The law of the conservation of energy cannot here express the objective permanence of a certain quantity of a certain thing, but rather the necessity for every change that is brought about to be counterbalanced in some way by a change in an opposite direction. That is to say, even if it governs the whole of our solar system, the law of the conservation of energy is concerned with the relationship of a fragment of this world to another fragment rather than with the nature of the whole.

It is otherwise with the second principle of thermodynamics. The law of the degradation of energy does not bear essentially on magnitudes. No doubt the first idea of it arose, in the thought of Carnot, out of certain quantitative considerations on the yield of thermic machines. Unquestionably, too, the terms in which Clausius generalized it were mathematical, and a calculable magnitude, "entropy," was, in fact, the final conception to which he was led. Such precision is necessary for practical applications. But the law might have been vaguely conceived, and, if absolutely necessary, it might have been roughly formulated, even though no one had ever thought of measuring the different energies of the physical world, even though the concept of energy had not been created. Essentially, it expresses the fact that all physical changes have a tendency to be degraded into heat, and that heat tends to be distributed among bodies in a uniform manner. In this less precise form, it becomes independent of any convention; it is the most metaphysical of the laws of physics since it points out without interposed symbols, without artificial devices of measurements, the direction in which the world is going. It tells us that changes that are visible and heterogeneous will be more and more diluted into changes that are invisible and homogeneous, and that the instability to which we owe the richness and variety of the changes taking place in our solar system will gradually give way to the relative stability of elementary vibrations continually and perpetually repeated. Just so with a man who keeps up his strength as he grows old, but spends it less and less in actions, and comes, in the end, to employ it entirely in making his lungs breathe and his heart beat.

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Part 3 of 3

From this point of view, a world like our solar system is seen to be ever exhausting something of the mutability it contains. In the beginning, it had the maximum of possible utilization of energy: this mutability has gone on diminishing unceasingly. Whence does it come? We might at first suppose that it has come from some other point of space, but the difficulty is only set back, and for this external source of mutability the same question springs up. True, it might be added that the number of worlds capable of passing mutability to each other is unlimited, that the sum of mutability contained in the universe is infinite, that there is therefore no ground on which to seek its origin or to foresee its end. A hypothesis of this kind is as irrefutable as it is indemonstrable; but to speak of an infinite universe is to admit a perfect coincidence of matter with abstract space, and consequently an absolute externality of all the parts of matter in relation to one another. We have seen above what we must think of this theory, and how difficult it is to reconcile with the idea of a reciprocal influence of all the parts of matter on one another, an influence to which indeed it itself makes appeal. Again it might be supposed that the general instability has arisen from a general state of stability; that the period in which we now are, and in which the utilizable energy is diminishing, has been preceded by a period in which the mutability was increasing, and that the alternations of increase and diminution succeed each other for ever. This hypothesis is theoretically conceivable, as has been demonstrated quite recently; but, according to the calculations of Boltzmann, the mathematical improbability of it passes all imagination and practically amounts to absolute impossibility. [89] In reality, the problem remains insoluble as long as we keep on the ground of physics, for the physicist is obliged to attach energy to extended particles, and, even if he regards the particles only as reservoirs of energy, he remains in space: he would belie his rôle if he sought the origin of these energies in an extra-spatial process. It is there, however, in our opinion, that it must be sought.

Is it extension in general that we are considering in abstracto? Extension, we said, appears only as a tension which is interrupted. Or, are we considering the concrete reality that fills this extension? The order which reigns there, and which is manifested by the laws of nature, is an order which must be born of itself when the inverse order is suppressed; a detension of the will would produce precisely this suppression. Lastly, we find that the direction, which this reality takes, suggests to us the idea of a thing unmaking itself; such, no doubt, is one of the essential characters of materiality. What conclusion are we to draw from all this, if not that the process by which this thing makes itself is directed in a contrary way to that of physical processes, and that it is therefore, by its very definition, immaterial? The vision we have of the material world is that of a weight which falls: no image drawn from matter, properly so called, will ever give us the idea of the weight rising. But this conclusion will come home to us with still greater force if we press nearer to the concrete reality, and if we consider, no longer only matter in general, but, within this matter, living bodies.

All our analyses show us, in life, an effort to remount the incline that matter descends. In that, they reveal to us the possibility, the necessity even of a process the inverse of materiality, creative of matter by its interruption alone. The life that evolves on the surface of our planet is indeed attached to matter. If it were pure consciousness, a fortiori if it were supra-consciousness, it would be pure creative activity. In fact, it is riveted to an organism that subjects it to the general laws of inert matter. But everything happens as if it were doing its utmost to set itself free from these laws. It has not the power to reverse the direction of physical changes, such as the principle of Carnot determines it. It does, however, behave absolutely as a force would behave which, left to itself, would work in the inverse direction. Incapable of stopping the course of material changes downwards, it succeeds in retarding it. The evolution of life really continues, as we have shown, an initial impulsion: this impulsion, which has determined the development of the chlorophyllian function in the plant and of the sensori-motor system in the animal, brings life to more and more efficient acts by the fabrication and use of more and more powerful explosives. Now, what do these explosives represent if not a storing-up of the solar energy, the degradation of which energy is thus provisionally suspended on some of the points where it was being poured forth? The usable energy which the explosive conceals will be expended, of course, at the moment of the explosion; but it would have been expended sooner if an organism had not happened to be there to arrest its dissipation, in order to retain it and save it up. As we see it to-day, at the point to which it was brought by a scission of the mutually complementary tendencies which it contained within itself, life is entirely dependent on the chlorophyllian function of the plant. This means that, looked at in its initial impulsion, before any scission, life was a tendency to accumulate in a reservoir, as do especially the green parts of vegetables, with a view to an instantaneous effective discharge, like that which an animal brings about, something that would have otherwise flowed away. It is like an effort to raise the weight which falls. True, it succeeds only in retarding the fall. But at least it can give us an idea of what the raising of the weight was. [90]

Let us imagine a vessel full of steam at a high pressure, and here and there in its sides a crack through which the steam is escaping in a jet. The steam thrown into the air is nearly all condensed into little drops which fall back, and this condensation and this fall represent simply the loss of something, an interruption, a deficit. But a small part of the jet of steam subsists, uncondensed, for some seconds; it is making an effort to raise the drops which are falling; it succeeds at most in retarding their fall. So, from an immense reservoir of life, jets must be gushing out unceasingly, of which each, falling back, is a world. The evolution of living species within this world represents what subsists of the primitive direction of the original jet, and of an impulsion which continues itself in a direction the inverse of materiality. But let us not carry too far this comparison. It gives us but a feeble and even deceptive image of reality, for the crack, the jet of steam, the forming of the drops, are determined necessarily, whereas the creation of a world is a free act, and the life within the material world participates in this liberty. Let us think rather of an action like that of raising the arm; then let us suppose that the arm, left to itself, falls back, and yet that there subsists in it, striving to raise it up again, something of the will that animates it. In this image of a creative action which unmakes itself we have already a more exact representation of matter. In vital activity we see, then, that which subsists of the direct movement in the inverted movement, a reality which is making itself in a reality which is unmaking itself.

Everything is obscure in the idea of creation if we think of things which are created and a thing which creates, as we habitually do, as the understanding cannot help doing. We shall show the origin of this illusion in our next chapter. It is natural to our intellect, whose function is essentially practical, made to present to us things and states rather than changes and acts. But things and states are only views, taken by our mind, of becoming. There are no things, there are only actions. More particularly, if I consider the world in which we live, I find that the automatic and strictly determined evolution of this well-knit whole is action which is unmaking itself, and that the unforeseen forms which life cuts out in it, forms capable of being themselves prolonged into unforeseen movements, represent the action that is making itself. Now, I have every reason to believe that the other worlds are analogous to ours, that things happen there in the same way. And I know they were not all constructed at the same time, since observation shows me, even to-day, nebulae in course of concentration. Now, if the same kind of action is going on everywhere, whether it is that which is unmaking itself or whether it is that which is striving to remake itself, I simply express this probable similitude when I speak of a centre from which worlds shoot out like rockets in a fireworks display—provided, however, that I do not present this centre as a thing, but as a continuity of shooting out. God thus defined, has nothing of the already made; He is unceasing life, action, freedom. Creation, so conceived, is not a mystery; we experience it in ourselves when we act freely. That new things can join things already existing is absurd, no doubt, since the thing results from a solidification performed by our understanding, and there are never any things other than those that the understanding has thus constituted. To speak of things creating themselves would therefore amount to saying that the understanding presents to itself more than it presents to itself—a self-contradictory affirmation, an empty and vain idea. But that action increases as it goes on, that it creates in the measure of its advance, is what each of us finds when he watches himself act. Things are constituted by the instantaneous cut which the understanding practices, at a given moment, on a flux of this kind, and what is mysterious when we compare the cuts together becomes clear when we relate them to the flux. Indeed, the modalities of creative action, in so far as it is still going on in the organization of living forms, are much simplified when they are taken in this way. Before the complexity of an organism and the practically infinite multitude of interwoven analyses and syntheses it presupposes, our understanding recoils disconcerted. That the simple play of physical and chemical forces, left to themselves, should have worked this marvel, we find hard to believe. And if it is a profound science which is at work, how are we to understand the influence exercised on this matter without form by this form without matter? But the difficulty arises from this, that we represent statically ready-made material particles juxtaposed to one another, and, also statically, an external cause which plasters upon them a skilfully contrived organization. In reality, life is a movement, materiality is the inverse movement, and each of these two movements is simple, the matter which forms a world being an undivided flux, and undivided also the life that runs through it, cutting out in it living beings all along its track. Of these two currents the second runs counter to the first, but the first obtains, all the same, something from the second. There results between them amodus vivendi, which is organization. This organization takes, for our senses and for our intellect, the form of parts entirely external to other parts in space and in time. Not only do we shut our eyes to the unity of the impulse which, passing through generations, links individuals with individuals, species with species, and makes of the whole series of the living one single immense wave flowing over matter, but each individual itself seems to us as an aggregate, aggregate of molecules and aggregate of facts. The reason of this lies in the structure of our intellect, which is formed to act on matter from without, and which succeeds by making, in the flux of the real, instantaneous cuts, each of which becomes, in its fixity, endlessly decomposable. Perceiving, in an organism, only parts external to parts, the understanding has the choice between two systems of explanation only: either to regard the infinitely complex (and thereby infinitely well-contrived) organization as a fortuitous concatenation of atoms, or to relate it to the incomprehensible influence of an external force that has grouped its elements together. But this complexity is the work of the understanding; this incomprehensibility is also its work. Let us try to see, no longer with the eyes of the intellect alone, which grasps only the already made and which looks from the outside, but with the spirit, I mean with that faculty of seeing which is immanent in the faculty of acting and which springs up, somehow, by the twisting of the will on itself, when action is turned into knowledge, like heat, so to say, into light. To movement, then, everything will be restored, and into movement everything will be resolved. Where the understanding, working on the image supposed to be fixed of the progressing action, shows us parts infinitely manifold and an order infinitely well contrived, we catch a glimpse of a simple process, an action which is making itself across an action of the same kind which is unmaking itself, like the fiery path torn by the last rocket of a fireworks display through the black cinders of the spent rockets that are falling dead.

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From this point of view, the general considerations we have presented concerning the evolution of life will be cleared up and completed. We will distinguish more sharply what is accidental from what is essential in this evolution.

The impetus of life, of which we are speaking, consists in a need of creation. It cannot create absolutely, because it is confronted with matter, that is to say with the movement that is the inverse of its own. But it seizes upon this matter, which is necessity itself, and strives to introduce into it the largest possible amount of indetermination and liberty. How does it go to work?

An animal high in the scale may be represented in a general way, we said, as a sensori-motor nervous system imposed on digestive, respiratory, circulatory systems, etc. The function of these latter is to cleanse, repair and protect the nervous system, to make it as independent as possible of external circumstances, but, above all, to furnish it with energy to be expended in movements. The increasing complexity of the organism is therefore due theoretically (in spite of innumerable exceptions due to accidents of evolution) to the necessity of complexity in the nervous system. No doubt, each complication of any part of the organism involves many others in addition, because this part itself must live, and every change in one point of the body reverberates, as it were, throughout. The complication may therefore go on to infinity in all directions; but it is the complication of the nervous system which conditions the others in right, if not always in fact. Now, in what does the progress of the nervous system itself consist? In a simultaneous development of automatic activity and of voluntary activity, the first furnishing the second with an appropriate instrument. Thus, in an organism such as ours, a considerable number of motor mechanisms are set up in the medulla and in the spinal cord, awaiting only a signal to release the corresponding act: the will is employed, in some cases, in setting up the mechanism itself, and in the others in choosing the mechanisms to be released, the manner of combining them and the moment of releasing them. The will of an animal is the more effective and the more intense, the greater the number of the mechanisms it can choose from, the more complicated the switchboard on which all the motor paths cross, or, in other words, the more developed its brain. Thus, the progress of the nervous system assures to the act increasing precision, increasing variety, increasing efficiency and independence. The organism behaves more and more like a machine for action, which reconstructs itself entirely for every new act, as if it were made of india-rubber and could, at any moment, change the shape of all its parts. But, prior to the nervous system, prior even to the organism properly so called, already in the undifferentiated mass of the amoeba, this essential property of animal life is found. The amoeba deforms itself in varying directions; its entire mass does what the differentiation of parts will localize in a sensori-motor system in the developed animal. Doing it only in a rudimentary manner, it is dispensed from the complexity of the higher organisms; there is no need here of the auxiliary elements that pass on to motor elements the energy to expend; the animal moves as a whole, and, as a whole also, procures energy by means of the organic substances it assimilates. Thus, whether low or high in the animal scale, we always find that animal life consists (1) in procuring a provision of energy; (2) in expending it, by means of a matter as supple as possible, in directions variable and unforeseen.

Now, whence comes the energy? From the ingested food, for food is a kind of explosive, which needs only the spark to discharge the energy it stores. Who has made this explosive? The food may be the flesh of an animal nourished on animals and so on; but, in the end it is to the vegetable we always come back. Vegetables alone gather in the solar energy, and the animals do but borrow it from them, either directly or by some passing it on to others. How then has the plant stored up this energy? Chiefly by the chlorophyllian function, a chemicism sui generis of which we do not possess the key, and which is probably unlike that of our laboratories. The process consists in using solar energy to fix the carbon of carbonic acid, and thereby to store this energy as we should store that of a water-carrier by employing him to fill an elevated reservoir: the water, once brought up, can set in motion a mill or a turbine, as we will and when we will. Each atom of carbon fixed represents something like the elevation of the weight of water, or like the stretching of an elastic thread uniting the carbon to the oxygen in the carbonic acid. The elastic is relaxed, the weight falls back again, in short the energy held in reserve is restored, when, by a simple release, the carbon is permitted to rejoin its oxygen.

So that all life, animal and vegetable, seems in its essence like an effort to accumulate energy and then to let it flow into flexible channels, changeable in shape, at the end of which it will accomplish infinitely varied kinds of work. That is what the vital impetus, passing through matter, would fain do all at once. It would succeed, no doubt, if its power were unlimited, or if some reinforcement could come to it from without. But the impetus is finite, and it has been given once for all. It cannot overcome all obstacles. The movement it starts is sometimes turned aside, sometimes divided, always opposed; and the evolution of the organized world is the unrolling of this conflict. The first great scission that had to be effected was that of the two kingdoms, vegetable and animal, which thus happen to be mutually complementary, without, however, any agreement having been made between them. It is not for the animal that the plant accumulates energy, it is for its own consumption; but its expenditure on itself is less discontinuous, and less concentrated, and therefore less efficacious, than was required by the initial impetus of life, essentially directed toward free actions: the same organism could not with equal force sustain the two functions at once, of gradual storage and sudden use. Of themselves, therefore, and without any external intervention, simply by the effect of the duality of the tendency involved in the original impetus and of the resistance opposed by matter to this impetus, the organisms leaned some in the first direction, others in the second. To this scission there succeeded many others. Hence the diverging lines of evolution, at least what is essential in them. But we must take into account retrogressions, arrests, accidents of every kind. And we must remember, above all, that each species behaves as if the general movement of life stopped at it instead of passing through it. It thinks only of itself, it lives only for itself. Hence the numberless struggles that we behold in nature. Hence a discord, striking and terrible, but for which the original principle of life must not be held responsible.

The part played by contingency in evolution is therefore great. Contingent, generally, are the forms adopted, or rather invented. Contingent, relative to the obstacles encountered in a given place and at a given moment, is the dissociation of the primordial tendency into such and such complementary tendencies which create divergent lines of evolution. Contingent the arrests and set-backs; contingent, in large measure, the adaptations. Two things only are necessary: (1) a gradual accumulation of energy; (2) an elastic canalization of this energy in variable and indeterminable directions, at the end of which are free acts.

This twofold result has been obtained in a particular way on our planet. But it might have been obtained by entirely different means. It was not necessary that life should fix its choice mainly upon the carbon of carbonic acid. What was essential for it was to store solar energy; but, instead of asking the sun to separate, for instance, atoms of oxygen and carbon, it might (theoretically at least, and, apart from practical difficulties possibly insurmountable) have put forth other chemical elements, which would then have had to be associated or dissociated by entirely different physical means. And if the element characteristic of the substances that supply energy to the organism had been other than carbon, the element characteristic of the plastic substances would probably have been other than nitrogen, and the chemistry of living bodies would then have been radically different from what it is. The result would have been living forms without any analogy to those we know, whose anatomy would have been different, whose physiology also would have been different. Alone, the sensori-motor function would have been preserved, if not in its mechanism, at least in its effects. It is therefore probable that life goes on in other planets, in other solar systems also, under forms of which we have no idea, in physical conditions to which it seems to us, from the point of view of our physiology, to be absolutely opposed. If its essential aim is to catch up usable energy in order to expend it in explosive actions, it probably chooses, in each solar system and on each planet, as it does on the earth, the fittest means to get this result in the circumstances with which it is confronted. That is at least what reasoning by analogy leads to, and we use analogy the wrong way when we declare life to be impossible wherever the circumstances with which it is confronted are other than those on the earth. The truth is that life is possible wherever energy descends the incline indicated by Carnot's law and where a cause of inverse direction can retard the descent—that is to say, probably, in all the worlds suspended from all the stars. We go further: it is not even necessary that life should be concentrated and determined in organisms properly so called, that is, in definite bodies presenting to the flow of energy ready-made though elastic canals. It can be conceived (although it can hardly be imagined) that energy might be saved up, and then expended on varying lines running across a matter not yet solidified. Every essential of life would still be there, since there would still be slow accumulation of energy and sudden release. There would hardly be more difference between this vitality, vague and formless, and the definite vitality we know, than there is, in our psychical life, between the state of dream and the state of waking. Such may have been the condition of life in our nebula before the condensation of matter was complete, if it be true that life springs forward at the very moment when, as the effect of an inverse movement, the nebular matter appears.

It is therefore conceivable that life might have assumed a totally different outward appearance and designed forms very different from those we know. With another chemical substratum, in other physical conditions, the impulsion would have remained the same, but it would have split up very differently in course of progress; and the whole would have traveled another road—whether shorter or longer who can tell? In any case, in the entire series of living beings no term would have been what it now is. Now, was it necessary that there should be a series, or terms? Why should not the unique impetus have been impressed on a unique body, which might have gone on evolving?

This question arises, no doubt, from the comparison of life to an impetus. And it must be compared to an impetus, because no image borrowed from the physical world can give more nearly the idea of it. But it is only an image. In reality, life is of the psychological order, and it is of the essence of the psychical to enfold a confused plurality of interpenetrating terms. In space, and in space only, is distinct multiplicity possible: a point is absolutely external to another point. But pure and empty unity, also, is met with only in space; it is that of a mathematical point. Abstract unity and abstract multiplicity are determinations of space or categories of the understanding, whichever we will, spatiality and intellectuality being molded on each other. But what is of psychical nature cannot entirely correspond with space, nor enter perfectly into the categories of the understanding. Is my own person, at a given moment, one or manifold? If I declare it one, inner voices arise and protest—those of the sensations, feelings, ideas, among which my individuality is distributed. But, if I make it distinctly manifold, my consciousness rebels quite as strongly; it affirms that my sensations, my feelings, my thoughts are abstractions which I effect on myself, and that each of my states implies all the others. I am then (we must adopt the language of the understanding, since only the understanding has a language) a unity that is multiple and a multiplicity that is one; [91] but unity and multiplicity are only views of my personality taken by an understanding that directs its categories at me; I enter neither into one nor into the other nor into both at once, although both, united, may give a fair imitation of the mutual interpenetration and continuity that I find at the base of my own self. Such is my inner life, and such also is life in general. While, in its contact with matter, life is comparable to an impulsion or an impetus, regarded in itself it is an immensity of potentiality, a mutual encroachment of thousands and thousands of tendencies which nevertheless are "thousands and thousands" only when once regarded as outside of each other, that is, when spatialized. Contact with matter is what determines this dissociation. Matter divides actually what was but potentially manifold; and, in this sense, individuation is in part the work of matter, in part the result of life's own inclination. Thus, a poetic sentiment, which bursts into distinct verses, lines and words, may be said to have already contained this multiplicity of individuated elements, and yet, in fact, it is the materiality of language that creates it.

But through the words, lines and verses runs the simple inspiration which is the whole poem. So, among the dissociated individuals, one life goes on moving: everywhere the tendency to individualize is opposed and at the same time completed by an antagonistic and complementary tendency to associate, as if the manifold unity of life, drawn in the direction of multiplicity, made so much the more effort to withdraw itself on to itself. A part is no sooner detached than it tends to reunite itself, if not to all the rest, at least to what is nearest to it. Hence, throughout the whole realm of life, a balancing between individuation and association. Individuals join together into a society; but the society, as soon as formed, tends to melt the associated individuals into a new organism, so as to become itself an individual, able in its turn to be part and parcel of a new association. At the lowest degree of the scale of organisms we already find veritable associations, microbial colonies, and in these associations, according to a recent work, a tendency to individuate by the constitution of a nucleus. [92] The same tendency is met with again at a higher stage, in the protophytes, which, once having quitted the parent cell by way of division, remain united to each other by the gelatinous substance that surrounds them—also in those protozoa which begin by mingling their pseudopodia and end by welding themselves together. The "colonial" theory of the genesis of higher organisms is well known. The protozoa, consisting of one single cell, are supposed to have formed, by assemblage, aggregates which, relating themselves together in their turn, have given rise to aggregates of aggregates; so organisms more and more complicated, and also more and more differentiated, are born of the association of organisms barely differentiated and elementary. [93] In this extreme form, the theory is open to grave objections: more and more the idea seems to be gaining ground, that polyzoism is an exceptional and abnormal fact. [94] But it is none the less true that things happen as if every higher organism was born of an association of cells that have subdivided the work between them. Very probably it is not the cells that have made the individual by means of association; it is rather the individual that has made the cells by means of dissociation. [95] But this itself reveals to us, in the genesis of the individual, a haunting of the social form, as if the individual could develop only on the condition that its substance should be split up into elements having themselves an appearance of individuality and united among themselves by an appearance of sociality. There are numerous cases in which nature seems to hesitate between the two forms, and to ask herself if she shall make a society or an individual. The slightest push is enough, then, to make the balance weigh on one side or the other. If we take an infusorian sufficiently large, such as the Stentor, and cut it into two halves each containing a part of the nucleus, each of the two halves will generate an independent Stentor; but if we divide it incompletely, so that a protoplasmic communication is left between the two halves, we shall see them execute, each from its side, corresponding movements: so that in this case it is enough that a thread should be maintained or cut in order that life should affect the social or the individual form. Thus, in rudimentary organisms consisting of a single cell, we already find that the apparent individuality of the whole is the composition of an undefined number of potential individualities potentially associated. But, from top to bottom of the series of living beings, the same law is manifested. And it is this that we express when we say that unity and multiplicity are categories of inert matter, that the vital impetus is neither pure unity nor pure multiplicity, and that if the matter to which it communicates itself compels it to choose one of the two, its choice will never be definitive: it will leap from one to the other indefinitely. The evolution of life in the double direction of individuality and association has therefore nothing accidental about it: it is due to the very nature of life.

Essential also is the progress to reflexion. If our analysis is correct, it is consciousness, or rather supra-consciousness, that is at the origin of life. Consciousness, or supra-consciousness, is the name for the rocket whose extinguished fragments fall back as matter; consciousness, again, is the name for that which subsists of the rocket itself, passing through the fragments and lighting them up into organisms. But this consciousness, which is a need of creation, is made manifest to itself only where creation is possible. It lies dormant when life is condemned to automatism; it wakens as soon as the possibility of a choice is restored. That is why, in organisms unprovided with a nervous system, it varies according to the power of locomotion and of deformation of which the organism disposes. And in animals with a nervous system, it is proportional to the complexity of the switchboard on which the paths called sensory and the paths called motor intersect—that is, of the brain. How must this solidarity between the organism and consciousness be understood?

We will not dwell here on a point that we have dealt with in former works. Let us merely recall that a theory such as that according to which consciousness is attached to certain neurons, and is thrown off from their work like a phosphorescence, may be accepted by the scientist for the detail of analysis; it is a convenient mode of expression. But it is nothing else. In reality, a living being is a centre of action. It represents a certain sum of contingency entering into the world, that is to say, a certain quantity of possible action—a quantity variable with individuals and especially with species. The nervous system of an animal marks out the flexible lines on which its action will run (although the potential energy is accumulated in the muscles rather than in the nervous system itself); its nervous centres indicate, by their development and their configuration, the more or less extended choice it will have among more or less numerous and complicated actions. Now, since the awakening of consciousness in a living creature is the more complete, the greater the latitude of choice allowed to it and the larger the amount of action bestowed upon it, it is clear that the development of consciousness will appear to be dependent on that of the nervous centres. On the other hand, every state of consciousness being, in one aspect of it, a question put to the motor activity and even the beginning of a reply, there is no psychical event that does not imply the entry into play of the cortical mechanisms. Everything seems, therefore, to happen as if consciousness sprang from the brain, and as if the detail of conscious activity were modeled on that of the cerebral activity. In reality, consciousness does not spring from the brain; but brain and consciousness correspond because equally they measure, the one by the complexity of its structure and the other by the intensity of its awareness, the quantity of choice that the living being has at its disposal.

It is precisely because a cerebral state expresses simply what there is of nascent action in the corresponding psychical state, that the psychical state tells us more than the cerebral state. The consciousness of a living being, as we have tried to prove elsewhere, is inseparable from its brain in the sense in which a sharp knife is inseparable from its edge: the brain is the sharp edge by which consciousness cuts into the compact tissue of events, but the brain is no more coextensive with consciousness than the edge is with the knife. Thus, from the fact that two brains, like that of the ape and that of the man, are very much alike, we cannot conclude that the corresponding consciousnesses are comparable or commensurable.

But the two brains may perhaps be less alike than we suppose. How can we help being struck by the fact that, while man is capable of learning any sort of exercise, of constructing any sort of object, in short of acquiring any kind of motor habit whatsoever, the faculty of combining new movements is strictly limited in the best-endowed animal, even in the ape? The cerebral characteristic of man is there. The human brain is made, like every brain, to set up motor mechanisms and to enable us to choose among them, at any instant, the one we shall put in motion by the pull of a trigger. But it differs from other brains in this, that the number of mechanisms it can set up, and consequently the choice that it gives as to which among them shall be released, is unlimited. Now, from the limited to the unlimited there is all the distance between the closed and the open. It is not a difference of degree, but of kind.

Radical therefore, also, is the difference between animal consciousness, even the most intelligent, and human consciousness. For consciousness corresponds exactly to the living being's power of choice; it is coextensive with the fringe of possible action that surrounds the real action: consciousness is synonymous with invention and with freedom. Now, in the animal, invention is never anything but a variation on the theme of routine. Shut up in the habits of the species, it succeeds, no doubt, in enlarging them by its individual initiative; but it escapes automatism only for an instant, for just the time to create a new automatism. The gates of its prison close as soon as they are opened; by pulling at its chain it succeeds only in stretching it. With man, consciousness breaks the chain. In man, and in man alone, it sets itself free. The whole history of life until man has been that of the effort of consciousness to raise matter, and of the more or less complete overwhelming of consciousness by the matter which has fallen back on it. The enterprise was paradoxical, if, indeed, we may speak here otherwise than by metaphor of enterprise and of effort. It was to create with matter, which is necessity itself, an instrument of freedom, to make a machine which should triumph over mechanism, and to use the determinism of nature to pass through the meshes of the net which this very determinism had spread. But, everywhere except in man, consciousness has let itself be caught in the net whose meshes it tried to pass through: it has remained the captive of the mechanisms it has set up. Automatism, which it tries to draw in the direction of freedom, winds about it and drags it down. It has not the power to escape, because the energy it has provided for acts is almost all employed in maintaining the infinitely subtle and essentially unstable equilibrium into which it has brought matter. But man not only maintains his machine, he succeeds in using it as he pleases. Doubtless he owes this to the superiority of his brain, which enables him to build an unlimited number of motor mechanisms, to oppose new habits to the old ones unceasingly, and, by dividing automatism against itself, to rule it. He owes it to his language, which furnishes consciousness with an immaterial body in which to incarnate itself and thus exempts it from dwelling exclusively on material bodies, whose flux would soon drag it along and finally swallow it up. He owes it to social life, which stores and preserves efforts as language stores thought, fixes thereby a mean level to which individuals must raise themselves at the outset, and by this initial stimulation prevents the average man from slumbering and drives the superior man to mount still higher. But our brain, our society, and our language are only the external and various signs of one and the same internal superiority. They tell, each after its manner, the unique, exceptional success which life has won at a given moment of its evolution. They express the difference of kind, and not only of degree, which separates man from the rest of the animal world. They let us guess that, while at the end of the vast spring-board from which life has taken its leap, all the others have stepped down, finding the cord stretched too high, man alone has cleared the obstacle.

It is in this quite special sense that man is the "term" and the "end" of evolution. Life, we have said, transcends finality as it transcends the other categories. It is essentially a current sent through matter, drawing from it what it can. There has not, therefore, properly speaking, been any project or plan. On the other hand, it is abundantly evident that the rest of nature is not for the sake of man: we struggle like the other species, we have struggled against other species. Moreover, if the evolution of life had encountered other accidents in its course, if, thereby, the current of life had been otherwise divided, we should have been, physically and morally, far different from what we are. For these various reasons it would be wrong to regard humanity, such as we have it before our eyes, as pre-figured in the evolutionary movement. It cannot even be said to be the outcome of the whole of evolution, for evolution has been accomplished on several divergent lines, and while the human species is at the end of one of them, other lines have been followed with other species at their end. It is in a quite different sense that we hold humanity to be the ground of evolution.

From our point of view, life appears in its entirety as an immense wave which, starting from a centre, spreads outwards, and which on almost the whole of its circumference is stopped and converted into oscillation: at one single point the obstacle has been forced, the impulsion has passed freely. It is this freedom that the human form registers. Everywhere but in man, consciousness has had to come to a stand; in man alone it has kept on its way. Man, then, continues the vital movement indefinitely, although he does not draw along with him all that life carries in itself. On other lines of evolution there have traveled other tendencies which life implied, and of which, since everything interpenetrates, man has, doubtless, kept something, but of which he has kept only very little. It is as if a vague and formless being, whom we may call, as we will, man or superman, had sought to realize himself, and had succeeded only by abandoning a part of himself on the way. The losses are represented by the rest of the animal world, and even by the vegetable world, at least in what these have that is positive and above the accidents of evolution.

From this point of view, the discordances of which nature offers us the spectacle are singularly weakened. The organized world as a whole becomes as the soil on which was to grow either man himself or a being who morally must resemble him. The animals, however distant they may be from our species, however hostile to it, have none the less been useful traveling companions, on whom consciousness has unloaded whatever encumbrances it was dragging along, and who have enabled it to rise, in man, to heights from which it sees an unlimited horizon open again before it.

It is true that it has not only abandoned cumbersome baggage on the way; it has also had to give up valuable goods. Consciousness, in man, is pre-eminently intellect. It might have been, it ought, so it seems, to have been also intuition. Intuition and intellect represent two opposite directions of the work of consciousness: intuition goes in the very direction of life, intellect goes in the inverse direction, and thus finds itself naturally in accordance with the movement of matter. A complete and perfect humanity would be that in which these two forms of conscious activity should attain their full development. And, between this humanity and ours, we may conceive any number of possible stages, corresponding to all the degrees imaginable of intelligence and of intuition. In this lies the part of contingency in the mental structure of our species. A different evolution might have led to a humanity either more intellectual still or more intuitive. In the humanity of which we are a part, intuition is, in fact, almost completely sacrificed to intellect. It seems that to conquer matter, and to reconquer its own self, consciousness has had to exhaust the best part of its power. This conquest, in the particular conditions in which it has been accomplished, has required that consciousness should adapt itself to the habits of matter and concentrate all its attention on them, in fact determine itself more especially as intellect. Intuition is there, however, but vague and above all discontinuous. It is a lamp almost extinguished, which only glimmers now and then, for a few moments at most. But it glimmers wherever a vital interest is at stake. On our personality, on our liberty, on the place we occupy in the whole of nature, on our origin and perhaps also on our destiny, it throws a light feeble and vacillating, but which none the less pierces the darkness of the night in which the intellect leaves us.

These fleeting intuitions, which light up their object only at distant intervals, philosophy ought to seize, first to sustain them, then to expand them and so unite them together. The more it advances in this work, the more will it perceive that intuition is mind itself, and, in a certain sense, life itself: the intellect has been cut out of it by a process resembling that which has generated matter. Thus is revealed the unity of the spiritual life. We recognize it only when we place ourselves in intuition in order to go from intuition to the intellect, for from the intellect we shall never pass to intuition.

Philosophy introduces us thus into the spiritual life. And it shows us at the same time the relation of the life of the spirit to that of the body. The great error of the doctrines on the spirit has been the idea that by isolating the spiritual life from all the rest, by suspending it in space as high as possible above the earth, they were placing it beyond attack, as if they were not thereby simply exposing it to be taken as an effect of mirage! Certainly they are right to listen to conscience when conscience affirms human freedom; but the intellect is there, which says that the cause determines its effect, that like conditions like, that all is repeated and that all is given. They are right to believe in the absolute reality of the person and in his independence toward matter; but science is there, which shows the interdependence of conscious life and cerebral activity. They are right to attribute to man a privileged place in nature, to hold that the distance is infinite between the animal and man; but the history of life is there, which makes us witness the genesis of species by gradual transformation, and seems thus to reintegrate man in animality. When a strong instinct assures the probability of personal survival, they are right not to close their ears to its voice; but if there exist "souls" capable of an independent life, whence do they come? When, how and why do they enter into this body which we see arise, quite naturally, from a mixed cell derived from the bodies of its two parents? All these questions will remain unanswered, a philosophy of intuition will be a negation of science, will be sooner or later swept away by science, if it does not resolve to see the life of the body just where it really is, on the road that leads to the life of the spirit. But it will then no longer have to do with definite living beings. Life as a whole, from the initial impulsion that thrust it into the world, will appear as a wave which rises, and which is opposed by the descending movement of matter. On the greater part of its surface, at different heights, the current is converted by matter into a vortex. At one point alone it passes freely, dragging with it the obstacle which will weigh on its progress but will not stop it. At this point is humanity; it is our privileged situation. On the other hand, this rising wave is consciousness, and, like all consciousness, it includes potentialities without number which interpenetrate and to which consequently neither the category of unity nor that of multiplicity is appropriate, made as they both are for inert matter. The matter that it bears along with it, and in the interstices of which it inserts itself, alone can divide it into distinct individualities. On flows the current, running through human generations, subdividing itself into individuals. This subdivision was vaguely indicated in it, but could not have been made clear without matter. Thus souls are continually being created, which, nevertheless, in a certain sense pre-existed. They are nothing else than the little rills into which the great river of life divides itself, flowing through the body of humanity. The movement of the stream is distinct from the river bed, although it must adopt its winding course. Consciousness is distinct from the organism it animates, although it must undergo its vicissitudes. As the possible actions which a state of consciousness indicates are at every instant beginning to be carried out in the nervous centres, the brain underlines at every instant the motor indications of the state of consciousness; but the interdependency of consciousness and brain is limited to this; the destiny of consciousness is not bound up on that account with the destiny of cerebral matter. Finally, consciousness is essentially free; it is freedom itself; but it cannot pass through matter without settling on it, without adapting itself to it: this adaptation is what we call intellectuality; and the intellect, turning itself back toward active, that is to say free, consciousness, naturally makes it enter into the conceptual forms into which it is accustomed to see matter fit. It will therefore always perceive freedom in the form of necessity; it will always neglect the part of novelty or of creation inherent in the free act; it will always substitute for action itself an imitation artificial, approximative, obtained by compounding the old with the old and the same with the same. Thus, to the eyes of a philosophy that attempts to reabsorb intellect in intuition, many difficulties vanish or become light. But such a doctrine does not only facilitate speculation; it gives us also more power to act and to live. For, with it, we feel ourselves no longer isolated in humanity, humanity no longer seems isolated in the nature that it dominates. As the smallest grain of dust is bound up with our entire solar system, drawn along with it in that undivided movement of descent which is materiality itself, so all organized beings, from the humblest to the highest, from the first origins of life to the time in which we are, and in all places as in all times, do but evidence a single impulsion, the inverse of the movement of matter, and in itself indivisible. All the living hold together, and all yield to the same tremendous push. The animal takes its stand on the plant, man bestrides animality, and the whole of humanity, in space and in time, is one immense army galloping beside and before and behind each of us in an overwhelming charge able to beat down every resistance and clear the most formidable obstacles, perhaps even death.

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Notes:

78. We have developed this point in Matière et mémoire, chaps. ii. and iii., notably pp. 78-80 and 169-186.

79. Faraday, A Speculation concerning Electric Conduction (Philosophical Magazine, 3d. series, vol. xxiv.).

80. Our comparison does no more than develop the content of the term λογος, as Plotinus understands it. For while the λογος of this philosopher is a generating and informing power, an aspect or a fragment of the ψυχη, on the other hand Plotinus sometimes speaks of it as of a discourse. More generally, the relation that we establish in the present chapter between "extension" and "detension" resembles in some aspects that which Plotinus supposes (some developments of which must have inspired M. Ravaisson) when he makes extension not indeed an inversion of original Being, but an enfeeblement of its essence, one of the last stages of the procession, (see in particular, Enn. IV. iii. 9-11, and III. vi. 17-18). Yet ancient philosophy did not see what consequences would result from this for mathematics, for Plotinus, like Plato, erected mathematical essences into absolute realities. Above all, it suffered itself to be deceived by the purely superficial analogy of duration with extension. It treated the one as it treated the other, regarding change as a degradation of immutability, the sensible as a fall from the intelligible. Whence, as we shall show in the next chapter, a philosophy which fails to recognize the real function and scope of the intellect.

81. Bastian, The Brain as an Organ of the Mind, pp. 214-16.

82. We have dwelt on this point in a former work. See the Essai sur les données immédiates de la conscience, Paris, 1889, pp. 155-160.

83. Op. cit. chaps. i. and ii. passim.

84. Cf. especially the profound studies of M. Ed. Le Roy in the Revue de métaph. et de morale.

85. Matière et mémoire, chapters iii. and iv.

86. See in particular, Phys., iv. 215 a 2; v. 230 b 12; viii. 255 a 2; and De Caelo, iv. 1-5; ii. 296 b 27; iv. 308 a 34.

87. De Caelo, iv. 310 a 34 το δ εις τον αυτου τοπον φερεθαι εκαοτον το εις το αυτου ειδος εστι φερεσθαι.

88. On these differences of quality see the work of Duhem, L'Évolution de la mécanique, Paris, 1905, pp. 197 ff.

89. Boltzmann, Vorlesungen über Gastheorie, Leipzig, 1898, pp. 253 ff.

90. In a book rich in facts and in ideas (La Dissolution opposée a l'évolution, Paris, 1899), M. André Lalande shows us everything going towards death, in spite of the momentary resistance which organisms seem to oppose.—But, even from the side of unorganized matter, have we the right to extend to the entire universe considerations drawn from the present state of our solar system? Beside the worlds which are dying, there are without doubt worlds that are being born. On the other hand, in the organized world, the death of individuals does not seem at all like a diminution of "life in general," or like a necessity which life submits to reluctantly. As has been more than once remarked, life has never made an effort to prolong indefinitely the existence of the individual, although on so many other points it has made so many successful efforts. Everything is as if this death had been willed, or at least accepted, for the greater progress of life in general.

91. We have dwelt on this point in an article entitled "Introduction à la métaphysique" (Revue de métaphysique et de morale, January, 1903, pp. 1-25).

92. Cf. a paper written (in Russian) by Serkovski, and reviewed in the Année biologique, 1898, p. 317.

93. Ed. Perrier, Les Colonies animales, Paris, 1897 (2nd edition).

94. Delage, L'Hérédité, 2nd edition, Paris, 1903, p. 97. Cf. by the same author, "La Conception polyzoïque des êtres" (Revue scientifique, 1896, pp. 641-653).

95. This is the theory maintained by Kunstler, Delage, Sedgwick, Labbé, etc. Its development, with bibliographical references, will be found in the work of Busquet, Les êtres vivants, Paris, 1899.

[admin]

Part 1 of 4

Chapter 4: The Cinematographical Mechanism of Thought and the Mechanistic Illusion -- A Glance at the History of Systems -- Real Becoming and False Evolutionism

It remains for us to examine in themselves two theoretical illusions which we have frequently met with before, but whose consequences rather than principle have hitherto concerned us. Such is the object of the present chapter. It will afford us the opportunity of removing certain objections, of clearing up certain misunderstandings, and, above all, of defining more precisely, by contrasting it with others, a philosophy which sees in duration the very stuff of reality.

Matter or mind, reality has appeared to us as a perpetual becoming. It makes itself or it unmakes itself, but it is never something made. Such is the intuition that we have of mind when we draw aside the veil which is interposed between our consciousness and ourselves. This, also, is what our intellect and senses themselves would show us of matter, if they could obtain a direct and disinterested idea of it. But, preoccupied before everything with the necessities of action, the intellect, like the senses, is limited to taking, at intervals, views that are instantaneous and by that very fact immobile of the becoming of matter. Consciousness, being in its turn formed on the intellect, sees clearly of the inner life what is already made, and only feels confusedly the making. Thus, we pluck out of duration those moments that interest us, and that we have gathered along its course. These alone we retain. And we are right in so doing, while action only is in question. But when, in speculating on the nature of the real, we go on regarding it as our practical interest requires us to regard it, we become unable to perceive the true evolution, the radical becoming. Of becoming we perceive only states, of duration only instants, and even when we speak of duration and of becoming, it is of another thing that we are thinking. Such is the most striking of the two illusions we wish to examine. It consists in supposing that we can think the unstable by means of the stable, the moving by means of the immobile.

The other illusion is near akin to the first. It has the same origin, being also due to the fact that we import into speculation a procedure made for practice. All action aims at getting something that we feel the want of, or at creating something that does not yet exist. In this very special sense, it fills a void, and goes from the empty to the full, from an absence to a presence, from the unreal to the real. Now the unreality which is here in question is purely relative to the direction in which our attention is engaged, for we are immersed in realities and cannot pass out of them; only, if the present reality is not the one we are seeking, we speak of the absence of this sought-for reality wherever we find the presence of another. We thus express what we have as a function of what we want. This is quite legitimate in the sphere of action. But, whether we will or no, we keep to this way of speaking, and also of thinking, when we speculate on the nature of things independently of the interest they have for us. Thus arises the second of the two illusions. We propose to examine this first. It is due, like the other, to the static habits that our intellect contracts when it prepares our action on things. Just as we pass through the immobile to go to the moving, so we make use of the void in order to think the full.

We have met with this illusion already in dealing with the fundamental problem of knowledge. The question, we then said, is to know why there is order, and not disorder, in things. But the question has meaning only if we suppose that disorder, understood as an absence of order, is possible, or imaginable, or conceivable. Now, it is only order that is real; but, as order can take two forms, and as the presence of the one may be said to consist in the absence of the other, we speak of disorder whenever we have before us that one of the two orders for which we are not looking. The idea of disorder is then entirely practical. It corresponds to the disappointment of a certain expectation, and it does not denote the absence of all order, but only the presence of that order which does not offer us actual interest. So that whenever we try to deny order completely, absolutely, we find that we are leaping from one kind of order to the other indefinitely, and that the supposed suppression of the one and the other implies the presence of the two. Indeed, if we go on, and persist in shutting our eyes to this movement of the mind and all it involves, we are no longer dealing with an idea; all that is left of disorder is a word. Thus the problem of knowledge is complicated, and possibly made insoluble, by the idea that order fills a void and that its actual presence is superposed on its virtual absence. We go from absence to presence, from the void to the full, in virtue of the fundamental illusion of our understanding. That is the error of which we noticed one consequence in our last chapter. As we then anticipated, we must come to close quarters with this error, and finally grapple with it. We must face it in itself, in the radically false conception which it implies of negation, of the void and of the nought. [97]

Philosophers have paid little attention to the idea of the nought. And yet it is often the hidden spring, the invisible mover of philosophical thinking. From the first awakening of reflection, it is this that pushes to the fore, right under the eyes of consciousness, the torturing problems, the questions that we cannot gaze at without feeling giddy and bewildered. I have no sooner commenced to philosophize than I ask myself why I exist; and when I take account of the intimate connection in which I stand to the rest of the universe, the difficulty is only pushed back, for I want to know why the universe exists; and if I refer the universe to a Principle immanent or transcendent that supports it or creates it, my thought rests on this principle only a few moments, for the same problem recurs, this time in its full breadth and generality: Whence comes it, and how can it be understood, that anything exists? Even here, in the present work, when matter has been defined as a kind of descent, this descent as the interruption of a rise, this rise itself as a growth, when finally a Principle of creation has been put at the base of things, the same question springs up: How—why does this principle exist rather than nothing?

Now, if I push these questions aside and go straight to what hides behind them, this is what I find:—Existence appears to me like a conquest over nought. I say to myself that there might be, that indeed there ought to be, nothing, and I then wonder that there is something. Or I represent all reality extended on nothing as on a carpet: at first was nothing, and being has come by superaddition to it. Or, yet again, if something has always existed, nothing must always have served as its substratum or receptacle, and is therefore eternally prior. A glass may have always been full, but the liquid it contains nevertheless fills a void. In the same way, being may have always been there, but the nought which is filled, and, as it were, stopped up by it, pre-exists for it none the less, if not in fact at least in right. In short, I cannot get rid of the idea that the full is an embroidery on the canvas of the void, that being is superimposed on nothing, and that in the idea of "nothing" there is less than in that of "something." Hence all the mystery.

It is necessary that this mystery should be cleared up. It is more especially necessary, if we put duration and free choice at the base of things. For the disdain of metaphysics for all reality that endures comes precisely from this, that it reaches being only by passing through "not-being," and that an existence which endures seems to it not strong enough to conquer non-existence and itself posit itself. It is for this reason especially that it is inclined to endow true being with a logical, and not a psychological nor a physical existence. For the nature of a purely logical existence is such that it seems to be self-sufficient and to posit itself by the effect alone of the force immanent in truth. If I ask myself why bodies or minds exist rather than nothing, I find no answer; but that a logical principle, such as A=A, should have the power of creating itself, triumphing over the nought throughout eternity, seems to me natural. A circle drawn with chalk on a blackboard is a thing which needs explanation: this entirely physical existence has not by itself wherewith to vanquish non-existence. But the "logical essence" of the circle, that is to say, the possibility of drawing it according to a certain law—in short, its definition—is a thing which appears to me eternal: it has neither place nor date; for nowhere, at no moment, has the drawing of a circle begun to be possible. Suppose, then, that the principle on which all things rest, and which all things manifest possesses an existence of the same nature as that of the definition of the circle, or as that of the axiom A=A: the mystery of existence vanishes, for the being that is at the base of everything posits itself then in eternity, as logic itself does. True, it will cost us rather a heavy sacrifice: if the principle of all things exists after the manner of a logical axiom or of a mathematical definition, the things themselves must go forth from this principle like the applications of an axiom or the consequences of a definition, and there will no longer be place, either in the things nor in their principle, for efficient causality understood in the sense of a free choice. Such are precisely the conclusions of a doctrine like that of Spinoza, or even that of Leibniz, and such indeed has been their genesis.

Now, if we could prove that the idea of the nought, in the sense in which we take it when we oppose it to that of existence, is a pseudo-idea, the problems that are raised around it would become pseudo-problems. The hypothesis of an absolute that acts freely, that in an eminent sense endures, would no longer raise up intellectual prejudices. The road would be cleared for a philosophy more nearly approaching intuition, and which would no longer ask the same sacrifices of common sense.

Let us then see what we are thinking about when we speak of "Nothing." To represent "Nothing," we must either imagine it or conceive it. Let us examine what this image or this idea may be. First, the image.

I am going to close my eyes, stop my ears, extinguish one by one the sensations that come to me from the outer world. Now it is done; all my perceptions vanish, the material universe sinks into silence and the night.—I subsist, however, and cannot help myself subsisting. I am still there, with the organic sensations which come to me from the surface and from the interior of my body, with the recollections which my past perceptions have left behind them—nay, with the impression, most positive and full, of the void I have just made about me. How can I suppress all this? How eliminate myself? I can even, it may be, blot out and forget my recollections up to my immediate past; but at least I keep the consciousness of my present reduced to its extremest poverty, that is to say, of the actual state of my body. I will try, however, to do away even with this consciousness itself. I will reduce more and more the sensations my body sends in to me: now they are almost gone; now they are gone, they have disappeared in the night where all things else have already died away. But no! At the very instant that my consciousness is extinguished, another consciousness lights up—or rather, it was already alight: it had arisen the instant before, in order to witness the extinction of the first; for the first could disappear only for another and in the presence of another. I see myself annihilated only if I have already resuscitated myself by an act which is positive, however involuntary and unconscious. So, do what I will, I am always perceiving something, either from without or from within. When I no longer know anything of external objects, it is because I have taken refuge in the consciousness that I have of myself. If I abolish this inner self, its very abolition becomes an object for an imaginary self which now perceives as an external object the self that is dying away. Be it external or internal, some object there always is that my imagination is representing. My imagination, it is true, can go from one to the other, I can by turns imagine a nought of external perception or a nought of internal perception, but not both at once, for the absence of one consists, at bottom, in the exclusive presence of the other. But, from the fact that two relative noughts are imaginable in turn, we wrongly conclude that they are imaginable together: a conclusion the absurdity of which must be obvious, for we cannot imagine a nought without perceiving, at least confusedly, that we are imagining it, consequently that we are acting, that we are thinking, and therefore that something still subsists.

The image, then, properly so called, of a suppression of everything is never formed by thought. The effort by which we strive to create this image simply ends in making us swing to and fro between the vision of an outer and that of an inner reality. In this coming and going of our mind between the without and the within, there is a point, at equal distance from both, in which it seems to us that we no longer perceive the one, and that we do not yet perceive the other: it is there that the image of "Nothing" is formed. In reality, we then perceive both, having reached the point where the two terms come together, and the image of Nothing, so defined, is an image full of things, an image that includes at once that of the subject and that of the object and, besides, a perpetual leaping from one to the other and the refusal ever to come to rest finally on either. Evidently this is not the nothing that we can oppose to being, and put before or beneath being, for it already includes existence in general.

But we shall be told that, if the representation of Nothing, visible or latent, enters into the reasonings of philosophers, it is not as an image, but as an idea. It may be agreed that we do not imagine the annihilation of everything, but it will be claimed that we can conceive it. We conceive a polygon with a thousand sides, said Descartes, although we do not see it in imagination: it is enough that we can clearly represent the possibility of constructing it. So with the idea of the annihilation of everything. Nothing simpler, it will be said, than the procedure by which we construct the idea of it. There is, in fact, not a single object of our experience that we cannot suppose annihilated. Extend this annihilation of a first object to a second, then to a third, and so on as long as you please: the nought is the limit toward which the operation tends. And the nought so defined is the annihilation of everything. That is the theory. We need only consider it in this form to see the absurdity it involves.

An idea constructed by the mind is an idea only if its pieces are capable of coexisting; it is reduced to a mere word if the elements that we bring together to compose it are driven away as fast as we assemble them. When I have defined the circle, I easily represent a black or a white circle, a circle in cardboard, iron, or brass, a transparent or an opaque circle—but not a square circle, because the law of the generation of the circle excludes the possibility of defining this figure with straight lines. So my mind can represent any existing thing whatever as annihilated;—but if the annihilation of anything by the mind is an operation whose mechanism implies that it works on a part of the whole, and not on the whole itself, then the extension of such an operation to the totality of things becomes self-contradictory and absurd, and the idea of an annihilation of everything presents the same character as that of a square circle: it is not an idea, it is only a word. So let us examine more closely the mechanism of the operation.

In fact, the object suppressed is either external or internal: it is a thing or it is a state of consciousness. Let us consider the first case. I annihilate in thought an external object: in the place where it was, there is no longer anything.—No longer anything of that object, of course, but another object has taken its place: there is no absolute void in nature. But admit that an absolute void is possible: it is not of that void that I am thinking when I say that the object, once annihilated, leaves its place unoccupied; for by the hypothesis it is a place, that is a void limited by precise outlines, or, in other words, a kind of thing. The void of which I speak, therefore, is, at bottom, only the absence of some definite object, which was here at first, is now elsewhere and, in so far as it is no longer in its former place, leaves behind it, so to speak, the void of itself. A being unendowed with memory or prevision would not use the words "void" or "nought;" he would express only what is and what is perceived; now, what is, and what is perceived, is the presence of one thing or of another, never theabsence of anything. There is absence only for a being capable of remembering and expecting. He remembered an object, and perhaps expected to encounter it again; he finds another, and he expresses the disappointment of his expectation (an expectation sprung from recollection) by saying that he no longer finds anything, that he encounters "nothing." Even if he did not expect to encounter the object, it is a possible expectation of it, it is still the falsification of his eventual expectation that he expresses by saying that the object is no longer where it was. What he perceives in reality, what he will succeed in effectively thinking of, is the presence of the old object in a new place or that of a new object in the old place; the rest, all that is expressed negatively by such words as "nought" or the "void," is not so much thought as feeling, or, to speak more exactly, it is the tinge that feeling gives to thought. The idea of annihilation or of partial nothingness is therefore formed here in the course of the substitution of one thing for another, whenever this substitution is thought by a mind that would prefer to keep the old thing in the place of the new, or at least conceives this preference as possible. The idea implies on the subjective side a preference, on the objective side a substitution, and is nothing else but a combination of, or rather an interference between, this feeling of preference and this idea of substitution.

Such is the mechanism of the operation by which our mind annihilates an object and succeeds in representing in the external world a partial nought. Let us now see how it represents it within itself. We find in ourselves phenomena that are produced, and not phenomena that are not produced. I experience a sensation or an emotion, I conceive an idea, I form a resolution: my consciousness perceives these facts, which are so many presences, and there is no moment in which facts of this kind are not present to me. I can, no doubt, interrupt by thought the course of my inner life; I may suppose that I sleep without dreaming or that I have ceased to exist; but at the very instant when I make this supposition, I conceive myself, I imagine myself watching over my slumber or surviving my annihilation, and I give up perceiving myself from within only by taking refuge in the perception of myself from without. That is to say that here again the full always succeeds the full, and that an intelligence that was only intelligence, that had neither regret nor desire, whose movement was governed by the movement of its object, could not even conceive an absence or a void. The conception of a void arises here when consciousness, lagging behind itself, remains attached to the recollection of an old state when another state is already present. It is only a comparison between what is and what could or ought to be, between the full and the full. In a word, whether it be a void of matter or a void of consciousness, the representation of the void is always a representation which is full and which resolves itself on analysis into two positive elements: the idea, distinct or confused, of a substitution, and the feeling, experienced or imagined, of a desire or a regret.

It follows from this double analysis that the idea of the absolute nought, in the sense of the annihilation of everything, is a self-destructive idea, a pseudo-idea, a mere word. If suppressing a thing consists in replacing it by another, if thinking the absence of one thing is only possible by the more or less explicit representation of the presence of some other thing, if, in short, annihilation signifies before anything else substitution, the idea of an "annihilation of everything" is as absurd as that of a square circle. The absurdity is not obvious, because there exists no particular object that cannot be supposed annihilated; then, from the fact that there is nothing to prevent each thing in turn being suppressed in thought, we conclude that it is possible to suppose them suppressed altogether. We do not see that suppressing each thing in turn consists precisely in replacing it in proportion and degree by another, and therefore that the suppression of absolutely everything implies a downright contradiction in terms, since the operation consists in destroying the very condition that makes the operation possible.

But the illusion is tenacious. Though suppressing one thing consists in fact in substituting another for it, we do not conclude, we are unwilling to conclude, that the annihilation of a thing in thought implies the substitution in thought of a new thing for the old. We agree that a thing is always replaced by another thing, and even that our mind cannot think the disappearance of an object, external or internal, without thinking—under an indeterminate and confused form, it is true—that another object is substituted for it. But we add that the representation of a disappearance is that of a phenomenon that is produced in space or at least in time, that consequently it still implies the calling up of an image, and that it is precisely here that we have to free ourselves from the imagination in order to appeal to the pure understanding. "Let us therefore no longer speak," it will be said, "of disappearance or annihilation; these are physical operations. Let us no longer represent the object A as annihilated or absent. Let us say simply that we think it "non-existent." To annihilate it is to act on it in time and perhaps also in space; it is to accept, consequently, the condition of spatial and temporal existence, to accept the universal connection that binds an object to all others, and prevents it from disappearing without being at the same time replaced. But we can free ourselves from these conditions; all that is necessary is that by an effort of abstraction we should call up the idea of the object A by itself, that we should agree first to consider it as existing, and then, by a stroke of the intellectual pen, blot out the clause. The object will then be, by our decree, non-existent."

Very well, let us strike out the clause. We must not suppose that our pen-stroke is self-sufficient—that it can be isolated from the rest of things. We shall see that it carries with it, whether we will or no, all that we tried to abstract from. Let us compare together the two ideas—the object A supposed to exist, and the same object supposed "non-existent."

The idea of the object A, supposed existent, is the representation pure and simple of the object A, for we cannot represent an object without attributing to it, by the very fact of representing it, a certain reality. Between thinking an object and thinking it existent, there is absolutely no difference. Kant has put this point in clear light in his criticism of the ontological argument. Then, what is it to think the object A non-existent? To represent it non-existent cannot consist in withdrawing from the idea of the object A the idea of the attribute "existence," since, I repeat, the representation of the existence of the object is inseparable from the representation of the object, and indeed is one with it. To represent the object A non-existent can only consist, therefore, in addingsomething to the idea of this object: we add to it, in fact, the idea of an exclusion of this particular object by actual reality in general. To think the object A as non-existent is first to think the object and consequently to think it existent; it is then to think that another reality, with which it is incompatible, supplants it. Only, it is useless to represent this latter reality explicitly; we are not concerned with what it is; it is enough for us to know that it drives out the object A, which alone is of interest to us. That is why we think of the expulsion rather than of the cause which expels. But this cause is none the less present to the mind; it is there in the implicit state, that which expels being inseparable from the expulsion as the hand which drives the pen is inseparable from the pen-stroke. The act by which we declare an object unreal therefore posits the existence of the real in general. In other words, to represent an object as unreal cannot consist in depriving it of every kind of existence, since the representation of an object is necessarily that of the object existing. Such an act consists simply in declaring that the existence attached by our mind to the object, and inseparable from its representation, is an existence wholly ideal—that of a merepossible. But the "ideality" of an object, and the "simple possibility" of an object, have meaning only in relation to a reality that drives into the region of the ideal, or of the merely possible, the object which is incompatible with it. Suppose the stronger and more substantial existence annihilated: it is the attenuated and weaker existence of the merely possible that becomes the reality itself, and you will no longer be representing the object, then, as non-existent. In other words, and however strange our assertion may seem, there is more, and not less, in the idea of an object conceived as "not existing" than in the idea of this same object conceived as "existing"; for the idea of the object "not existing" is necessarily the idea of the object "existing" with, in addition, the representation of an exclusion of this object by the actual reality taken in block.

But it will be claimed that our idea of the non-existent is not yet sufficiently cut loose from every imaginative element, that it is not negative enough. "No matter," we shall be told, "though the unreality of a thing consist in its exclusion by other things; we want to know nothing about that. Are we not free to direct our attention where we please and how we please? Well then, after having called up the idea of an object, and thereby, if you will have it so, supposed it existent, we shall merely couple to our affirmation a 'not,' and that will be enough to make us think it non-existent. This is an operation entirely intellectual, independent of what happens outside the mind. So let us think of anything or let us think of the totality of things, and then write in the margin of our thought the 'not,' which prescribes the rejection of what it contains: we annihilate everything mentally by the mere fact of decreeing its annihilation."—Here we have it! The very root of all the difficulties and errors with which we are confronted is to be found in the power ascribed here to negation. We represent negation as exactly symmetrical with affirmation. We imagine that negation, like affirmation, is self-sufficient. So that negation, like affirmation, would have the power of creating ideas, with this sole difference that they would be negative ideas. By affirming one thing, and then another, and so on ad infinitum, I form the idea of "All;" so, by denying one thing and then other things, finally by denying All, I arrive at the idea of Nothing.—But it is just this assimilation which is arbitrary. We fail to see that while affirmation is a complete act of the mind, which can succeed in building up an idea, negation is but the half of an intellectual act, of which the other half is understood, or rather put off to an indefinite future. We fail to see that while affirmation is a purely intellectual act, there enters into negation an element which is not intellectual, and that it is precisely to the intrusion of this foreign element that negation owes its specific character.

To begin with the second point, let us note that to deny always consists in setting aside a possible affirmation. [98] Negation is only an attitude taken by the mind toward an eventual affirmation. When I say, "This table is black," I am speaking of the table; I have seen it black, and my judgment expresses what I have seen. But if I say, "This table is not white," I surely do not express something I have perceived, for I have seen black, and not an absence of white. It is therefore, at bottom, not on the table itself that I bring this judgment to bear, but rather on the judgment that would declare the table white. I judge a judgment and not the table. The proposition, "This table is not white," implies that you might believe it white, that you did believe it such, or that I was going to believe it such. I warn you or myself that this judgment is to be replaced by another (which, it is true, I leave undetermined). Thus, while affirmation bears directly on the thing, negation aims at the thing only indirectly, through an interposed affirmation. An affirmative proposition expresses a judgment on an object; a negative proposition expresses a judgment on a judgment. Negation, therefore, differs from affirmation properly so called in that it is an affirmation of the second degree: it affirms something of an affirmation which itself affirms something of an object.

But it follows at once from this that negation is not the work of pure mind, I should say of a mind placed before objects and concerned with them alone. When we deny, we give a lesson to others, or it may be to ourselves. We take to task an interlocutor, real or possible, whom we find mistaken and whom we put on his guard. He was affirming something: we tell him he ought to affirm something else (though without specifying the affirmation which must be substituted). There is no longer then, simply, a person and an object; there is, in face of the object, a person speaking to a person, opposing him and aiding him at the same time; there is a beginning of society. Negation aims at some one, and not only, like a purely intellectual operation, at some thing. It is of a pedagogical and social nature. It sets straight or rather warns, the person warned and set straight being possibly, by a kind of doubling, the very person that speaks.

So much for the second point; now for the first. We said that negation is but the half of an intellectual act, of which the other half is left indeterminate. If I pronounce the negative proposition, "This table is not white," I mean that you ought to substitute for your judgment, "The table is white," another judgment. I give you an admonition, and the admonition refers to the necessity of a substitution. As to what you ought to substitute for your affirmation, I tell you nothing, it is true. This may be because I do not know the color of the table; but it is also, it is indeed even more, because the white color is that alone that interests us for the moment, so that I only need to tell you that some other color will have to be substituted for white, without having to say which. A negative judgment is therefore really one which indicates a need of substituting for an affirmative judgment another affirmative judgment, the nature of which, however, is not specified, sometimes because it is not known, more often because it fails to offer any actual interest, the attention bearing only on the substance of the first.

Thus, whenever I add a "not" to an affirmation, whenever I deny, I perform two very definite acts: (1) I interest myself in what one of my fellow-men affirms, or in what he was going to say, or in what might have been said by another Me, whom I anticipate; (2) I announce that some other affirmation, whose content I do not specify, will have to be substituted for the one I find before me. Now, in neither of these two acts is there anything but affirmation. The sui generischaracter of negation is due to superimposing the first of these acts upon the second. It is in vain, then, that we attribute to negation the power of creating ideas sui generis, symmetrical with those that affirmation creates, and directed in a contrary sense. No idea will come forth from negation, for it has no other content than that of the affirmative judgment which it judges.

To be more precise, let us consider an existential, instead of an attributive, judgment. If I say, "The object A does not exist," I mean by that, first, that we might believe that the object A exists: how, indeed, can we think of the object A without thinking it existing, and, once again, what difference can there be between the idea of the object A existing and the idea pure and simple of the object A? Therefore, merely by saying "The object A," I attribute to it some kind of existence, though it be that of a mere possible, that is to say, of a pure idea. And consequently, in the judgment "The object A is not," there is at first an affirmation such as "The object A has been," or "The object A will be," or, more generally, "The object A exists at least as a mere possible." Now, when I add the two words "is not," I can only mean that if we go further, if we erect the possible object into a real object, we shall be mistaken, and that the possible of which I am speaking is excluded from the actual reality as incompatible with it. Judgments that posit the non-existence of a thing are therefore judgments that formulate a contrast between the possible and the actual (that is, between two kinds of existence, one thought and the other found), where a person, real or imaginary, wrongly believes that a certain possible is realized. Instead of this possible, there is a reality that differs from it and rejects it: the negative judgment expresses this contrast, but it expresses the contrast in an intentionally incomplete form, because it is addressed to a person who is supposed to be interested exclusively in the possible that is indicated, and is not concerned to know by what kind of reality the possible is replaced. The expression of the substitution is therefore bound to be cut short. Instead of affirming that a second term is substituted for the first, the attention which was originally directed to the first term will be kept fixed upon it, and upon it alone. And, without going beyond the first, we shall implicitly affirm that a second term replaces it in saying that the first "is not." We shall thus judge a judgment instead of judging a thing. We shall warn others or warn ourselves of a possible error instead of supplying positive information. Suppress every intention of this kind, give knowledge back its exclusively scientific or philosophical character, suppose in other words that reality comes itself to inscribe itself on a mind that cares only for things and is not interested in persons: we shall affirm that such or such a thing is, we shall never affirm that a thing is not.

How comes it, then, that affirmation and negation are so persistently put on the same level and endowed with an equal objectivity? How comes it that we have so much difficulty in recognizing that negation is subjective, artificially cut short, relative to the human mind and still more to the social life? The reason is, no doubt, that both negation and affirmation are expressed in propositions, and that any proposition, being formed of words, which symbolize concepts, is something relative to social life and to the human intellect. Whether I say "The ground is damp" or "The ground is not damp," in both cases the terms "ground" and "damp" are concepts more or less artificially created by the mind of man—extracted, by his free initiative, from the continuity of experience. In both cases the concepts are represented by the same conventional words. In both cases we can say indeed that the proposition aims at a social and pedagogical end, since the first would propagate a truth as the second would prevent an error. From this point of view, which is that of formal logic, to affirm and to deny are indeed two mutually symmetrical acts, of which the first establishes a relation of agreement and the second a relation of disagreement between a subject and an attribute. But how do we fail to see that the symmetry is altogether external and the likeness superficial? Suppose language fallen into disuse, society dissolved, every intellectual initiative, every faculty of self-reflection and of self-judgment atrophied in man: the dampness of the ground will subsist none the less, capable of inscribing itself automatically in sensation and of sending a vague idea to the deadened intellect. The intellect will still affirm, in implicit terms. And consequently, neither distinct concepts, nor words, nor the desire of spreading the truth, nor that of bettering oneself, are of the very essence of the affirmation. But this passive intelligence, mechanically keeping step with experience, neither anticipating nor following the course of the real, would have no wish to deny. It could not receive an imprint of negation; for, once again, that which exists may come to be recorded, but the non-existence of the non-existing cannot. For such an intellect to reach the point of denying, it must awake from its torpor, formulate the disappointment of a real or possible expectation, correct an actual or possible error—in short, propose to teach others or to teach itself.

It is rather difficult to perceive this in the example we have chosen, but the example is indeed the more instructive and the argument the more cogent on that account. If dampness is able automatically to come and record itself, it is the same, it will be said, with non-dampness; for the dry as well as the damp can give impressions to sense, which will transmit them, as more or less distinct ideas, to the intelligence. In this sense the negation of dampness is as objective a thing, as purely intellectual, as remote from every pedagogical intention, as affirmation.—But let us look at it more closely: we shall see that the negative proposition, "The ground is not damp," and the affirmative proposition, "The ground is dry," have entirely different contents. The second implies that we know the dry, that we have experienced the specific sensations, tactile or visual for example, that are at the base of this idea. The first requires nothing of the sort; it could equally well have been formulated by an intelligent fish, who had never perceived anything but the wet. It would be necessary, it is true, that this fish should have risen to the distinction between the real and the possible, and that he should care to anticipate the error of his fellow-fishes, who doubtless consider as alone possible the condition of wetness in which they actually live. Keep strictly to the terms of the proposition, "The ground is not damp," and you will find that it means two things: (1) that one might believe that the ground is damp, (2) that the dampness is replaced in fact by a certain quality x. This quality is left indeterminate, either because we have no positive knowledge of it, or because it has no actual interest for the person to whom the negation is addressed. To deny, therefore, always consists in presenting in an abridged form a system of two affirmations: the one determinate, which applies to a certainpossible; the other indeterminate, referring to the unknown or indifferent reality that supplants this possibility. The second affirmation is virtually contained in the judgment we apply to the first, a judgment which is negation itself. And what gives negation its subjective character is precisely this, that in the discovery of a replacement it takes account only of the replaced, and is not concerned with what replaces. The replaced exists only as a conception of the mind. It is necessary, in order to continue to see it, and consequently in order to speak of it, to turn our back on the reality, which flows from the past to the present, advancing from behind. It is this that we do when we deny. We discover the change, or more generally the substitution, as a traveller would see the course of his carriage if he looked out behind, and only knew at each moment the point at which he had ceased to be; he could never determine his actual position except by relation to that which he had just quitted, instead of grasping it in itself.

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Part 2 of 4

To sum up, for a mind which should follow purely and simply the thread of experience, there would be no void, no nought, even relative or partial, no possible negation. Such a mind would see facts succeed facts, states succeed states, things succeed things. What it would note at each moment would be things existing, states appearing, events happening. It would live in the actual, and, if it were capable of judging, it would never affirm anything except the existence of the present.

Endow this mind with memory, and especially with the desire to dwell on the past; give it the faculty of dissociating and of distinguishing: it will no longer only note the present state of the passing reality; it will represent the passing as a change, and therefore as a contrast between what has been and what is. And as there is no essential difference between a past that we remember and a past that we imagine, it will quickly rise to the idea of the "possible" in general.

It will thus be shunted on to the siding of negation. And especially it will be at the point of representing a disappearance. But it will not yet have reached it. To represent that a thing has disappeared, it is not enough to perceive a contrast between the past and the present; it is necessary besides to turn our back on the present, to dwell on the past, and to think the contrast of the past with the present in terms of the past only, without letting the present appear in it.

The idea of annihilation is therefore not a pure idea; it implies that we regret the past or that we conceive it as regrettable, that we have some reason to linger over it. The idea arises when the phenomenon of substitution is cut in two by a mind which considers only the first half, because that alone interests it. Suppress all interest, all feeling, and there is nothing left but the reality that flows, together with the knowledge ever renewed that it impresses on us of its present state.

From annihilation to negation, which is a more general operation, there is now only a step. All that is necessary is to represent the contrast of what is, not only with what has been, but also with all that might have been. And we must express this contrast as a function of what might have been, and not of what is; we must affirm the existence of the actual while looking only at the possible. The formula we thus obtain no longer expresses merely a disappointment of the individual; it is made to correct or guard against an error, which is rather supposed to be the error of another. In this sense, negation has a pedagogical and social character.

Now, once negation is formulated, it presents an aspect symmetrical with that of affirmation; if affirmation affirms an objective reality, it seems that negation must affirm a non-reality equally objective, and, so to say, equally real. In which we are both right and wrong: wrong, because negation cannot be objectified, in so far as it is negative; right, however, in that the negation of a thing implies the latent affirmation of its replacement by something else, which we systematically leave on one side. But the negative form of negation benefits by the affirmation at the bottom of it. Bestriding the positive solid reality to which it is attached, this phantom objectifies itself. Thus is formed the idea of the void or of a partial nought, a thing being supposed to be replaced, not by another thing, but by a void which it leaves, that is, by the negation of itself. Now, as this operation works on anything whatever, we suppose it performed on each thing in turn, and finally on all things in block. We thus obtain the idea of absolute Nothing. If now we analyze this idea of Nothing, we find that it is, at bottom, the idea of Everything, together with a movement of the mind that keeps jumping from one thing to another, refuses to stand still, and concentrates all its attention on this refusal by never determining its actual position except by relation to that which it has just left. It is therefore an idea eminently comprehensive and full, as full and comprehensive as the idea of All, to which it is very closely akin.

How then can the idea of Nought be opposed to that of All? Is it not plain that this is to oppose the full to the full, and that the question, "Why does something exist?" is consequently without meaning, a pseudo-problem raised about a pseudo-idea? Yet we must say once more why this phantom of a problem haunts the mind with such obstinacy. In vain do we show that in the idea of an "annihilation of the real" there is only the image of all realities expelling one another endlessly, in a circle; in vain do we add that the idea of non-existence is only that of the expulsion of an imponderable existence, or a "merely possible" existence, by a more substantial existence which would then be the true reality; in vain do we find in the sui generis form of negation an element which is not intellectual—negation being the judgment of a judgment, an admonition given to some one else or to oneself, so that it is absurd to attribute to negation the power of creating ideas of a new kind, viz. ideas without content;—in spite of all, the conviction persists that before things, or at least under things, there is "Nothing." If we seek the reason of this fact, we shall find it precisely in the feeling, in the social and, so to speak, practical element, that gives its specific form to negation. The greatest philosophic difficulties arise, as we have said, from the fact that the forms of human action venture outside of their proper sphere. We are made in order to act as much as, and more than, in order to think—or rather, when we follow the bent of our nature, it is in order to act that we think. It is therefore no wonder that the habits of action give their tone to those of thought, and that our mind always perceives things in the same order in which we are accustomed to picture them when we propose to act on them. Now, it is unquestionable, as we remarked above, that every human action has its starting-point in a dissatisfaction, and thereby in a feeling of absence. We should not act if we did not set before ourselves an end, and we seek a thing only because we feel the lack of it. Our action proceeds thus from "nothing" to "something," and its very essence is to embroider "something" on the canvas of "nothing." The truth is that the "nothing" concerned here is the absence not so much of a thing as of a utility. If I bring a visitor into a room that I have not yet furnished, I say to him that "there is nothing in it." Yet I know the room is full of air; but, as we do not sit on air, the room truly contains nothing that at this moment, for the visitor and for myself, counts for anything. In a general way, human work consists in creating utility; and, as long as the work is not done, there is "nothing"—nothing that we want. Our life is thus spent in filling voids, which our intellect conceives under the influence, by no means intellectual, of desire and of regret, under the pressure of vital necessities; and if we mean by void an absence of utility and not of things, we may say, in this quite relative sense, that we are constantly going from the void to the full: such is the direction which our action takes. Our speculation cannot help doing the same; and, naturally, it passes from the relative sense to the absolute sense, since it is exercised on things themselves and not on the utility they have for us. Thus is implanted in us the idea that reality fills a void, and that Nothing, conceived as an absence of everything, pre-exists before all things in right, if not in fact. It is this illusion that we have tried to remove by showing that the idea of Nothing, if we try to see in it that of an annihilation of all things, is self-destructive and reduced to a mere word; and that if, on the contrary, it is truly an idea, then we find in it as much matter as in the idea of All.

***

This long analysis has been necessary to show that a self-sufficient reality is not necessarily a reality foreign to duration. If we pass (consciously or unconsciously) through the idea of the nought in order to reach that of being, the being to which we come is a logical or mathematical essence, therefore non-temporal. And, consequently, a static conception of the real is forced on us: everything appears given once for all, in eternity. But we must accustom ourselves to think being directly, without making a detour, without first appealing to the phantom of the nought which interposes itself between it and us. We must strive to see in order to see, and no longer to see in order to act. Then the Absolute is revealed very near us and, in a certain measure, in us. It is of psychological and not of mathematical nor logical essence. It lives with us. Like us, but in certain aspects infinitely more concentrated and more gathered up in itself, it endures.

But do we ever think true duration? Here again a direct taking possession is necessary. It is no use trying to approach duration: we must install ourselves within it straight away. This is what the intellect generally refuses to do, accustomed as it is to think the moving by means of the unmovable.

The function of the intellect is to preside over actions. Now, in action, it is the result that interests us; the means matter little provided the end is attained. Thence it comes that we are altogether bent on the end to be realized, generally trusting ourselves to it in order that the idea may become an act; and thence it comes also that only the goal where our activity will rest is pictured explicitly to our mind: the movements constituting the action itself either elude our consciousness or reach it only confusedly. Let us consider a very simple act, like that of lifting the arm. Where should we be if we had to imagine beforehand all the elementary contractions and tensions this act involves, or even to perceive them, one by one, as they are accomplished? But the mind is carried immediately to the end, that is to say, to the schematic and simplified vision of the act supposed accomplished. Then, if no antagonistic idea neutralizes the effect of the first idea, the appropriate movements come of themselves to fill out the plan, drawn in some way by the void of its gaps. The intellect, then, only represents to the activity ends to attain, that is to say, points of rest. And, from one end attained to another end attained, from one rest to another rest, our activity is carried by a series of leaps, during which our consciousness is turned away as much as possible from the movement going on, to regard only the anticipated image of the movement accomplished.

Now, in order that it may represent as unmovable the result of the act which is being accomplished, the intellect must perceive, as also unmovable, the surroundings in which this result is being framed. Our activity is fitted into the material world. If matter appeared to us as a perpetual flowing, we should assign no termination to any of our actions. We should feel each of them dissolve as fast as it was accomplished, and we should not anticipate an ever-fleeting future. In order that our activity may leap from an act to an act, it is necessary that matter should pass from a state to a state, for it is only into a state of the material world that action can fit a result, so as to be accomplished. But is it thus that matter presents itself?

A priori we may presume that our perception manages to apprehend matter with this bias. Sensory organs and motor organs are in fact coördinated with each other. Now, the first symbolize our faculty of perceiving, as the second our faculty of acting. The organism thus evidences, in a visible and tangible form, the perfect accord of perception and action. So if our activity always aims at a result into which it is momentarily fitted, our perception must retain of the material world, at every moment, only a state in which it is provisionally placed. This is the most natural hypothesis. And it is easy to see that experience confirms it.

From our first glance at the world, before we even make our bodies in it, we distinguish qualities. Color succeeds to color, sound to sound, resistance to resistance, etc. Each of these qualities, taken separately, is a state that seems to persist as such, immovable until another replaces it. Yet each of these qualities resolves itself, on analysis, into an enormous number of elementary movements. Whether we see in it vibrations or whether we represent it in any other way, one fact is certain, it is that every quality is change. In vain, moreover, shall we seek beneath the change the thing which changes: it is always provisionally, and in order to satisfy our imagination, that we attach the movement to a mobile. The mobile flies for ever before the pursuit of science, which is concerned with mobility alone. In the smallest discernible fraction of a second, in the almost instantaneous perception of a sensible quality, there may be trillions of oscillations which repeat themselves. The permanence of a sensible quality consists in this repetition of movements, as the persistence of life consists in a series of palpitations. The primal function of perception is precisely to grasp a series of elementary changes under the form of a quality or of a simple state, by a work of condensation. The greater the power of acting bestowed upon an animal species, the more numerous, probably, are the elementary changes that its faculty of perceiving concentrates into one of its instants. And the progress must be continuous, in nature, from the beings that vibrate almost in unison with the oscillations of the ether, up to those that embrace trillions of these oscillations in the shortest of their simple perceptions. The first feel hardly anything but movements; the others perceive quality. The first are almost caught up in the running-gear of things; the others react, and the tension of their faculty of acting is probably proportional to the concentration of their faculty of perceiving. The progress goes on even in humanity itself. A man is so much the more a "man of action" as he can embrace in a glance a greater number of events: he who perceives successive events one by one will allow himself to be led by them; he who grasps them as a whole will dominate them. In short, the qualities of matter are so many stable views that we take of its instability.

Now, in the continuity of sensible qualities we mark off the boundaries of bodies. Each of these bodies really changes at every moment. In the first place, it resolves itself into a group of qualities, and every quality, as we said, consists of a succession of elementary movements. But, even if we regard the quality as a stable state, the body is still unstable in that it changes qualities without ceasing. The body pre-eminently—that which we are most justified in isolating within the continuity of matter, because it constitutes a relatively closed system—is the living body; it is, moreover, for it that we cut out the others within the whole. Now, life is an evolution. We concentrate a period of this evolution in a stable view which we call a form, and, when the change has become considerable enough to overcome the fortunate inertia of our perception, we say that the body has changed its form. But in reality the body is changing form at every moment; or rather, there is no form, since form is immobile and the reality is movement. What is real is the continual change of form: form is only a snapshot view of a transition. Therefore, here again, our perception manages to solidify into discontinuous images the fluid continuity of the real. When the successive images do not differ from each other too much, we consider them all as the waxing and waning of a single mean image, or as the deformation of this image in different directions. And to this mean we really allude when we speak of the essence of a thing, or of the thing itself.

Finally things, once constituted, show on the surface, by their changes of situation, the profound changes that are being accomplished within the Whole. We say then that they act on one another. This action appears to us, no doubt, in the form of movement. But from the mobility of the movement we turn away as much as we can; what interests us is, as we said above, the unmovable plan of the movement rather than the movement itself. Is it a simple movement? We ask ourselves where it is going. It is by its direction, that is to say, by the position of its provisional end, that we represent it at every moment. Is it a complex movement? We would know above all what is going on, what the movement is doing—in other words, the result obtained or the presiding intention. Examine closely what is in your mind when you speak of an action in course of accomplishment. The idea of change is there, I am willing to grant, but it is hidden in the penumbra. In the full light is the motionless plan of the act supposed accomplished. It is by this, and by this only, that the complex act is distinguished and defined. We should be very much embarrassed if we had to imagine the movements inherent in the actions of eating, drinking, fighting, etc. It is enough for us to know, in a general and indefinite way, that all these acts are movements. Once that side of the matter has been settled, we simply seek to represent thegeneral plan of each of these complex movements, that is to say the motionless design that underlies them. Here again knowledge bears on a state rather than on a change. It is therefore the same with this third case as with the others. Whether the movement be qualitative or evolutionary or extensive, the mind manages to take stable views of the instability. And thence the mind derives, as we have just shown, three kinds of representations: (1) qualities, (2) forms of essences, (3) acts.

To these three ways of seeing correspond three categories of words: adjectives, substantives, and verbs, which are the primordial elements of language. Adjectives and substantives therefore symbolize states. But the verb itself, if we keep to the clear part of the idea it calls up, hardly expresses anything else.

***

Now, if we try to characterize more precisely our natural attitude towards Becoming, this is what we find. Becoming is infinitely varied. That which goes from yellow to green is not like that which goes from green to blue: they are different qualitative movements. That which goes from flower to fruit is not like that which goes from larva to nymph and from nymph to perfect insect: they are different evolutionary movements. The action of eating or of drinking is not like the action of fighting: they are different extensive movements. And these three kinds of movement themselves—qualitative, evolutionary, extensive—differ profoundly. The trick of our perception, like that of our intelligence, like that of our language, consists in extracting from these profoundly different becomings the single representation of becoming in general, undefined becoming, a mere abstraction which by itself says nothing and of which, indeed, it is very rarely that we think. To this idea, always the same, and always obscure or unconscious, we then join, in each particular case, one or several clear images that represent states and which serve to distinguish all becomings from each other. It is this composition of a specified and definite state with change general and undefined that we substitute for the specific change. An infinite multiplicity of becomings variously colored, so to speak, passes before our eyes: we manage so that we see only differences of color, that is to say, differences of state, beneath which there is supposed to flow, hidden from our view, a becoming always and everywhere the same, invariably colorless.

Suppose we wish to portray on a screen a living picture, such as the marching past of a regiment. There is one way in which it might first occur to us to do it. That would be to cut out jointed figures representing the soldiers, to give to each of them the movement of marching, a movement varying from individual to individual although common to the human species, and to throw the whole on the screen. We should need to spend on this little game an enormous amount of work, and even then we should obtain but a very poor result: how could it, at its best, reproduce the suppleness and variety of life? Now, there is another way of proceeding, more easy and at the same time more effective. It is to take a series of snapshots of the passing regiment and to throw these instantaneous views on the screen, so that they replace each other very rapidly. This is what the cinematograph does. With photographs, each of which represents the regiment in a fixed attitude, it reconstitutes the mobility of the regiment marching. It is true that if we had to do with photographs alone, however much we might look at them, we should never see them animated: with immobility set beside immobility, even endlessly, we could never make movement. In order that the pictures may be animated, there must be movement somewhere. The movement does indeed exist here; it is in the apparatus. It is because the film of the cinematograph unrolls, bringing in turn the different photographs of the scene to continue each other, that each actor of the scene recovers his mobility; he strings all his successive attitudes on the invisible movement of the film. The process then consists in extracting from all the movements peculiar to all the figures an impersonal movement abstract and simple, movement in general, so to speak: we put this into the apparatus, and we reconstitute the individuality of each particular movement by combining this nameless movement with the personal attitudes. Such is the contrivance of the cinematograph. And such is also that of our knowledge. Instead of attaching ourselves to the inner becoming of things, we place ourselves outside them in order to recompose their becoming artificially. We take snapshots, as it were, of the passing reality, and, as these are characteristic of the reality, we have only to string them on a becoming, abstract, uniform and invisible, situated at the back of the apparatus of knowledge, in order to imitate what there is that is characteristic in this becoming itself. Perception, intellection, language so proceed in general. Whether we would think becoming, or express it, or even perceive it, we hardly do anything else than set going a kind of cinematograph inside us. We may therefore sum up what we have been saying in the conclusion that the mechanism of our ordinary knowledge is of a cinematographical kind.

Of the altogether practical character of this operation there is no possible doubt. Each of our acts aims at a certain insertion of our will into the reality. There is, between our body and other bodies, an arrangement like that of the pieces of glass that compose a kaleidoscopic picture. Our activity goes from an arrangement to a rearrangement, each time no doubt giving the kaleidoscope a new shake, but not interesting itself in the shake, and seeing only the new picture. Our knowledge of the operation of nature must be exactly symmetrical, therefore, with the interest we take in our own operation. In this sense we may say, if we are not abusing this kind of illustration, that the cinematographical character of our knowledge of things is due to the kaleidoscopic character of our adaptation to them.

The cinematographical method is therefore the only practical method, since it consists in making the general character of knowledge form itself on that of action, while expecting that the detail of each act should depend in its turn on that of knowledge. In order that action may always be enlightened, intelligence must always be present in it; but intelligence, in order thus to accompany the progress of activity and ensure its direction, must begin by adopting its rhythm. Action is discontinuous, like every pulsation of life; discontinuous, therefore, is knowledge. The mechanism of the faculty of knowing has been constructed on this plan. Essentially practical, can it be of use, such as it is, for speculation? Let us try with it to follow reality in its windings, and see what will happen.

I take of the continuity of a particular becoming a series of views, which I connect together by "becoming in general." But of course I cannot stop there. What is not determinable is not representable: of "becoming in general" I have only a verbal knowledge. As the letter x designates a certain unknown quantity, whatever it may be, so my "becoming in general," always the same, symbolizes here a certain transition of which I have taken some snapshots; of the transition itself it teaches me nothing. Let me then concentrate myself wholly on the transition, and, between any two snapshots, endeavor to realize what is going on. As I apply the same method, I obtain the same result; a third view merely slips in between the two others. I may begin again as often as I will, I may set views alongside of views for ever, I shall obtain nothing else. The application of the cinematographical method therefore leads to a perpetual recommencement, during which the mind, never able to satisfy itself and never finding where to rest, persuades itself, no doubt, that it imitates by its instability the very movement of the real. But though, by straining itself to the point of giddiness, it may end by giving itself the illusion of mobility, its operation has not advanced it a step, since it remains as far as ever from its goal. In order to advance with the moving reality, you must replace yourself within it. Install yourself within change, and you will grasp at once both change itself and the successive states in which it might at any instant be immobilized. But with these successive states, perceived from without as real and no longer as potential immobilities, you will never reconstitute movement. Call them qualities, forms, positions, or intentions, as the case may be, multiply the number of them as you will, let the interval between two consecutive states be infinitely small: before the intervening movement you will always experience the disappointment of the child who tries by clapping his hands together to crush the smoke. The movement slips through the interval, because every attempt to reconstitute change out of states implies the absurd proposition, that movement is made of immobilities.

Philosophy perceived this as soon as it opened its eyes. The arguments of Zeno of Elea, although formulated with a very different intention, have no other meaning.

Take the flying arrow. At every moment, says Zeno, it is motionless, for it cannot have time to move, that is, to occupy at least two successive positions, unless at least two moments are allowed it. At a given moment, therefore, it is at rest at a given point. Motionless in each point of its course, it is motionless during all the time that it is moving.

Yes, if we suppose that the arrow can ever be in a point of its course. Yes again, if the arrow, which is moving, ever coincides with a position, which is motionless. But the arrow never is in any point of its course. The most we can say is that it might be there, in this sense, that it passes there and might stop there. It is true that if it did stop there, it would be at rest there, and at this point it is no longer movement that we should have to do with. The truth is that if the arrow leaves the point A to fall down at the point B, its movement AB is as simple, as indecomposable, in so far as it is movement, as the tension of the bow that shoots it. As the shrapnel, bursting before it falls to the ground, covers the explosive zone with an indivisible danger, so the arrow which goes from A to B displays with a single stroke, although over a certain extent of duration, its indivisible mobility. Suppose an elastic stretched from A to B, could you divide its extension? The course of the arrow is this very extension; it is equally simple and equally undivided. It is a single and unique bound. You fix a point C in the interval passed, and say that at a certain moment the arrow was in C. If it had been there, it would have been stopped there, and you would no longer have had a flight from A to B, but two flights, one from A to C and the other from C to B, with an interval of rest. A single movement is entirely, by the hypothesis, a movement between two stops; if there are intermediate stops, it is no longer a single movement. At bottom, the illusion arises from this, that the movement, once effected, has laid along its course a motionless trajectory on which we can count as many immobilities as we will. From this we conclude that the movement, whilst being effected, lays at each instant beneath it a position with which it coincides. We do not see that the trajectory is created in one stroke, although a certain time is required for it; and that though we can divide at will the trajectory once created, we cannot divide its creation, which is an act in progress and not a thing. To suppose that the moving body is at a point of its course is to cut the course in two by a snip of the scissors at this point, and to substitute two trajectories for the single trajectory which we were first considering. It is to distinguish two successive acts where, by the hypothesis, there is only one. In short, it is to attribute to the course itself of the arrow everything that can be said of the interval that the arrow has traversed, that is to say, to admit a priori the absurdity that movement coincides with immobility.

We shall not dwell here on the three other arguments of Zeno. We have examined them elsewhere. It is enough to point out that they all consist in applying the movement to the line traversed, and supposing that what is true of the line is true of the movement. The line, for example, may be divided into as many parts as we wish, of any length that we wish, and it is always the same line. From this we conclude that we have the right to suppose the movement articulated as we wish, and that it is always the same movement. We thus obtain a series of absurdities that all express the same fundamental absurdity. But the possibility of applying the movement to the line traversed exists only for an observer who keeping outside the movement and seeing at every instant the possibility of a stop, tries to reconstruct the real movement with these possible immobilities. The absurdity vanishes as soon as we adopt by thought the continuity of the real movement, a continuity of which every one of us is conscious whenever he lifts an arm or advances a step. We feel then indeed that the line passed over between two stops is described with a single indivisible stroke, and that we seek in vain to practice on the movement, which traces the line, divisions corresponding, each to each, with the divisions arbitrarily chosen of the line once it has been traced. The line traversed by the moving body lends itself to any kind of division, because it has no internal organization. But all movement is articulated inwardly. It is either an indivisible bound (which may occupy, nevertheless, a very long duration) or a series of indivisible bounds. Take the articulations of this movement into account, or give up speculating on its nature.

When Achilles pursues the tortoise, each of his steps must be treated as indivisible, and so must each step of the tortoise. After a certain number of steps, Achilles will have overtaken the tortoise. There is nothing more simple. If you insist on dividing the two motions further, distinguish both on the one side and on the other, in the course of Achilles and in that of the tortoise, the sub-multiples of the steps of each of them; but respect the natural articulations of the two courses. As long as you respect them, no difficulty will arise, because you will follow the indications of experience. But Zeno's device is to reconstruct the movement of Achilles according to a law arbitrarily chosen. Achilles with a first step is supposed to arrive at the point where the tortoise was, with a second step at the point which it has moved to while he was making the first, and so on. In this case, Achilles would always have a new step to take. But obviously, to overtake the tortoise, he goes about it in quite another way. The movement considered by Zeno would only be the equivalent of the movement of Achilles if we could treat the movement as we treat the interval passed through, decomposable and recomposable at will. Once you subscribe to this first absurdity, all the others follow. [99]

Nothing would be easier, now, than to extend Zeno's argument to qualitative becoming and to evolutionary becoming. We should find the same contradictions in these. That the child can become a youth, ripen to maturity and decline to old age, we understand when we consider that vital evolution is here the reality itself. Infancy, adolescence, maturity, old age, are mere views of the mind, possible stops imagined by us, from without, along the continuity of a progress. On the contrary, let childhood, adolescence, maturity and old age be given as integral parts of the evolution, they become real stops, and we can no longer conceive how evolution is possible, for rests placed beside rests will never be equivalent to a movement. How, with what is made, can we reconstitute what is being made? How, for instance, from childhood once posited as a thing, shall we pass to adolescence, when, by the hypothesis, childhood only is given? If we look at it closely, we shall see that our habitual manner of speaking, which is fashioned after our habitual manner of thinking, leads us to actual logical dead-locks—dead-locks to which we allow ourselves to be led without anxiety, because we feel confusedly that we can always get out of them if we like: all that we have to do, in fact, is to give up the cinematographical habits of our intellect. When we say "The child becomes a man," let us take care not to fathom too deeply the literal meaning of the expression, or we shall find that, when we posit the subject "child," the attribute "man" does not yet apply to it, and that, when we express the attribute "man," it applies no more to the subject "child." The reality, which is the transition from childhood to manhood, has slipped between our fingers. We have only the imaginary stops "child" and "man," and we are very near to saying that one of these stops is the other, just as the arrow of Zeno is, according to that philosopher, at all the points of the course. The truth is that if language here were molded on reality, we should not say "The child becomes the man," but "There is becoming from the child to the man." In the first proposition, "becomes" is a verb of indeterminate meaning, intended to mask the absurdity into which we fall when we attribute the state "man" to the subject "child." It behaves in much the same way as the movement, always the same, of the cinematographical film, a movement hidden in the apparatus and whose function it is to superpose the successive pictures on one another in order to imitate the movement of the real object. In the second proposition, "becoming" is a subject. It comes to the front. It is the reality itself; childhood and manhood are then only possible stops, mere views of the mind; we now have to do with the objective movement itself, and no longer with its cinematographical imitation. But the first manner of expression is alone conformable to our habits of language. We must, in order to adopt the second, escape from the cinematographical mechanism of thought.

We must make complete abstraction of this mechanism, if we wish to get rid at one stroke of the theoretical absurdities that the question of movement raises. All is obscure, all is contradictory when we try, with states, to build up a transition. The obscurity is cleared up, the contradiction vanishes, as soon as we place ourselves along the transition, in order to distinguish states in it by making cross cuts therein in thought. The reason is that there is more in the transition than the series of states, that is to say, the possible cuts—more in the movement than the series of positions, that is to say, the possible stops. Only, the first way of looking at things is conformable to the processes of the human mind; the second requires, on the contrary, that we reverse the bent of our intellectual habits. No wonder, then, if philosophy at first recoiled before such an effort. The Greeks trusted to nature, trusted the natural propensity of the mind, trusted language above all, in so far as it naturally externalizes thought. Rather than lay blame on the attitude of thought and language toward the course of things, they preferred to pronounce the course of things itself to be wrong.

Such, indeed, was the sentence passed by the philosophers of the Eleatic school. And they passed it without any reservation whatever. As becoming shocks the habits of thought and fits ill into the molds of language, they declared it unreal. In spatial movement and in change in general they saw only pure illusion. This conclusion could be softened down without changing the premisses, by saying that the reality changes, but that it ought not to change. Experience confronts us with becoming: that is sensible reality. But the intelligible reality, that which ought to be, is more real still, and that reality does not change. Beneath the qualitative becoming, beneath the evolutionary becoming, beneath the extensive becoming, the mind must seek that which defies change, the definable quality, the form or essence, the end. Such was the fundamental principle of the philosophy which developed throughout the classic age, the philosophy of Forms, or, to use a term more akin to the Greek, the philosophy of Ideas.

The word ειδος, which we translate here by "Idea," has, in fact, this threefold meaning. It denotes (1) the quality, (2) the form or essence, (3) the end ordesign (in the sense of intention) of the act being performed, that is to say, at bottom, the design (in the sense of drawing) of the act supposed accomplished.These three aspects are those of the adjective, substantive and verb, and correspond to the three essential categories of language. After the explanations we have given above, we might, and perhaps we ought to, translate ειδος by "view" or rather by "moment." For ειδος is the stable view taken of the instability of things: the quality, which is a moment of becoming; the form, which is a moment of evolution; the essence, which is the mean form above and below which the other forms are arranged as alterations of the mean; finally, the intention or mental design which presides over the action being accomplished, and which is nothing else, we said, than the material design, traced out and contemplated beforehand, of the action accomplished. To reduce things to Ideas is therefore to resolve becoming into its principal moments, each of these being, moreover, by the hypothesis, screened from the laws of time and, as it were, plucked out of eternity. That is to say that we end in the philosophy of Ideas when we apply the cinematographical mechanism of the intellect to the analysis of the real.

But, when we put immutable Ideas at the base of the moving reality, a whole physics, a whole cosmology, a whole theology follows necessarily. We must insist on the point. Not that we mean to summarize in a few pages a philosophy so complex and so comprehensive as that of the Greeks. But, since we have described the cinematographical mechanism of the intellect, it is important that we should show to what idea of reality the play of this mechanism leads. It is the very idea, we believe, that we find in the ancient philosophy. The main lines of the doctrine that was developed from Plato to Plotinus, passing through Aristotle (and even, in a certain measure, through the Stoics), have nothing accidental, nothing contingent, nothing that must be regarded as a philosopher's fancy. They indicate the vision that a systematic intellect obtains of the universal becoming when regarding it by means of snapshots, taken at intervals, of its flowing. So that, even to-day, we shall philosophize in the manner of the Greeks, we shall rediscover, without needing to know them, such and such of their general conclusions, in the exact proportion that we trust in the cinematographical instinct of our thought.

***

We said there is more in a movement than in the successive positions attributed to the moving object, more in a becoming than in the forms passed through in turn, more in the evolution of form than the forms assumed one after another. Philosophy can therefore derive terms of the second kind from those of the first, but not the first from the second: from the first terms speculation must take its start. But the intellect reverses the order of the two groups; and, on this point, ancient philosophy proceeds as the intellect does. It installs itself in the immutable, it posits only Ideas. Yet becoming exists: it is a fact. How, then, having posited immutability alone, shall we make change come forth from it? Not by the addition of anything, for, by the hypothesis, there exists nothing positive outside Ideas. It must therefore be by a diminution. So at the base of ancient philosophy lies necessarily this postulate: that there is more in the motionless than in the moving, and that we pass from immutability to becoming by way of diminution or attenuation.

It is therefore something negative, or zero at most, that must be added to Ideas to obtain change. In that consists the Platonic "non-being," the Aristotelian "matter"—a metaphysical zero which, joined to the Idea, like the arithmetical zero to unity, multiplies it in space and time. By it the motionless and simple Idea is refracted into a movement spread out indefinitely. In right, there ought to be nothing but immutable Ideas, immutably fitted to each other. In fact, matter comes to add to them its void, and thereby lets loose the universal becoming. It is an elusive nothing, that creeps between the Ideas and creates endless agitation, eternal disquiet, like a suspicion insinuated between two loving hearts. Degrade the immutable Ideas: you obtain, by that alone, the perpetual flux of things. The Ideas or Forms are the whole of intelligible reality, that is to say, of truth, in that they represent, all together, the theoretical equilibrium of Being. As to sensible reality, it is a perpetual oscillation from one side to the other of this point of equilibrium.

Hence, throughout the whole philosophy of Ideas there is a certain conception of duration, as also of the relation of time to eternity. He who installs himself in becoming sees in duration the very life of things, the fundamental reality. The Forms, which the mind isolates and stores up in concepts, are then only snapshots of the changing reality. They are moments gathered along the course of time; and, just because we have cut the thread that binds them to time, they no longer endure. They tend to withdraw into their own definition, that is to say, into the artificial reconstruction and symbolical expression which is their intellectual equivalent. They enter into eternity, if you will; but what is eternal in them is just what is unreal. On the contrary, if we treat becoming by the cinematographical method, the Forms are no longer snapshots taken of the change, they are its constitutive elements, they represent all that is positive in Becoming. Eternity no longer hovers over time, as an abstraction; it underlies time, as a reality. Such is exactly, on this point, the attitude of the philosophy of Forms or Ideas. It establishes between eternity and time the same relation as between a piece of gold and the small change—change so small that payment goes on for ever without the debt being paid off. The debt could be paid at once with the piece of gold. It is this that Plato expresses in his magnificent language when he says that God, unable to make the world eternal, gave it Time, "a moving image of eternity." [100]

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Part 3 of 4

Hence also arises a certain conception of extension, which is at the base of the philosophy of Ideas, although it has not been so explicitly brought out. Let us imagine a mind placed alongside becoming, and adopting its movement. Each successive state, each quality, each form, in short, will be seen by it as a mere cut made by thought in the universal becoming. It will be found that form is essentially extended, inseparable as it is from the extensity of the becoming which has materialized it in the course of its flow. Every form thus occupies space, as it occupies time. But the philosophy of Ideas follows the inverse direction. It starts from the Form; it sees in the Form the very essence of reality. It does not take Form as a snapshot of becoming; it posits Forms in the eternal; of this motionless eternity, then, duration and becoming are supposed to be only the degradation. Form thus posited, independent of time, is then no longer what is found in a perception; it is a concept. And, as a reality of the conceptual order occupies no more of extension than it does of duration, the Forms must be stationed outside space as well as above time. Space and time have therefore necessarily, in ancient philosophy, the same origin and the same value. The same diminution of being is expressed both by extension in space and detention in time. Both of these are but the distance between what is and what ought to be. From the standpoint of ancient philosophy, space and time can be nothing but the field that an incomplete reality, or rather a reality that has gone astray from itself, needs in order to run in quest of itself. Only it must be admitted that the field is created as the hunting progresses, and that the hunting in some way deposits the field beneath it. Move an imaginary pendulum, a mere mathematical point, from its position of equilibrium: a perpetual oscillation is started, along which points are placed next to points, and moments succeed moments. The space and time which thus arise have no more "positivity" than the movement itself. They represent the remoteness of the position artificially given to the pendulum from its normal position, what it lacks in order to regain its natural stability. Bring it back to its normal position: space, time and motion shrink to a mathematical point. Just so, human reasonings are drawn out into an endless chain, but are at once swallowed up in the truth seized by intuition, for their extension in space and time is only the distance, so to speak, between thought and truth. [101] So of extension and duration in relation to pure Forms or Ideas. The sensible forms are before us, ever about to recover their ideality, ever prevented by the matter they bear in them, that is to say, by their inner void, by the interval between what they are and what they ought to be. They are for ever on the point of recovering themselves, for ever occupied in losing themselves. An inflexible law condemns them, like the rock of Sisyphus, to fall back when they are almost touching the summit, and this law, which has projected them into space and time, is nothing other than the very constancy of their original insufficiency. The alternations of generation and decay, the evolutions ever beginning over and over again, the infinite repetition of the cycles of celestial spheres—this all represents merely a certain fundamental deficit, in which materiality consists. Fill up this deficit: at once you suppress space and time, that is to say, the endlessly renewed oscillations around a stable equilibrium always aimed at, never reached. Things re-enter into each other. What was extended in space is contracted into pure Form. And past, present, and future shrink into a single moment, which is eternity.

This amounts to saying that physics is but logic spoiled. In this proposition the whole philosophy of Ideas is summarized. And in it also is the hidden principle of the philosophy that is innate in our understanding. If immutability is more than becoming, form is more than change, and it is by a veritable fall that the logical system of Ideas, rationally subordinated and coördinated among themselves, is scattered into a physical series of objects and events accidentally placed one after another. The generative idea of a poem is developed in thousands of imaginations which are materialized in phrases that spread themselves out in words. And the more we descend from the motionless idea, wound on itself, to the words that unwind it, the more room is left for contingency and choice. Other metaphors, expressed by other words, might have arisen; an image is called up by an image, a word by a word. All these words run now one after another, seeking in vain, by themselves, to give back the simplicity of the generative idea. Our ear only hears the words: it therefore perceives only accidents. But our mind, by successive bounds, leaps from the words to the images, from the images to the original idea, and so gets back, from the perception of words—accidents called up by accidents—to the conception of the Idea that posits its own being. So the philosopher proceeds, confronted with the universe. Experience makes to pass before his eyes phenomena which run, they also, one behind another in an accidental order determined by circumstances of time and place. This physical order—a degeneration of the logical order—is nothing else but the fall of the logical into space and time. But the philosopher, ascending again from the percept to the concept, sees condensed into the logical all the positive reality that the physical possesses. His intellect, doing away with the materiality that lessens being, grasps being itself in the immutable system of Ideas. Thus Science is obtained, which appears to us, complete and ready-made, as soon as we put back our intellect into its true place, correcting the deviation that separated it from the intelligible. Science is not, then, a human construction. It is prior to our intellect, independent of it, veritably the generator of Things.

And indeed, if we hold the Forms to be simply snapshots taken by the mind of the continuity of becoming, they must be relative to the mind that thinks them, they can have no independent existence. At most we might say that each of these Ideas is an ideal. But it is in the opposite hypothesis that we are placing ourselves. Ideas must then exist by themselves. Ancient philosophy could not escape this conclusion. Plato formulated it, and in vain did Aristotle strive to avoid it. Since movement arises from the degradation of the immutable, there could be no movement, consequently no sensible world, if there were not, somewhere, immutability realized. So, having begun by refusing to Ideas an independent existence, and finding himself nevertheless unable to deprive them of it, Aristotle pressed them into each other, rolled them up into a ball, and set above the physical world a Form that was thus found to be the Form of Forms, the Idea of Ideas, or, to use his own words, the Thought of Thought. Such is the God of Aristotle—necessarily immutable and apart from what is happening in the world, since he is only the synthesis of all concepts in a single concept. It is true that no one of the manifold concepts could exist apart, such as it is in the divine unity: in vain should we look for the ideas of Plato within the God of Aristotle. But if only we imagine the God of Aristotle in a sort of refraction of himself, or simply inclining toward the world, at once the Platonic Ideas are seen to pour themselves out of him, as if they were involved in the unity of his essence: so rays stream out from the sun, which nevertheless did not contain them. It is probably this possibility of an outpouring of Platonic Ideas from the Aristotelian God that is meant, in the philosophy of Aristotle, by the active intellect, the νους that has been called ποιητικος—that is, by what is essential and yet unconscious in human intelligence. The νους ποιητικος is Science entire, posited all at once, which the conscious, discursive intellect is condemned to reconstruct with difficulty, bit by bit. There is then within us, or rather behind us, a possible vision of God, as the Alexandrians said, a vision always virtual, never actually realized by the conscious intellect. In this intuition we should see God expand in Ideas. This it is that "does everything," [102] playing in relation to the discursive intellect, which moves in time, the same rôle as the motionless Mover himself plays in relation to the movement of the heavens and the course of things.

There is, then, immanent in the philosophy of Ideas, a particular conception of causality, which it is important to bring into full light, because it is that which each of us will reach when, in order to ascend to the origin of things, he follows to the end the natural movement of the intellect. True, the ancient philosophers never formulated it explicitly. They confined themselves to drawing the consequences of it, and, in general, they have marked but points of view of it rather than presented it itself. Sometimes, indeed, they speak of an attraction, sometimes of an impulsion exercised by the prime mover on the whole of the world. Both views are found in Aristotle, who shows us in the movement of the universe an aspiration of things toward the divine perfection, and consequently an ascent toward God, while he describes it elsewhere as the effect of a contact of God with the first sphere and as descending, consequently, from God to things. The Alexandrians, we think, do no more than follow this double indication when they speak of procession and conversion. Everything is derived from the first principle, and everything aspires to return to it. But these two conceptions of the divine causality can only be identified together if we bring them, both the one and the other, back to a third, which we hold to be fundamental, and which alone will enable us to understand, not only why, in what sense, things move in space and time, but also why there is space and time, why there is movement, why there are things.

This conception, which more and more shows through the reasonings of the Greek philosophers as we go from Plato to Plotinus, we may formulate thus: The affirmation of a reality implies the simultaneous affirmation of all the degrees of reality intermediate between it and nothing. The principle is evident in the case of number: we cannot affirm the number 10 without thereby affirming the existence of the numbers 9, 8, 7, ..., etc.—in short, of the whole interval between 10 and zero. But here our mind passes naturally from the sphere of quantity to that of quality. It seems to us that, a certain perfection being given, the whole continuity of degradations is given also between this perfection, on the one hand, and the nought, on the other hand, that we think we conceive. Let us then posit the God of Aristotle, thought of thought—that is, thought making a circle, transforming itself from subject to object and from object to subject by an instantaneous, or rather an eternal, circular process: as, on the other hand, the nought appears to posit itself, and as, the two extremities being given, the interval between them is equally given, it follows that all the descending degrees of being, from the divine perfection down to the "absolute nothing," are realized automatically, so to speak, when we have posited God.

Let us then run through this interval from top to bottom. First of all, the slightest diminution of the first principle will be enough to precipitate Being into space and time; but duration and extension, which represent this first diminution, will be as near as possible to the divine inextension and eternity. We must therefore picture to ourselves this first degradation of the divine principle as a sphere turning on itself, imitating, by the perpetuity of its circular movement, the eternity of the circle of the divine thought; creating, moreover, its own place, and thereby place in general. [103] since it includes without being included and moves without stirring from the spot; creating also its own duration, and thereby duration in general, since its movement is the measure of all motion. [104] Then, by degrees, we shall see the perfection decrease, more and more, down to our sublunary world, in which the cycle of birth, growth and decay imitates and mars the original circle for the last time. So understood, the causal relation between God and the world is seen as an attraction when regarded from below, as an impulsion or a contact when regarded from above, since the first heaven, with its circular movement, is an imitation of God and all imitation is the reception of a form. Therefore, we perceive God as efficient cause or as final cause, according to the point of view. And yet neither of these two relations is the ultimate causal relation. The true relation is that which is found between the two members of an equation, when the first member is a single term and the second a sum of an endless number of terms. It is, we may say, the relation of the gold-piece to the small change, if we suppose the change to offer itself automatically as soon as the gold piece is presented. Only thus can we understand why Aristotle has demonstrated the necessity of a first motionless mover, not by founding it on the assertion that the movement of things must have had a beginning, but, on the contrary, by affirming that this movement could not have begun and can never come to an end. If movement exists, or, in other words, if the small change is being counted, the gold piece is to be found somewhere. And if the counting goes on for ever, having never begun, the single term that is eminently equivalent to it must be eternal. A perpetuity of mobility is possible only if it is backed by an eternity of immutability, which it unwinds in a chain without beginning or end.

Such is the last word of the Greek philosophy. We have not attempted to reconstruct it a priori. It has manifold origins. It is connected by many invisible threads to the soul of ancient Greece. Vain, therefore, the effort to deduce it from a simple principle. [105] But if everything that has come from poetry, religion, social life and a still rudimentary physics and biology be removed from it, if we take away all the light material that may have been used in the construction of the stately building, a solid framework remains, and this framework marks out the main lines of a metaphysic which is, we believe, the natural metaphysic of the human intellect. We come to a philosophy of this kind, indeed, whenever we follow to the end, the cinematographical tendency of perception and thought. Our perception and thought begin by substituting for the continuity of evolutionary change a series of unchangeable forms which are turn by turn, "caught on the wing," like the rings at a merry-go-round, which the children unhook with their little stick as they are passing. Now, how can the forms be passing, and on what "stick" are they strung? As the stable forms have been obtained by extracting from change everything that is definite, there is nothing left, to characterize the instability on which the forms are laid, but a negative attribute, which must be indetermination itself. Such is the first proceeding of our thought: it dissociates each change into two elements—the one stable, definable for each particular case, to wit, the Form; the other indefinable and always the same, Change in general. And such, also, is the essential operation of language. Forms are all that it is capable of expressing. It is reduced to taking as understood or is limited to suggesting a mobility which, just because it is always unexpressed, is thought to remain in all cases the same.—Then comes in a philosophy that holds the dissociation thus effected by thought and language to be legitimate. What can it do, except objectify the distinction with more force, push it to its extreme consequences, reduce it into a system? It will therefore construct the real, on the one hand, with definite Forms or immutable elements, and, on the other, with a principle of mobility which, being the negation of the form, will, by the hypothesis, escape all definition and be the purely indeterminate. The more it directs its attention to the forms delineated by thought and expressed by language, the more it will see them rise above the sensible and become subtilized into pure concepts, capable of entering one within the other, and even of being at last massed together into a single concept, the synthesis of all reality, the achievement of all perfection. The more, on the contrary, it descends toward the invisible source of the universal mobility, the more it will feel this mobility sink beneath it and at the same time become void, vanish into what it will call the "non-being." Finally, it will have on the one hand the system of ideas, logically coördinated together or concentrated into one only, on the other a quasi-nought, the Platonic "non-being" or the Aristotelian "matter."—But, having cut your cloth, you must sew it. With supra-sensible Ideas and an infra-sensible non-being, you now have to reconstruct the sensible world. You can do so only if you postulate a kind of metaphysical necessity in virtue of which the confronting of this All with this Zero is equivalent to the affirmation of all the degrees of reality that measure the interval between them—just as an undivided number, when regarded as a difference between itself and zero, is revealed as a certain sum of units, and with its own affirmation affirms all the lower numbers. That is the natural postulate. It is that also that we perceive as the base of the Greek philosophy. In order then to explain the specific characters of each of these degrees of intermediate reality, nothing more is necessary than to measure the distance that separates it from the integral reality. Each lower degree consists in a diminution of the higher, and the sensible newness that we perceive in it is resolved, from the point of view of the intelligible, into a new quantity of negation which is superadded to it. The smallest possible quantity of negation, that which is found already in the highest forms of sensible reality, and consequently a fortiori in the lower forms, is that which is expressed by the most general attributes of sensible reality, extension and duration. By increasing degradations we will obtain attributes more and more special. Here the philosopher's fancy will have free scope, for it is by an arbitrary decree, or at least a debatable one, that a particular aspect of the sensible world will be equated with a particular diminution of being. We shall not necessarily end, as Aristotle did, in a world consisting of concentric spheres turning on themselves. But we shall be led to an analogous cosmology—I mean, to a construction whose pieces, though all different, will have none the less the same relations between them. And this cosmology will be ruled by the same principle. The physical will be defined by the logical. Beneath the changing phenomena will appear to us, by transparence, a closed system of concepts subordinated to and coördinated with each other. Science, understood as the system of concepts, will be more real than the sensible reality. It will be prior to human knowledge, which is only able to spell it letter by letter; prior also to things, which awkwardly try to imitate it. It would only have to be diverted an instant from itself in order to step out of its eternity and thereby coincide with all this knowledge and all these things. Its immutability is therefore, indeed, the cause of the universal becoming.

Such was the point of view of ancient philosophy in regard to change and duration. That modern philosophy has repeatedly, but especially in its beginnings, had the wish to depart from it, seems to us unquestionable. But an irresistible attraction brings the intellect back to its natural movement, and the metaphysic of the moderns to the general conclusions of the Greek metaphysic. We must try to make this point clear, in order to show by what invisible threads our mechanistic philosophy remains bound to the ancient philosophy of Ideas, and how also it responds to the requirements, above all practical, of our understanding.

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Modern, like ancient, science proceeds according to the cinematographical method. It cannot do otherwise; all science is subject to this law. For it is of the essence of science to handle signs, which it substitutes for the objects themselves. These signs undoubtedly differ from those of language by their greater precision and their higher efficacy; they are none the less tied down to the general condition of the sign, which is to denote a fixed aspect of the reality under an arrested form. In order to think movement, a constantly renewed effort of the mind is necessary. Signs are made to dispense us with this effort by substituting, for the moving continuity of things, an artificial reconstruction which is its equivalent in practice and has the advantage of being easily handled. But let us leave aside the means and consider only the end. What is the essential object of science? It is to enlarge our influence over things. Science may be speculative in its form, disinterested in its immediate ends; in other words we may give it as long a credit as it wants. But, however long the day of reckoning may be put off, some time or other the payment must be made. It is always then, in short, practical utility that science has in view. Even when it launches into theory, it is bound to adapt its behavior to the general form of practice. However high it may rise, it must be ready to fall back into the field of action, and at once to get on its feet. This would not be possible for it, if its rhythm differed absolutely from that of action itself. Now action, we have said, proceeds by leaps. To act is to re-adapt oneself. To know, that is to say, to foresee in order to act, is then to go from situation to situation, from arrangement to rearrangement. Science may consider rearrangements that come closer and closer to each other; it may thus increase the number of moments that it isolates, but it always isolates moments. As to what happens in the interval between the moments, science is no more concerned with that than are our common intelligence, our senses and our language: it does not bear on the interval, but only on the extremities. So the cinematographical method forces itself upon our science, as it did already on that of the ancients.

Wherein, then, is the difference between the two sciences? We indicated it when we said that the ancients reduced the physical order to the vital order, that is to say, laws to genera, while the moderns try to resolve genera into laws. But we have to look at it in another aspect, which, moreover, is only a transposition, of the first. Wherein consists the difference of attitude of the two sciences toward change? We may formulate it by saying that ancient science thinks it knows its object sufficiently when it has noted of it some privileged moments, whereas modern science considers the object at any moment whatever.

The forms or ideas of Plato or of Aristotle correspond to privileged or salient moments in the history of things—those, in general, that have been fixed by language. They are supposed, like the childhood or the old age of a living being, to characterize a period of which they express the quintessence, all the rest of this period being filled by the passage, of no interest in itself, from one form to another form. Take, for instance, a falling body. It was thought that we got near enough to the fact when we characterized it as a whole: it was a movement downward; it was the tendency toward a centre; it was the natural movement of a body which, separated from the earth to which it belonged, was now going to find its place again. They noted, then, the final term or culminating point (τελος ακμη) and set it up as the essential moment: this moment, that language has retained in order to express the whole of the fact, sufficed also for science to characterize it. In the physics of Aristotle, it is by the concepts "high" and "low," spontaneous displacement and forced displacement, own place and strange place, that the movement of a body shot into space or falling freely is defined. But Galileo thought there was no essential moment, no privileged instant. To study the falling body is to consider it at it matters not what moment in its course. The true science of gravity is that which will determine, for any moment of time whatever, the position of the body in space. For this, indeed, signs far more precise than those of language are required.

We may say, then, that our physics differs from that of the ancients chiefly in the indefinite breaking up of time. For the ancients, time comprises as many undivided periods as our natural perception and our language cut out in it successive facts, each presenting a kind of individuality. For that reason, each of these facts admits, in their view, of only a total definition or description. If, in describing it, we are led to distinguish phases in it, we have several facts instead of a single one, several undivided periods instead of a single period; but time is always supposed to be divided into determinate periods, and the mode of division to be forced on the mind by apparent crises of the real, comparable to that of puberty, by the apparent release of a new form.—For a Kepler or a Galileo, on the contrary, time is not divided objectively in one way or another by the matter that fills it. It has no natural articulations. We can, we ought to, divide it as we please. All moments count. None of them has the right to set itself up as a moment that represents or dominates the others. And, consequently, we know a change only when we are able to determine what it is about at any one of its moments.

The difference is profound. In fact, in a certain aspect it is radical. But, from the point of view from which we are regarding it, it is a difference of degree rather than of kind. The human mind has passed from the first kind of knowledge to the second through gradual perfecting, simply by seeking a higher precision. There is the same relation between these two sciences as between the noting of the phases of a movement by the eye and the much more complete recording of these phases by instantaneous photography. It is the same cinematographical mechanism in both cases, but it reaches a precision in the second that it cannot have in the first. Of the gallop of a horse our eye perceives chiefly a characteristic, essential or rather schematic attitude, a form that appears to radiate over a whole period and so fill up a time of gallop. It is this attitude that sculpture has fixed on the frieze of the Parthenon. But instantaneous photography isolates any moment; it puts them all in the same rank, and thus the gallop of a horse spreads out for it into as many successive attitudes as it wishes, instead of massing itself into a single attitude, which is supposed to flash out in a privileged moment and to illuminate a whole period.

From this original difference flow all the others. A science that considers, one after the other, undivided periods of duration, sees nothing but phases succeeding phases, forms replacing forms; it is content with a qualitative description of objects, which it likens to organized beings. But when we seek to know what happens within one of these periods, at any moment of time, we are aiming at something entirely different. The changes which are produced from one moment to another are no longer, by the hypothesis, changes of quality; they are quantitative variations, it may be of the phenomenon itself, it may be of its elementary parts. We were right then to say that modern science is distinguishable from the ancient in that it applies to magnitudes and proposes first and foremost to measure them. The ancients did indeed try experiments, and on the other hand Kepler tried no experiment, in the proper sense of the word, in order to discover a law which is the very type of scientific knowledge as we understand it. What distinguishes modern science is not that it is experimental, but that it experiments and, more generally, works only with a view to measure.

For that reason it is right, again, to say that ancient science applied to concepts, while modern science seeks laws—constant relations between variable magnitudes. The concept of circularity was sufficient to Aristotle to define the movement of the heavenly bodies. But, even with the more accurate concept of elliptical form, Kepler did not think he had accounted for the movement of planets. He had to get a law, that is to say, a constant relation between the quantitative variations of two or several elements of the planetary movement.

Yet these are only consequences—differences that follow from the fundamental difference. It did happen to the ancients accidentally to experiment with a view to measuring, as also to discover a law expressing a constant relation between magnitudes. The principle of Archimedes is a true experimental law. It takes into account three variable magnitudes: the volume of a body, the density of the liquid in which the body is immersed, the vertical pressure that is being exerted. And it states indeed that one of these three terms is a function of the other two.

The essential, original difference must therefore be sought elsewhere. It is the same that we noticed first. The science of the ancients is static. Either it considers in block the change that it studies, or, if it divides the change into periods, it makes of each of these periods a block in its turn: which amounts to saying that it takes no account of time. But modern science has been built up around the discoveries of Galileo and of Kepler, which immediately furnished it with a model. Now, what do the laws of Kepler say? They lay down a relation between the areas described by the heliocentric radius-vector of a planet and the time employed in describing them, a relation between the longer axis of the orbit and the time taken up by the course. And what was the principle discovered by Galileo? A law which connected the space traversed by a falling body with the time occupied by the fall. Furthermore, in what did the first of the great transformations of geometry in modern times consist, if not in introducing—in a veiled form, it is true—time and movement even in the consideration of figures? For the ancients, geometry was a purely static science. Figures were given to it at once, completely finished, like the Platonic Ideas. But the essence of the Cartesian geometry (although Descartes did not give it this form) was to regard every plane curve as described by the movement of a point on a movable straight line which is displaced, parallel to itself, along the axis of the abscissae—the displacement of the movable straight line being supposed to be uniform and the abscissa thus becoming representative of the time. The curve is then defined if we can state the relation connecting the space traversed on the movable straight line to the time employed in traversing it, that is, if we are able to indicate the position of the movable point, on the straight line which it traverses, at any moment whatever of its course. This relation is just what we call the equation of the curve. To substitute an equation for a figure consists, therefore, in seeing the actual position of the moving points in the tracing of the curve at any moment whatever, instead of regarding this tracing all at once, gathered up in the unique moment when the curve has reached its finished state.

Such, then, was the directing idea of the reform by which both the science of nature and mathematics, which serves as its instrument, were renewed. Modern science is the daughter of astronomy; it has come down from heaven to earth along the inclined plane of Galileo, for it is through Galileo that Newton and his successors are connected with Kepler. Now, how did the astronomical problem present itself to Kepler? The question was, knowing the respective positions of the planets at a given moment, how to calculate their positions at any other moment. So the same question presented itself, henceforth, for every material system. Each material point became a rudimentary planet, and the main question, the ideal problem whose solution would yield the key to all the others was, the positions of these elements at a particular moment being given, how to determine their relative positions at any moment. No doubt the problem cannot be put in these precise terms except in very simple cases, for a schematized reality; for we never know the respective positions of the real elements of matter, supposing there are real elements; and, even if we knew them at a given moment, the calculation of their positions at another moment would generally require a mathematical effort surpassing human powers. But it is enough for us to know that these elements might be known, that their present positions might be noted, and that a superhuman intellect might, by submitting these data to mathematical operations, determine the positions of the elements at any other moment of time. This conviction is at the bottom of the questions we put to ourselves on the subject of nature, and of the methods we employ to solve them. That is why every law in static form seems to us as a provisional instalment or as a particular view of a dynamic law which alone would give us whole and definitive knowledge.

Let us conclude, then, that our science is not only distinguished from ancient science in this, that it seeks laws, nor even in this, that its laws set forth relations between magnitudes: we must add that the magnitude to which we wish to be able to relate all others is time, and that modern science must be defined pre-eminently by its aspiration to take time as an independent variable. But with what time has it to do?

We have said before, and we cannot repeat too often, that the science of matter proceeds like ordinary knowledge. It perfects this knowledge, increases its precision and its scope, but it works in the same direction and puts the same mechanism into play. If, therefore, ordinary knowledge, by reason of the cinematographical mechanism to which it is subjected, forbears to follow becoming in so far as becoming is moving, the science of matter renounces it equally. No doubt, it distinguishes as great a number of moments as we wish in the interval of time it considers. However small the intervals may be at which it stops, it authorizes us to divide them again if necessary. In contrast with ancient science, which stopped at certain so-called essential moments, it is occupied indifferently with any moment whatever. But it always considers moments, always virtual stopping-places, always, in short, immobilities. Which amounts to saying that real time, regarded as a flux, or, in other words, as the very mobility of being, escapes the hold of scientific knowledge. We have already tried to establish this point in a former work. We alluded to it again in the first chapter of this book. But it is necessary to revert to it once more, in order to clear up misunderstandings.

When positive science speaks of time, what it refers to is the movement of a certain mobile T on its trajectory. This movement has been chosen by it as representative of time, and it is, by definition, uniform. Let us call T1, T2, T3, ... etc., points which divide the trajectory of the mobile into equal parts from its origin T0. We shall say that 1, 2, 3, ... units of time have flowed past, when the mobile is at the points T1, T2 T3, ... of the line it traverses. Accordingly, to consider the state of the universe at the end of a certain time t, is to examine where it will be when T is at the point Tt of its course. But of the flux itself of time, still less of its effect on consciousness, there is here no question; for there enter into the calculation only the points T1, T2, T3, ... taken on the flux, never the flux itself. We may narrow the time considered as much as we will, that is, break up at will the interval between two consecutive divisions Tn and Tn-|-1; but it is always with points, and with points only, that we are dealing. What we retain of the movement of the mobile T are positions taken on its trajectory. What we retain of all the other points of the universe are their positions on their respective trajectories. To each virtual stop of the moving body T at the points of division T1, T2, T3, ... we make correspond a virtual stop of all the other mobiles at the points where they are passing. And when we say that a movement or any other change has occupied a time t, we mean by it that we have noted a number t of correspondences of this kind. We have therefore counted simultaneities; we have not concerned ourselves with the flux that goes from one to another. The proof of this is that I can, at discretion, vary the rapidity of the flux of the universe in regard to a consciousness that is independent of it and that would perceive the variation by the quite qualitative feelingthat it would have of it: whatever the variation had been, since the movement of T would participate in this variation, I should have nothing to change in my equations nor in the numbers that figure in them.

Let us go further. Suppose that the rapidity of the flux becomes infinite. Imagine, as we said in the first pages of this book, that the trajectory of the mobile T is given at once, and that the whole history, past, present and future, of the material universe is spread out instantaneously in space. The same mathematical correspondences will subsist between the moments of the history of the world unfolded like a fan, so to speak, and the divisions T1, T2, T3, ... of the line which will be called, by definition, "the course of time." In the eyes of science nothing will have changed. But if, time thus spreading itself out in space and succession becoming juxtaposition, science has nothing to change in what it tells us, we must conclude that, in what it tells us, it takes account neither ofsuccession in what of it is specific nor of time in what there is in it that is fluent. It has no sign to express what strikes our consciousness in succession and duration. It no more applies to becoming, so far as that is moving, than the bridges thrown here and there across the stream follow the water that flows under their arches.

Yet succession exists; I am conscious of it; it is a fact. When a physical process is going on before my eyes, my perception and my inclination have nothing to do with accelerating or retarding it. What is important to the physicist is the number of units of duration the process fills; he does not concern himself about the units themselves and that is why the successive states of the world might be spread out all at once in space without his having to change anything in his science or to cease talking about time. But for us, conscious beings, it is the units that matter, for we do not count extremities of intervals, we feel and live the intervals themselves. Now, we are conscious of these intervals as of definite intervals. Let me come back again to the sugar in my glass of water: [106] why must I wait for it to melt? While the duration of the phenomenon is relative for the physicist, since it is reduced to a certain number of units of time and the units themselves are indifferent, this duration is an absolute for my consciousness, for it coincides with a certain degree of impatience which is rigorously determined. Whence comes this determination? What is it that obliges me to wait, and to wait for a certain length of psychical duration which is forced upon me, over which I have no power? If succession, in so far as distinct from mere juxtaposition, has no real efficacy, if time is not a kind of force, why does the universe unfold its successive states with a velocity which, in regard to my consciousness, is a veritable absolute? Why with this particular velocity rather than any other? Why not with an infinite velocity? Why, in other words, is not everything given at once, as on the film of the cinematograph? The more I consider this point, the more it seems to me that, if the future is bound to succeed the present instead of being given alongside of it, it is because the future is not altogether determined at the present moment, and that if the time taken up by this succession is something other than a number, if it has for the consciousness that is installed in it absolute value and reality, it is because there is unceasingly being created in it, not indeed in any such artificially isolated system as a glass of sugared water, but in the concrete whole of which every such system forms part, something unforeseeable and new. This duration may not be the fact of matter itself, but that of the life which reascends the course of matter; the two movements are none the less mutually dependent upon each other. The duration of the universe must therefore be one with the latitude of creation which can find place in it.

When a child plays at reconstructing a picture by putting together the separate pieces in a puzzle game, the more he practices, the more and more quickly he succeeds. The reconstruction was, moreover, instantaneous, the child found it ready-made, when he opened the box on leaving the shop. The operation, therefore, does not require a definite time, and indeed, theoretically, it does not require any time. That is because the result is given. It is because the picture is already created, and because to obtain it requires only a work of recomposing and rearranging—a work that can be supposed going faster and faster, and even infinitely fast, up to the point of being instantaneous. But, to the artist who creates a picture by drawing it from the depths of his soul, time is no longer an accessory; it is not an interval that may be lengthened or shortened without the content being altered. The duration of his work is part and parcel of his work. To contract or to dilate it would be to modify both the psychical evolution that fills it and the invention which is its goal. The time taken up by the invention, is one with the invention itself. It is the progress of a thought which is changing in the degree and measure that it is taking form. It is a vital process, something like the ripening of an idea.

The painter is before his canvas, the colors are on the palette, the model is sitting—all this we see, and also we know the painter's style: do we foresee what will appear on the canvas? We possess the elements of the problem; we know in an abstract way, how it will be solved, for the portrait will surely resemble the model and will surely resemble also the artist; but the concrete solution brings with it that unforeseeable nothing which is everything in a work of art. And it is this nothing that takes time. Nought as matter, it creates itself as form. The sprouting and flowering of this form are stretched out on an unshrinkable duration, which is one with their essence. So of the works of nature. Their novelty arises from an internal impetus which is progress or succession, which confers on succession a peculiar virtue or which owes to succession the whole of its virtue—which, at any rate, makes succession, or continuity of interpenetration in time, irreducible to a mere instantaneous juxtaposition in space. This is why the idea of reading in a present state of the material universe the future of living forms, and of unfolding now their history yet to come, involves a veritable absurdity. But this absurdity is difficult to bring out, because our memory is accustomed to place alongside of each other, in an ideal space, the terms it perceives in turn, because it always represents past succession in the form of juxtaposition. It is able to do so, indeed, just because the past belongs to that which is already invented, to the dead, and no longer to creation and to life. Then, as the succession to come will end by being a succession past, we persuade ourselves that the duration to come admits of the same treatment as past duration, that it is, even now, unrollable, that the future is there, rolled up, already painted on the canvas. An illusion, no doubt, but an illusion that is natural, ineradicable, and that will last as long as the human mind!

Time is invention or it is nothing at all. But of time-invention physics can take no account, restricted as it is to the cinematographical method. It is limited to counting simultaneities between the events that make up this time and the positions of the mobile T on its trajectory. It detaches these events from the whole, which at every moment puts on a new form and which communicates to them something of its novelty. It considers them in the abstract, such as they would be outside of the living whole, that is to say, in a time unrolled in space. It retains only the events or systems of events that can be thus isolated without being made to undergo too profound a deformation, because only these lend themselves to the application of its method. Our physics dates from the day when it was known how to isolate such systems. To sum up, while modern physics is distinguished from ancient physics by the fact that it considers any moment of time whatever, it rests altogether on a substitution of time-length for time-invention.

It seems then that, parallel to this physics, a second kind of knowledge ought to have grown up, which could have retained what physics allowed to escape. On the flux itself of duration science neither would nor could lay hold, bound as it was to the cinematographical method. This second kind of knowledge would have set the cinematographical method aside. It would have called upon the mind to renounce its most cherished habits. It is within becoming that it would have transported us by an effort of sympathy. We should no longer be asking where a moving body will be, what shape a system will take, through what state a change will pass at a given moment: the moments of time, which are only arrests of our attention, would no longer exist; it is the flow of time, it is the very flux of the real that we should be trying to follow. The first kind of knowledge has the advantage of enabling us to foresee the future and of making us in some measure masters of events; in return, it retains of the moving reality only eventual immobilities, that is to say, views taken of it by our mind. It symbolizes the real and transposes it into the human rather than expresses it. The other knowledge, if it is possible, is practically useless, it will not extend our empire over nature, it will even go against certain natural aspirations of the intellect; but, if it succeeds, it is reality itself that it will hold in a firm and final embrace. Not only may we thus complete the intellect and its knowledge of matter by accustoming it to install itself within the moving, but by developing also another faculty, complementary to the intellect, we may open a perspective on the other half of the real. For, as soon as we are confronted with true duration, we see that it means creation, and that if that which is being unmade endures, it can only be because it is inseparably bound to what is making itself. Thus will appear the necessity of a continual growth of the universe, I should say of a life of the real. And thus will be seen in a new light the life which we find on the surface of our planet, a life directed the same way as that of the universe, and inverse of materiality. To intellect, in short, there will be added intuition.

The more we reflect on it, the more we shall find that this conception of metaphysics is that which modern science suggests.

For the ancients, indeed, time is theoretically negligible, because the duration of a thing only manifests the degradation of its essence: it is with this motionless essence that science has to deal. Change being only the effort of a form toward its own realization, the realization is all that it concerns us to know. No doubt the realization is never complete: it is this that ancient philosophy expresses by saying that we do not perceive form without matter. But if we consider the changing object at a certain essential moment, at its apogee, we may say that there it just touches its intelligible form. This intelligible form, this ideal and, so to speak, limiting form, our science seizes upon. And possessing in this the gold-piece, it holds eminently the small money which we call becoming or change. This change is less than being. The knowledge that would take it for object, supposing such knowledge were possible, would be less than science.

But, for a science that places all the moments of time in the same rank, that admits no essential moment, no culminating point, no apogee, change is no longer a diminution of essence, duration is not a dilution of eternity. The flux of time is the reality itself, and the things which we study are the things which flow. It is true that of this flowing reality we are limited to taking instantaneous views. But, just because of this, scientific knowledge must appeal to another knowledge to complete it. While the ancient conception of scientific knowledge ended in making time a degradation, and change the diminution of a form given from all eternity—on the contrary, by following the new conception to the end, we should come to see in time a progressive growth of the absolute, and in the evolution of things a continual invention of forms ever new.

It is true that it would be to break with the metaphysics of the ancients. They saw only one way of knowing definitely. Their science consisted in a scattered and fragmentary metaphysics, their metaphysics in a concentrated and systematic science. Their science and metaphysics were, at most, two species of one and the same genus. In our hypothesis, on the contrary, science and metaphysics are two opposed although complementary ways of knowing, the first retaining only moments, that is to say, that which does not endure, the second bearing on duration itself. Now, it was natural to hesitate between so novel a conception of metaphysics and the traditional conception. The temptation must have been strong to repeat with the new science what had been tried on the old, to suppose our scientific knowledge of nature completed at once, to unify it entirely, and to give to this unification, as the Greeks had already done, the name of metaphysics. So, beside the new way that philosophy might have prepared, the old remained open, that indeed which physics trod. And, as physics retained of time only what could as well be spread out all at once in space, the metaphysics that chose the same direction had necessarily to proceed as if time created and annihilated nothing, as if duration had no efficacy. Bound, like the physics of the moderns and the metaphysics of the ancients, to the cinematographical method, it ended with the conclusion, implicitly admitted at the start and immanent in the method itself: All is given.

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Part 4 of 4

That metaphysics hesitated at first between the two paths seems to us unquestionable. The indecision is visible in Cartesianism. On the one hand, Descartes affirms universal mechanism: from this point of view movement would be relative, [107] and, as time has just as much reality as movement, it would follow that past, present and future are given from all eternity. But, on the other hand (and that is why the philosopher has not gone to these extreme consequences), Descartes believes in the free will of man. He superposes on the determinism of physical phenomena the indeterminism of human actions, and, consequently, on time-length a time in which there is invention, creation, true succession. This duration he supports on a God who is unceasingly renewing the creative act, and who, being thus tangent to time and becoming, sustains them, communicates to them necessarily something of his absolute reality. When he places himself at this second point of view, Descartes speaks of movement, even spatial, as of an absolute. [108]

He therefore entered both roads one after the other, having resolved to follow neither of them to the end. The first would have led him to the denial of free will in man and of real will in God. It was the suppression of all efficient duration, the likening of the universe to a thing given, which a superhuman intelligence would embrace at once in a moment or in eternity. In following the second, on the contrary, he would have been led to all the consequences which the intuition of true duration implies. Creation would have appeared not simply as continued, but also as continuous. The universe, regarded as a whole, would really evolve. The future would no longer be determinable by the present; at most we might say that, once realized, it can be found again in its antecedents, as the sounds of a new language can be expressed with the letters of an old alphabet if we agree to enlarge the value of the letters and to attribute to them, retro-actively, sounds which no combination of the old sounds could have produced beforehand. Finally, the mechanistic explanation might have remained universal in this, that it can indeed be extended to as many systems as we choose to cut out in the continuity of the universe; but mechanism would then have become a method rather than a doctrine. It would have expressed the fact that science must proceed after the cinematographical manner, that the function of science is to scan the rhythm of the flow of things and not to fit itself into that flow.—Such were the two opposite conceptions of metaphysics which were offered to philosophy.

It chose the first. The reason of this choice is undoubtedly the mind's tendency to follow the cinematographical method, a method so natural to our intellect, and so well adjusted also to the requirements of our science, that we must feel doubly sure of its speculative impotence to renounce it in metaphysics. But ancient philosophy also influenced the choice. Artists for ever admirable, the Greeks created a type of supra-sensible truth, as of sensible beauty, whose attraction is hard to resist. As soon as we incline to make metaphysics a systematization of science, we glide in the direction of Plato and of Aristotle. And, once in the zone of attraction in which the Greek philosophers moved, we are drawn along in their orbit.

Such was the case with Leibniz, as also with Spinoza. We are not blind to the treasures of originality their doctrines contain. Spinoza and Leibniz have poured into them the whole content of their souls, rich with the inventions of their genius and the acquisitions of modern thought. And there are in each of them, especially in Spinoza, flashes of intuition that break through the system. But if we leave out of the two doctrines what breathes life into them, if we retain the skeleton only, we have before us the very picture of Platonism and Aristotelianism seen through Cartesian mechanism. They present to us a systematization of the new physics, constructed on the model of the ancient metaphysics.

What, indeed, could the unification of physics be? The inspiring idea of that science was to isolate, within the universe, systems of material points such that, the position of each of these points being known at a given moment, we could then calculate it for any moment whatever. As, moreover, the systems thus defined were the only ones on which the new science had hold, and as it could not be known beforehand whether a system satisfied or did not satisfy the desired condition, it was useful to proceed always and everywhere as if the condition was realized. There was in this a methodological rule, a very natural rule—so natural, indeed, that it was not even necessary to formulate it. For simple common sense tells us that when we are possessed of an effective instrument of research, and are ignorant of the limits of its applicability, we should act as if its applicability were unlimited; there will always be time to abate it. But the temptation must have been great for the philosopher to hypostatize this hope, or rather this impetus, of the new science, and to convert a general rule of method into a fundamental law of things. So he transported himself at once to the limit; he supposed physics to have become complete and to embrace the whole of the sensible world. The universe became a system of points, the position of which was rigorously determined at each instant by relation to the preceding instant and theoretically calculable for any moment whatever. The result, in short, was universal mechanism. But it was not enough to formulate this mechanism; what was required was to found it, to give the reason for it and prove its necessity. And the essential affirmation of mechanism being that of a reciprocal mathematical dependence of all the points of the universe, as also of all the moments of the universe, the reason of mechanism had to be discovered in the unity of a principle into which could be contracted all that is juxtaposed in space and successive in time. Hence, the whole of the real was supposed to be given at once. The reciprocal determination of the juxtaposed appearances in space was explained by the indivisibility of true being, and the inflexible determinism of successive phenomena in time simply expressed that the whole of being is given in the eternal.

The new philosophy was going, then, to be a recommencement, or rather a transposition, of the old. The ancient philosophy had taken each of the conceptsinto which a becoming is concentrated or which mark its apogee: it supposed them all known, and gathered them up into a single concept, form of forms, idea of ideas, like the God of Aristotle. The new philosophy was going to take each of the laws which condition a becoming in relation to others and which are as the permanent substratum of phenomena: it would suppose them all known, and would gather them up into a unity which also would express them eminently, but which, like the God of Aristotle and for the same reasons, must remain immutably shut up in itself.

True, this return to the ancient philosophy was not without great difficulties. When a Plato, an Aristotle, or a Plotinus melt all the concepts of their science into a single one, in so doing they embrace the whole of the real, for concepts are supposed to represent the things themselves, and to possess at least as much positive content. But a law, in general, expresses only a relation, and physical laws in particular express only quantitative relations between concrete things. So that if a modern philosopher works with the laws of the new science as the Greek philosopher did with the concepts of the ancient science, if he makes all the conclusions of a physics supposed omniscient converge on a single point, he neglects what is concrete in the phenomena—the qualities perceived, the perceptions themselves. His synthesis comprises, it seems, only a fraction of reality. In fact, the first result of the new science was to cut the real into two halves, quantity and quality, the former being credited to the account of bodies and the latter to the account of souls. The ancients had raised no such barriers either between quality and quantity or between soul and body. For them, the mathematical concepts were concepts like the others, related to the others and fitting quite naturally into the hierarchy of the Ideas. Neither was the body then defined by geometrical extension, nor the soul by consciousness. If the φυχη of Aristotle, the entelechy of a living body, is less spiritual than our "soul," it is because his οωμα, already impregnated with the Idea, is less corporeal than our "body." The scission was not yet irremediable between the two terms. It has become so, and thence a metaphysic that aims at an abstract unity must resign itself either to comprehend in its synthesis only one half of the real, or to take advantage of the absolute heterogeneity of the two halves in order to consider one as a translation of the other. Different phrases will express different things if they belong to the same language, that is to say, if there is a certain relationship of sound between them. But if they belong to two different languages, they might, just because of their radical diversity of sound, express the same thing. So of quality and quantity, of soul and body. It is for having cut all connection between the two terms that philosophers have been led to establish between them a rigorous parallelism, of which the ancients had not dreamed, to regard them as translations and not as inversions of each other; in short, to posit a fundamental identity as a substratum to their duality. The synthesis to which they rose thus became capable of embracing everything. A divine mechanism made the phenomena of thought to correspond to those of extension, each to each, qualities to quantities, souls to bodies.

It is this parallelism that we find both in Leibniz and in Spinoza—in different forms, it is true, because of the unequal importance which they attach to extension. With Spinoza, the two terms Thought and Extension are placed, in principle at least, in the same rank. They are, therefore, two translations of one and the same original, or, as Spinoza says, two attributes of one and the same substance, which we must call God. And these two translations, as also an infinity of others into languages which we know not, are called up and even forced into existence by the original, just as the essence of the circle is translated automatically, so to speak, both by a figure and by an equation. For Leibniz, on the contrary, extension is indeed still a translation, but it is thought that is the original, and thought might dispense with translation, the translation being made only for us. In positing God, we necessarily posit also all the possible views of God, that is to say, the monads. But we can always imagine that a view has been taken from a point of view, and it is natural for an imperfect mind like ours to class views, qualitatively different, according to the order and position of points of view, qualitatively identical, from which the views might have been taken. In reality the points of view do not exist, for there are only views, each given in an indivisible block and representing in its own way the whole of reality, which is God. But we need to express the plurality of the views, that are unlike each other, by the multiplicity of the points of view that are exterior to each other; and we also need to symbolize the more or less close relationship between the views by the relative situation of the points of view to one another, their nearness or their distance, that is to say, by a magnitude. That is what Leibniz means when he says that space is the order of coexistents, that the perception of extension is a confused perception (that is to say, a perception relative to an imperfect mind), and that nothing exists but monads, expressing thereby that the real Whole has no parts, but is repeated to infinity, each time integrally (though diversely) within itself, and that all these repetitions are complementary to each other. In just the same way, the visible relief of an object is equivalent to the whole set of stereoscopic views taken of it from all points, so that, instead of seeing in the relief a juxtaposition of solid parts, we might quite as well look upon it as made of the reciprocal complementarity of these whole views, each given in block, each indivisible, each different from all the others and yet representative of the same thing. The Whole, that is to say, God, is this very relief for Leibniz, and the monads are these complementary plane views; for that reason he defines God as "the substance that has no point of view," or, again, as "the universal harmony," that is to say, the reciprocal complementarity of monads. In short, Leibniz differs from Spinoza in this, that he looks upon the universal mechanism as an aspect which reality takes for us, whereas, Spinoza makes of it an aspect which reality takes for itself.

It is true that, after having concentrated in God the whole of the real, it became difficult for them to pass from God to things, from eternity to time. The difficulty was even much greater for these philosophers than an Aristotle or a Plotinus. The God of Aristotle, indeed, had been obtained by the compression and reciprocal compenetration of the Ideas that represent, in their finished state or in their culminating point, the changing things of the world. He was, therefore, transcendent to the world, and the duration of things was juxtaposed to His eternity, of which it was only a weakening. But in the principle to which we are led by the consideration of universal mechanism, and which must serve as its substratum, it is not concepts or things, but laws or relations that are condensed. Now, a relation does not exist separately. A law connects changing terms and is immanent in what it governs. The principle in which all these relations are ultimately summed up, and which is the basis of the unity of nature, cannot, therefore, be transcendent to sensible reality; it is immanent in it, and we must suppose that it is at once both in and out of time, gathered up in the unity of its substance and yet condemned to wind it off in an endless chain. Rather than formulate so appalling a contradiction, the philosophers were necessarily led to sacrifice the weaker of the two terms, and to regard the temporal aspect of things as a mere illusion. Leibniz says so in explicit terms, for he makes of time, as of space, a confused perception. While the multiplicity of his monads expresses only the diversity of views taken of the whole, the history of an isolated monad seems to be hardly anything else than the manifold views that it can take of its own substance: so that time would consist in all the points of view that each monad can assume towards itself, as space consists in all the points of view that all monads can assume towards God. But the thought of Spinoza is much less clear, and this philosopher seems to have sought to establish, between eternity and that which has duration, the same difference as Aristotle made between essence and accidents: a most difficult undertaking, for the υλη of Aristotle was no longer there to measure the distance and explain the passage from the essential to the accidental, Descartes having eliminated it for ever. However that may be, the deeper we go into the Spinozistic conception of the "inadequate," as related to the "adequate," the more we feel ourselves moving in the direction of Aristotelianism—just as the Leibnizian monads, in proportion as they mark themselves out the more clearly, tend to approximate to the Intelligibles of Plotinus. [109] The natural trend of these two philosophies brings them back to the conclusions of the ancient philosophy.

To sum up, the resemblances of this new metaphysic to that of the ancients arise from the fact that both suppose ready-made—the former above the sensible, the latter within the sensible—a science one and complete, with which any reality that the sensible may contain is believed to coincide. For both, reality as well as truth are integrally given in eternity. Both are opposed to the idea of a reality that creates itself gradually, that is, at bottom, to an absolute duration.

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Now, it might easily be shown that the conclusions of this metaphysic, springing from science, have rebounded upon science itself, as it were, by ricochet. They penetrate the whole of our so-called empiricism. Physics and chemistry study only inert matter; biology, when it treats the living being physically and chemically, considers only the inert side of the living: hence the mechanistic explanations, in spite of their development, include only a small part of the real. To suppose a priori that the whole of the real is resolvable into elements of this kind, or at least that mechanism can give a complete translation of what happens in the world, is to pronounce for a certain metaphysic—the very metaphysic of which Spinoza and Leibniz have laid down the principles and drawn the consequences. Certainly, the psycho-physiologist who affirms the exact equivalence of the cerebral and the psychical state, who imagines the possibility, for some superhuman intellect, of reading in the brain what is going on in consciousness, believes himself very far from the metaphysicians of the seventeenth century, and very near to experience. Yet experience pure and simple tells us nothing of the kind. It shows us the interdependence of the mental and the physical, the necessity of a certain cerebral substratum for the psychical state—nothing more. From the fact that two things are mutually dependent, it does not follow that they are equivalent. Because a certain screw is necessary to a certain machine, because the machine works when the screw is there and stops when the screw is taken away, we do not say that the screw is the equivalent of the machine. For correspondence to be equivalence, it would be necessary that to any part of the machine a definite part of the screw should correspond—as in a literal translation in which each chapter renders a chapter, each sentence a sentence, each word a word. Now, the relation of the brain to consciousness seems to be entirely different. Not only does the hypothesis of an equivalence between the psychical state and the cerebral state imply a downright absurdity, as we have tried to prove in a former essay, [110] but the facts, examined without prejudice, certainly seem to indicate that the relation of the psychical to the physical is just that of the machine to the screw. To speak of an equivalence between the two is simply to curtail, and make almost unintelligible, the Spinozistic or Leibnizian metaphysic. It is to accept this philosophy, such as it is, on the side of Extension, but to mutilate it on the side of Thought. With Spinoza, with Leibniz, we suppose the unifying synthesis of the phenomena of matter achieved, and everything in matter explained mechanically. But, for the conscious facts, we no longer push the synthesis to the end. We stop half-way. We suppose consciousness to be coextensive with a certain part of nature and not with all of it. We are thus led, sometimes to an "epiphenomenalism" that associates consciousness with certain particular vibrations and puts it here and there in the world in a sporadic state, and sometimes to a "monism" that scatters consciousness into as many tiny grains as there are atoms; but, in either case, it is to an incomplete Spinozism or to an incomplete Leibnizianism that we come back. Between this conception of nature and Cartesianism we find, moreover, intermediate historical stages. The medical philosophers of the eighteenth century, with their cramped Cartesianism, have had a great part in the genesis of the "epiphenomenalism" and "monism" of the present day.

***

These doctrines are thus found to fall short of the Kantian criticism. Certainly, the philosophy of Kant is also imbued with the belief in a science single and complete, embracing the whole of the real. Indeed, looked at from one aspect, it is only a continuation of the metaphysics of the moderns and a transposition of the ancient metaphysics. Spinoza and Leibniz had, following Aristotle, hypostatized in God the unity of knowledge. The Kantian criticism, on one side at least, consists in asking whether the whole of this hypothesis is necessary to modern science as it was to ancient science, or if part of the hypothesis is not sufficient. For the ancients, science applied to concepts, that is to say, to kinds of things. In compressing all concepts into one, they therefore necessarily arrived at a being, which we may call Thought, but which was rather thought-object than thought-subject. When Aristotle defined God the νοησεως νοησις, it is probably on νοησεως, and not on νοησις that he put the emphasis. God was the synthesis of all concepts, the idea of ideas. But modern science turns on laws, that is, on relations. Now, a relation is a bond established by a mind between two or more terms. A relation is nothing outside of the intellect that relates. The universe, therefore, can only be a system of laws if phenomena have passed beforehand through the filter of an intellect. Of course, this intellect might be that of a being infinitely superior to man, who would found the materiality of things at the same time that he bound them together: such was the hypothesis of Leibniz and of Spinoza. But it is not necessary to go so far, and, for the effect we have here to obtain, the human intellect is enough: such is precisely the Kantian solution. Between the dogmatism of a Spinoza or a Leibniz and the criticism of Kant there is just the same distance as between "it may be maintained that—" and "it suffices that—." Kant stops this dogmatism on the incline that was making it slip too far toward the Greek metaphysics; he reduces to the strict minimum the hypothesis which is necessary in order to suppose the physics of Galileo indefinitely extensible. True, when he speaks of the human intellect, he means neither yours nor mine: the unity of nature comes indeed from the human understanding that unifies, but the unifying function that operates here is impersonal. It imparts itself to our individual consciousnesses, but it transcends them. It is much less than a substantial God; it is, however, a little more than the isolated work of a man or even than the collective work of humanity. It does not exactly lie within man; rather, man lies within it, as in an atmosphere of intellectuality which his consciousness breathes. It is, if we will, a formal God, something that in Kant is not yet divine, but which tends to become so. It became so, indeed, with Fichte. With Kant, however, its principal rôle was to give to the whole of our science a relative and humancharacter, although of a humanity already somewhat deified. From this point of view, the criticism of Kant consisted chiefly in limiting the dogmatism of his predecessors, accepting their conception of science and reducing to a minimum the metaphysic it implied.

But it is otherwise with the Kantian distinction between the matter of knowledge and its form. By regarding intelligence as pre-eminently a faculty of establishing relations, Kant attributed an extra-intellectual origin to the terms between which the relations are established. He affirmed, against his immediate predecessors, that knowledge is not entirely resolvable into terms of intelligence. He brought back into philosophy—while modifying it and carrying it on to another plane—that essential element of the philosophy of Descartes which had been abandoned by the Cartesians.

Thereby he prepared the way for a new philosophy, which might have established itself in the extra-intellectual matter of knowledge by a higher effort of intuition. Coinciding with this matter, adopting the same rhythm and the same movement, might not consciousness, by two efforts of opposite direction, raising itself and lowering itself by turns, become able to grasp from within, and no longer perceive only from without, the two forms of reality, body and mind? Would not this twofold effort make us, as far as that is possible, re-live the absolute? Moreover, as, in the course of this operation, we should see intellect spring up of itself, cut itself out in the whole of mind, intellectual knowledge would then appear as it is, limited, but not relative.

Such was the direction that Kantianism might have pointed out to a revivified Cartesianism. But in this direction Kant himself did not go.

He would not, because, while assigning to knowledge an extra-intellectual matter, he believed this matter to be either coextensive with intellect or less extensive than intellect. Therefore he could not dream of cutting out intellect in it, nor, consequently, of tracing the genesis of the understanding and its categories. The molds of the understanding and the understanding itself had to be accepted as they are, already made. Between the matter presented to our intellect and this intellect itself there was no relationship. The agreement between the two was due to the fact that intellect imposed its form on matter. So that not only was it necessary to posit the intellectual form of knowledge as a kind of absolute and give up the quest of its genesis, but the very matter of this knowledge seemed too ground down by the intellect for us to be able to hope to get it back in its original purity. It was not the "thing-in-itself," it was only the refraction of it through our atmosphere.

If now we inquire why Kant did not believe that the matter of our knowledge extends beyond its form, this is what we find. The criticism of our knowledge of nature that was instituted by Kant consisted in ascertaining what our mind must be and what Nature must be if the claims of our science are justified; but of these claims themselves Kant has not made the criticism. I mean that he took for granted the idea of a science that is one, capable of binding with the same force all the parts of what is given, and of coördinating them into a system presenting on all sides an equal solidity. He did not consider, in his Critique of Pure Reason, that science became less and less objective, more and more symbolical, to the extent that it went from the physical to the vital, from the vital to the psychical. Experience does not move, to his view, in two different and perhaps opposite ways, the one conformable to the direction of the intellect, the other contrary to it. There is, for him, only one experience, and the intellect covers its whole ground. This is what Kant expresses by saying that all our intuitions are sensuous, or, in other words, infra-intellectual. And this would have to be admitted, indeed, if our science presented in all its parts an equal objectivity. But suppose, on the contrary, that science is less and less objective, more and more symbolical, as it goes from the physical to the psychical, passing through the vital: then, as it is indeed necessary to perceive a thing somehow in order to symbolize it, there would be an intuition of the psychical, and more generally of the vital, which the intellect would transpose and translate, no doubt, but which would none the less transcend the intellect. There would be, in other words, a supra-intellectual intuition. If this intuition exist, a taking possession of the spirit by itself is possible, and no longer only a knowledge that is external and phenomenal. What is more, if we have an intuition of this kind (I mean an ultra-intellectual intuition) then sensuous intuition is likely to be in continuity with it through certain intermediaries, as the infra-red is continuous with the ultra-violet. Sensuous intuition itself, therefore, is promoted. It will no longer attain only the phantom of an unattainable thing-in-itself. It is (provided we bring to it certain indispensable corrections) into the absolute itself that it will introduce us. So long as it was regarded as the only material of our science, it reflected back on all science something of the relativity which strikes a scientific knowledge of spirit; and thus the perception of bodies, which is the beginning of the science of bodies, seemed itself to be relative. Relative, therefore, seemed to be sensuous intuition. But this is not the case if distinctions are made between the different sciences, and if the scientific knowledge of the spiritual (and also, consequently, of the vital) be regarded as the more or less artificial extension of a certain manner of knowing which, applied to bodies, is not at all symbolical. Let us go further: if there are thus two intuitions of different order (the second being obtained by a reversal of the direction of the first), and if it is toward the second that the intellect naturally inclines, there is no essential difference between the intellect and this intuition itself. The barriers between the matter of sensible knowledge and its form are lowered, as also between the "pure forms" of sensibility and the categories of the understanding. The matter and form of intellectual knowledge (restricted to its own object) are seen to be engendering each other by a reciprocal adaptation, intellect modeling itself on corporeity, and corporeity on intellect.

But this duality of intuition Kant neither would nor could admit. It would have been necessary, in order to admit it, to regard duration as the very stuff of reality, and consequently to distinguish between the substantial duration of things and time spread out in space. It would have been necessary to regard space itself, and the geometry which is immanent in space, as an ideal limit in the direction of which material things develop, but which they do not actually attain. Nothing could be more contrary to the letter, and perhaps also to the spirit, of the Critique of Pure Reason. No doubt, knowledge is presented to us in it as an ever-open roll, experience as a push of facts that is for ever going on. But, according to Kant, these facts are spread out on one plane as fast as they arise; they are external to each other and external to the mind. Of a knowledge from within, that could grasp them in their springing forth instead of taking them already sprung, that would dig beneath space and spatialized time, there is never any question. Yet it is indeed beneath this plane that our consciousness places us; there flows true duration.

In this respect, also, Kant is very near his predecessors. Between the non-temporal, and the time that is spread out in distinct moments, he admits no mean. And as there is indeed no intuition that carries us into the non-temporal, all intuition is thus found to be sensuous, by definition. But between physical existence, which is spread out in space, and non-temporal existence, which can only be a conceptual and logical existence like that of which metaphysical dogmatism speaks, is there not room for consciousness and for life? There is, unquestionably. We perceive it when we place ourselves in duration in order to go from that duration to moments, instead of starting from moments in order to bind them again and to construct duration.

Yet it was to a non-temporal intuition that the immediate successors of Kant turned, in order to escape from the Kantian relativism. Certainly, the ideas of becoming, of progress, of evolution, seem to occupy a large place in their philosophy. But does duration really play a part in it? Real duration is that in which each form flows out of previous forms, while adding to them something new, and is explained by them as much as it explains them; but to deduce this form directly from one complete Being which it is supposed to manifest, is to return to Spinozism. It is, like Leibniz and Spinoza, to deny to duration all efficient action. The post-Kantian philosophy, severe as it may have been on the mechanistic theories, accepts from mechanism the idea of a science that is one and the same for all kinds of reality. And it is nearer to mechanism than it imagines; for though, in the consideration of matter, of life and of thought, it replaces the successive degrees of complexity, that mechanism supposed by degrees of the realization of an Idea or by degrees of the objectification of a Will, it still speaks of degrees, and these degrees are those of a scale which Being traverses in a single direction. In short, it makes out the same articulations in nature that mechanism does. Of mechanism it retains the whole design; it merely gives it a different coloring. But it is the design itself, or at least one half of the design, that needs to be re-made.

If we are to do that, we must give up the method of construction, which was that of Kant's successors. We must appeal to experience—an experience purified, or, in other words, released, where necessary, from the molds that our intellect has formed in the degree and proportion of the progress of our action on things. An experience of this kind is not a non-temporal experience. It only seeks, beyond the spatialized time in which we believe we see continual rearrangements between the parts, that concrete duration in which a radical recasting of the whole is always going on. It follows the real in all its sinuosities. It does not lead us, like the method of construction, to higher and higher generalities—piled-up stories of a magnificent building. But then it leaves no play between the explanations it suggests and the objects it has to explain. It is the detail of the real, and no longer only the whole in a lump, that it claims to illumine.

***

That the thought of the nineteenth century called for a philosophy of this kind, rescued from the arbitrary, capable of coming down to the detail of particular facts, is unquestionable. Unquestionably, also, it felt that this philosophy ought to establish itself in what we call concrete duration. The advent of the moral sciences, the progress of psychology, the growing importance of embryology among the biological sciences—all this was bound to suggest the idea of a reality which endures inwardly, which is duration itself. So, when a philosopher arose who announced a doctrine of evolution, in which the progress of matter toward perceptibility would be traced together with the advance of the mind toward rationality, in which the complication of correspondences between the external and the internal would be followed step by step, in which change would become the very substance of things—to him all eyes were turned. The powerful attraction that Spencerian evolutionism has exercised on contemporary thought is due to that very cause. However far Spencer may seem to be from Kant, however ignorant, indeed, he may have been of Kantianism, he felt, nevertheless, at his first contact with the biological sciences, the direction in which philosophy could continue to advance without laying itself open to the Kantian criticism.

But he had no sooner started to follow the path than he turned off short. He had promised to retrace a genesis, and, lo! he was doing something entirely different. His doctrine bore indeed the name of evolutionism; it claimed to remount and redescend the course of the universal becoming; but, in fact, it dealt neither with becoming nor with evolution.

We need not enter here into a profound examination of this philosophy. Let us say merely that the usual device of the Spencerian method consists in reconstructing evolution with fragments of the evolved. If I paste a picture on a card and then cut up the card into bits, I can reproduce the picture by rightly grouping again the small pieces. And a child who working thus with the pieces of a puzzle-picture, and putting together unformed fragments of the picture finally obtains a pretty colored design, no doubt imagines that he has produced design and color. Yet the act of drawing and painting has nothing to do with that of putting together the fragments of a picture already drawn and already painted. So, by combining together the most simple results of evolution, you may imitate well or ill the most complex effects; but of neither the simple nor the complex will you have retraced the genesis, and the addition of evolved to evolved will bear no resemblance whatever to the movement of evolution.

Such, however, is Spencer's illusion. He takes reality in its present form; he breaks it to pieces, he scatters it in fragments which he throws to the winds; then he "integrates" these fragments and "dissipates their movement." Having imitated the Whole by a work of mosaic, he imagines he has retraced the design of it, and made the genesis.

Is it matter that is in question? The diffused elements which he integrates into visible and tangible bodies have all the air of being the very particles of the simple bodies, which he first supposes disseminated throughout space. They are, at any rate, "material points," and consequently unvarying points, veritable little solids: as if solidity, being what is nearest and handiest to us, could be found at the very origin of materiality! The more physics progresses, the more it shows the impossibility of representing the properties of ether or of electricity—the probable base of all bodies—on the model of the properties of the matter which we perceive. But philosophy goes back further even than the ether, a mere schematic figure of the relations between phenomena apprehended by our senses. It knows indeed that what is visible and tangible in things represents our possible action on them. It is not by dividing the evolved that we shall reach the principle of that which evolves. It is not by recomposing the evolved with itself that we shall reproduce the evolution of which it is the term.

Is it the question of mind? By compounding the reflex with the reflex, Spencer thinks he generates instinct and rational volition one after the other. He fails to see that the specialized reflex, being a terminal point of evolution just as much as perfect will, cannot be supposed at the start. That the first of the two terms should have reached its final form before the other is probable enough; but both the one and the other are deposits of the evolution movement, and the evolution movement itself can no more be expressed as a function solely of the first than solely of the second. We must begin by mixing the reflex and the voluntary. We must then go in quest of the fluid reality which has been precipitated in this twofold form, and which probably shares in both without being either. At the lowest degree of the animal scale, in living beings that are but an undifferentiated protoplasmic mass, the reaction to stimulus does not yet call into play one definite mechanism, as in the reflex; it has not yet choice among several definite mechanisms, as in the voluntary act; it is, then, neither voluntary nor reflex, though it heralds both. We experience in ourselves something of this true original activity when we perform semi-voluntary and semi-automatic movements to escape a pressing danger. And yet this is but a very imperfect imitation of the primitive character, for we are concerned here with a mixture of two activities already formed, already localized in a brain and in a spinal cord, whereas the original activity was a simple thing, which became diversified through the very construction of mechanisms like those of the spinal cord and brain. But to all this Spencer shuts his eyes, because it is of the essence of his method to recompose the consolidated with the consolidated, instead of going back to the gradual process of consolidation, which is evolution itself.

Is it, finally, the question of the correspondence between mind and matter? Spencer is right in defining the intellect by this correspondence. He is right in regarding it as the end of an evolution. But when he comes to retrace this evolution, again he integrates the evolved with the evolved—failing to see that he is thus taking useless trouble, and that in positing the slightest fragment of the actually evolved he posits the whole—so that it is vain for him, then, to pretend to make the genesis of it.

For, according to him, the phenomena that succeed each other in nature project into the human mind images which represent them. To the relations between phenomena, therefore, correspond symmetrically relations between the ideas. And the most general laws of nature, in which the relations between phenomena are condensed, are thus found to have engendered the directing principles of thought, into which the relations between ideas have been integrated. Nature, therefore, is reflected in mind. The intimate structure of our thought corresponds, piece by piece, to the very skeleton of things—I admit it willingly; but, in order that the human mind may be able to represent relations between phenomena, there must first be phenomena, that is to say, distinct facts, cut out in the continuity of becoming. And once we posit this particular mode of cutting up such as we perceive it to-day, we posit also the intellect such as it is to-day, for it is by relation to it, and to it alone, that reality is cut up in this manner. Is it probable that mammals and insects notice the same aspects of nature, trace in it the same divisions, articulate the whole in the same way? And yet the insect, so far as intelligent, has already something of our intellect. Each being cuts up the material world according to the lines that its action must follow: it is these lines of possible action that, by intercrossing, mark out the net of experience of which each mesh is a fact. No doubt, a town is composed exclusively of houses, and the streets of the town are only the intervals between the houses: so, we may say that nature contains only facts, and that, the facts once posited, the relations are simply the lines running between the facts. But, in a town, it is the gradual portioning of the ground into lots that has determined at once the place of the houses, their general shape, and the direction of the streets: to this portioning we must go back if we wish to understand the particular mode of subdivision that causes each house to be where it is, each street to run as it does. Now, the cardinal error of Spencer is to take experience already allotted as given, whereas the true problem is to know how the allotment was worked. I agree that the laws of thought are only the integration of relations between facts. But, when I posit the facts with the shape they have for me to-day, I suppose my faculties of perception and intellection such as they are in me to-day; for it is they that portion the real into lots, they that cut the facts out in the whole of reality. Therefore, instead of saying that the relations between facts have generated the laws of thought, I can as well claim that it is the form of thought that has determined the shape of the facts perceived, and consequently their relations among themselves: the two ways of expressing oneself are equivalent; they say at bottom the same thing. With the second, it is true, we give up speaking of evolution. But, with the first, we only speak of it, we do not think of it any the more. For a true evolutionism would propose to discover by what modus vivendi, gradually obtained, the intellect has adopted its plan of structure, and matter its mode of subdivision. This structure and this subdivision work into each other; they are mutually complementary; they must have progressed one with the other. And, whether we posit the present structure of mind or the present subdivision of matter, in either case we remain in the evolved: we are told nothing of what evolves, nothing of evolution.

And yet it is this evolution that we must discover. Already, in the field of physics itself, the scientists who are pushing the study of their science furthest incline to believe that we cannot reason about the parts as we reason about the whole; that the same principles are not applicable to the origin and to the end of a progress; that neither creation nor annihilation, for instance, is inadmissible when we are concerned with the constituent corpuscles of the atom. Thereby they tend to place themselves in the concrete duration, in which alone there is true generation and not only a composition of parts. It is true that the creation and annihilation of which they speak concern the movement or the energy, and not the imponderable medium through which the energy and the movement are supposed to circulate. But what can remain of matter when you take away everything that determines it, that is to say, just energy and movement themselves? The philosopher must go further than the scientist. Making a clean sweep of everything that is only an imaginative symbol, he will see the material world melt back into a simple flux, a continuity of flowing, a becoming. And he will thus be prepared to discover real duration there where it is still more useful to find it, in the realm of life and of consciousness. For, so far as inert matter is concerned, we may neglect the flowing without committing a serious error: matter, we have said, is weighted with geometry; and matter, the reality which descends, endures only by its connection with that whichascends. But life and consciousness are this very ascension. When once we have grasped them in their essence by adopting their movement, we understand how the rest of reality is derived from them. Evolution appears and, within this evolution, the progressive determination of materiality and intellectuality by the gradual consolidation of the one and of the other. But, then, it is within the evolutionary movement that we place ourselves, in order to follow it to its present results, instead of recomposing these results artificially with fragments of themselves. Such seems to us to be the true function of philosophy. So understood, philosophy is not only the turning of the mind homeward, the coincidence of human consciousness with the living principle whence it emanates, a contact with the creative effort: it is the study of becoming in general, it is true evolutionism and consequently the true continuation of science—provided that we understand by this word a set of truths either experienced or demonstrated, and not a certain new scholasticism that has grown up during the latter half of the nineteenth century around the physics of Galileo, as the old scholasticism grew up around Aristotle.

_______________

Notes:

96. The part of this chapter which treats of the history of systems, particularly of the Greek philosophy, is only the very succinct résumé of views that we developed at length, from 1900 to 1904, in our lectures at the Collège de France, especially in a course on the History of the Idea of Time (1902-1903). We then compared the mechanism of conceptual thought to that of the cinematograph. We believe the comparison will be useful here.

97. The analysis of the idea of the nought which we give here (pp. 275-298) has appeared before in the Revue philosophique (November 1906).

98. Kant, Critique of Pure Reason, 2nd edition, p. 737: "From the point of view of our knowledge in general ... the peculiar function of negative propositions is simply to prevent error." Cf. Sigwart, Logik, 2nd edition, vol. i. pp. 150 ff.

99. That is, we do not consider the sophism of Zeno refuted by the fact that the geometrical progression a(1 + 1/n + 1/n2 + 1/n3 +,... etc.)—in which a designates the initial distance between Achilles and the tortoise, and n the relation of their respective velocities—has a finite sum ifn is greater than 1. On this point we may refer to the arguments of F. Evellin, which we regard as conclusive (see Evellin, Infini et quantité, Paris, 1880, pp. 63-97; cf. Revue philosophique, vol. xi., 1881, pp. 564-568). The truth is that mathematics, as we have tried to show in a former work, deals and can deal only with lengths. It has therefore had to seek devices, first, to transfer to the movement, which is not a length, the divisibility of the line passed over, and then to reconcile with experience the idea (contrary to experience and full of absurdities) of a movement that is a length, that is, of a movement placed upon its trajectory and arbitrarily decomposable like it.

100. Plato, Timaeus, 37 D.

101. We have tried to bring out what is true and what is false in this idea, so far as spatiality is concerned (see Chapter III.). It seems to us radically false as regards duration.

102. Aristotle, De anima, 430 a 14 και εστιν ο μεν τοιουτος νους τω πυντυ γινεσθαι, ο δε τω παντα ποιειν, ως εξις τις, οιον το φως. τροπον γαρ τινα κα το φως ποιει τα δυναμει οντα χρωματα ενεργεια χρωματα.

103. De caelo, ii. 287 a 12 της εσχατης περιφορας ουτε κενον εστιν εξωθεν ουτε τοπος. Phys. iv. 212 a 34 το δε παν εστι μεν ως κινησεται εστι δ' ως ου. ως μεν γαρ ολον, αμα τον τοπον ου μεταβαλλει. κυκλω δε κινησεται, των μοιων γαρ ουτος ο τοπος.

104. De caelo, i. 279 a 12 ουδε χρονος εστιν εξω του ουρανου. Phys. viii. 251 b 27 ο χρονος παθος τι κινησεως.

105. Especially have we left almost entirely on one side those admirable but somewhat fugitive intuitions that Plotinus was later to seize, to study and to fix.

106. See page 10.

107. Descartes, Principes, ii. § 29.

108. Descartes, Principes, ii. §§ 36 ff.

109. In a course of lectures on Plotinus, given at the Collège de France in 1897-1898, we tried to bring out these resemblances. They are numerous and impressive. The analogy is continued even in the formulae employed on each side.

110. "Le Paralogisme psycho-physiologique" (Revue de métaphysique et de morale, Nov. 1904, pp. 895-908). Cf. Matière et mémoire, Paris, 1896, chap. i.

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Part 1 of 2

INDEX

(Compiled by the Translator)

Abolition of everything a self-contradiction, 280, 283, 296, 298
idea of, 279, 282, 283, 295, 296.
See Nought
Absence of order, 231, 234, 274.
See Disorder
Absolute and freedom, 277
reality, 99, 228-9, 269, 358, 361
reality of the person, 269
time and the, 239, 240, 298, 340, 344
Absoluteness of duration, 206
of understanding, xi, 47, 152, 190, 197, 199
Abstract becoming, 304-7
multiplicity, 257-9
time, 9, 17, 20-2, 37, 39, 46, 51, 163, 318-9, 336, 352-3
Accident and essence in Aristotle's philosophy, 353
in evolution, 86-7, 104, 114-5, 127, 169, 170, 252, 254-5, 266, 267, 326-7
Accidental variations, 55, 63, 68, 69, 74, 85-6, 168
Accumulation of energy, function of vegetable organisms, 253, 255
Achilles and tortoise, in Zeno, 311, 312-3
Acquired characters, inheritance of, 76-9, 83-4, 87, 169, 170, 173, 231
Act, consciousness as inadequacy of, to representation, 144
form (or essence), quality, three classes of representation, 302-3
Action, creativeness of free, 192, 247
and concepts, 160, 297
and consciousness, xiii, 5, 143-4, 145, 179-80, 207, 262
discontinuity of, 154, 307
freedom of, in animals, 130
as function of nervous system, 262-3
indivisibility of, 94, 95, 308-9
and inert matter, 96, 136, 141-2, 156, 187, 198, 226, 366
instinct and, 136, 141
instrument of, consciousness, 180
instrument of, life, 162
instrument of matter, 161, 198-9
as instrument of consciousness, 180
and intellect. See Intellect and action
intensity of consciousness varies with ratio of possible, to real, 145
meaning of, 301-3
moves from want to fulness, 297, 298
organism a machine for, 252, 254, 300
and perception, 5, 11, 12, 93, 188, 189, 206, 227-30, 300, 307, 368
possible, 12, 13, 96, 144, 145, 146-7, 159, 165, 179-81, 188, 264
and science, 93, 195-6, 198-9, 329-30
and space, 203
sphere of the intellect, 155
tension in a free, 200, 207, 238, 240, 301-2
Activity, dissatisfaction the starting-point of, 297
of instinct, continuous with vital process, 139, 140
life as, 128-9, 247
mutually inverse factors in vital, 248
and nervous system, 110, 130, 132-3, 134-5, 180, 252, 261-3
organism as, 174
potential. See Action, possible
tension of free, 200, 202, 207-8, 223-4, 237, 239, 300-1
and torpor in evolution, 109, 111, 113, 114, 119-20, 129-30, 135-6, 181, 292
vital, has evolved divergently, 134
See Divergent lines of evolution
Adaptation, 50-1, 55, 57-8, 59, 70, 101, 129, 133, 192, 255, 270, 305-6
and causation, 102
mutual, between materiality and intellectuality, 187, 206-7
and progress, 101-2
Adequate and inadequate in Spinoza, 353
Adjectives, substantives and verbs, 303-4, 315
Aesthetics and philosophy, 177
Affection, Role of, in the idea of chance, 234
in the idea of nought, 281-3, 289, 293, 295, 296
in negation, 286-7
Affirmation and negation, 285-6, 293
Age and individuality, 15-6
Albuminoid substances, 121-2
Alciope, 96
Alexandrian philosophy, 322, 323
Algae in illustration of probable consciousness in vegetable forms, 112
Alimentation, 113-4, 117, 247
Allegory of the Cave, 191
Alternations of increase and decrease of mutability of the universe, 245-6
Alveolar froth, 33-4
Ambiguity of the idea of "generality" in philosophy, 230-1, 320-1
of primitive organisms, 99, 112, 113, 129-30
Ammophila hirsuta, paralyzing instinct in, 173
Amoeba, in illustration of imitation of the living by the unorganized, 33-6
in illustration of the ambiguity of primitive organisms, 99
in illustration of the mobility characteristic of animals, 108
in illustration of the "explosive" expenditure of energy characteristic of animals, 120, 253
Anagenesis, 34
Anarchy, idea of, 233, 234.
See Disorder
Anatomy, comparative, and transformism, 25
Ancient philosophy, Achilles and tortoise, 311-2
Alexandrian philosophy, 322-3
Allegory of the Cave, 191
Anima (De), 322 note
Apogee of sensible object, 344, 345, 349
Archimedes, 343-4
Aristotle, 135, 174-5, 227-8, 314, 316, 321, 323, 324, 328-33, 347, 349, 353, 356, 370
Arrow of Zeno, 308-13
ascent toward God, in Aristotle, 323
Astronomy, ancient and modern, 334-6
attraction and impulsion in, 323-4
becoming in, 313-4, 317
bow and indivisibility of motion, 308-9
Caelo (De), of Aristotle, 322 note, 324 note
and Cartesian geometry, 334-5
causality in, 323, 325-6
change in, 313-4, 317, 328-9, 342-3
cinematographical nature of, 315
circularity of God's thought, 323-4
concentric spheres, 328
concepts, 326-7, 356
"conversion" and "procession" in, 323
degradation of ideas into sensible flux, 317-8, 321, 323-4, 327, 328, 343-5, 352-3
degrees of reality, 323-4, 327
diminution, derivation of becoming by. See Degradation of Ideas, etc.
duration, 317-9 note, 323-4, 327-9
Eleatic philosophy, 308, 314
Enneads of Plotinus, 210 note
essence and accident, 354
essence or form, 314-5
eternal, 317-8, 324-6
Eternity, 317-8, 320, 324, 328-9
extension, 210 note, 318, 324, 327
form or idea, 314-20, 322, 327, 329-31, 352
geometry, Cartesian, and ancient philosophy, 334
God of Aristotle, 196-7, 322-4, 349, 352, 356
υλη, 353
Idea, 314-22, 352-3
and indivisibility of motion, 307-8, 311
intelligible reality in, 326
intelligibles of Plotinus, 353
λσγος, of Plotinus, 210 note
matter in Aristotle's philosophy, 316, 327
and modern astronomy, 333-4, 335
and modern geometry, 333-4
and modern philosophy, 226-7, 228-9, 232, 281-2, 344-5, 346, 349-51, 364, 369
and modern science, 329-30, 336, 342-3, 344-5, 357
motion in, 307-8, 312-3
necessity in, 327
νοησεως νοησις, 356
non-being, 316, 327
νους ποιητικος, 322
oscillation about being, sensible reality as, 317-8
Physics of Aristotle, 227-8 note, 324 note, 330-1
Plato, 48, 156, 191, 210 note, 316-8, 321-4, 327, 330, 348, 349
Plotinus, 210, 316, 323, 326 note, 349, 352-4
procession in Alexandrian philosophy, 323
ψνχη, 210 note, 350
realism in, 232
refraction of idea through matter or non-being, 317
sectioning of becoming, 318-9
sensible reality, 314, 316-8, 321, 327-9, 352-3
σωμα, 350
space and time, 317-9, 320
Timaeus, 318 note
time in ancient and in modern science, 330-1, 336-7, 341-4
time and space, 317-9, 320
vision of God in Alexandrian philosophy, 322
Zeno, 308, 313
Ancient science and modern, 329-31, 336-7, 342-5, 357
Anima (De), of Aristotle, 322 note
Animal kingdom, 12, 105-6, 119-21, 126, 129, 131-2, 134-6, 137-8, 139, 179, 184-5
Animals, 105-47, 167, 170, 181, 183, 187, 212, 214, 246, 252, 253, 254, 262-5, 267, 271, 293, 301
deduction in, 212
induction in, 214
and man, 139-43, 183, 187, 188, 212, 263, 264, 267
and man in respect to brain, 183, 184-5, 263-5
and man in respect to consciousness, 139-43, 180, 183, 187, 188, 192, 212, 263-8
and man in respect to instruments of action, 139-43, 150-1
and man in respect to intelligence, 137-8, 187, 188, 191-2, 212
and plants, 105-39, 124-6, 143, 145, 146-7, 168-70, 181-2, 253, 254, 293
and plants in respect to activity of consciousness, 109, 111, 113, 119-21, 128-9, 132, 134-6, 142-3, 144, 181-2, 293
and plants in respect to function, 117-8, 121-2, 127
and plants in respect to instinct, 167, 170
and plants in respect to mobility, 109, 110, 113, 129-30, 132-3, 135, 181
and plants in respect to nature of consciousness, 134-5
Antagonistic currents of the vital impetus, 129, 135-6, 181, 184, 250, 258-9
Anthophora, 146-7
Antinomies of Kant, 204, 205
Antipathy. See Sympathy, Feeling, Divination
Antithesis and thesis, 205
Ants, 101, 134, 140, 157
Ape's brain and consciousness contrasted with man's, 263
Aphasia, 181
Apidae, social instinct in the, 171
Apogee of instinct in the hymenoptera and of intelligence in man, 174-5
See Evolutionary superiority
Apogee of sensible object, in philosophy of Ideas, 343-4, 349
Approximateness of the knowledge of matter, 206-7
Approximation, in matter, to the mathematical order, 218.
See Order
Archimedes, 333-4
Aristotle. See Ancient Philosophy, Aristotle
Arrow, Flying, of Zeno, 308-9, 310, 312-3
Art, 6-7, 29 note, 45, 89, 177
Artemia Salina, transformations of, 72, 73
Arthropods in evolution, 130-5, 142
Articulate species, 133
Articulations of matter relative to action, 156, 367
of motion, 310-1
of real time, 332-3
Artificial, how far scientific knowledge is, 197, 218-9
instruments, 138, 139, 140-1
Artist, in illustration of the creativeness of duration, 340-1
Ascending cosmic movement, 11, 208, 275, 369
Ascent toward God, in Aristotle, 323
Association of organisms, 260.
See Individuation
universal oscillation between association and individuation, 259, 260.
See Societies
Astronomy and deduction, 213
and the inert order, 224
modern, in reference to ancient science, 334-6
Atmosphere of spatiality bathing intelligence, 204
Atom, 240, 254, 255
as an intellectual view of matter, 203, 250
and interpenetration, 207
Attack and defence in evolution, 131-2
Attention, 2, 148-9, 154, 184, 209
discontinuity of, 2
in man and in lower animals, 184.
See Tension and instinct, Tension as inverted extension, Tension of personality, Sympathetic appreciation, etc., Relaxation
and intellect
Attraction and impulsion in Greek philosophy, 323, 324
Attribute and subject, 148
Automatic activity, 145
as instrument of voluntary, 252
order, 224, 231-4.
See Negative movement, etc., Geometrical order
Automatism, 127, 143-4, 174, 223-4, 261, 264

Background of instinct and intelligence, consciousness as, 186
Backward-looking attitude of the intellect, 47, 48, 237
Baldwin, J.M., 27 note
Ballast of intelligence, 152, 230, 239, 369-70
Bastian, 212 note
Bateson, 63
Becoming, 164, 236, 248-9, 273, 299-304, 307-8, 313-4, 316, 337-8, 342-3, 345, 363
in ancient philosophy, 313-4, 317
in Descartes's philosophy, 346
in Eleatic philosophy, 313-4, 315
in general, or abstract becoming, 304, 306-7
instantaneous and static views of, 272, 304-5
states of, falsely so called, 164, 247-8, 273, 298-301, 307-8
in the successors of Kant, 363.
See Change, New, Duration, Time, Views of reality
Bees, 101, 140, 142, 146, 166, 172
Beethoven, 224
Berthold, 34 note
Bethe, 176 note
Bifurcations of tendency, 54.
See Divergent lines of evolution
Biology, 12, 25, 26, 31-2, 43, 168-9, 174-5, 194-6
evolutionist, 168-9
and philosophy, 43, 194-6
and physico-chemistry, 26
Blaringhem, 85
Bodies, 156, 188, 189, 300-1, 360.
See Inert matter as a relaxation of the unextended into the extended
defined as bundles of qualities, 349
Bois-Reymond (Du), 38
Boltzmann, 245
Bombines, social instincts in, 171
Bouvier, 142 note
Bow, strain of, illustrating indivisibility of motion, 308-10
Brain and consciousness, 5, 109, 110, 179-80, 183-4, 212 note, 252, 261-4, 270, 354, 356, 366.
See Nervous System in man and lower animals, 183, 184, 263-5
Brandt, 66 note
Breast-Plate, in reference to animal mobility, 130, 131.
See Carapace, Cellulose envelope
Brown-Séquard, 80-2
Bulb, medullary, in the development of the nervous system, 110, 252
Busquet, 259 note
Bütschli, 33 note
Buttel-Reepen, 171 note
Butterflies, in illustration of variation from evolutionary type, 72

Caelo (De), of Aristotle, 322 note, 324 note
Calcareous sheath, in reference to animal mobility, 130-1
Calkins, 16 note
Canal, in illustration of the relation of function and structure, 93
Canalization, in illustration of the function of animal organisms, 93, 95, 110, 126, 256, 270
Canvas, embroidering "something" on the, of "nothing," 297
Caprice, an attribute not of freedom but of mechanism, 47
Carapace, in reference to animal mobility, 130-1
Carbohydrates, in reference to the function of the animal organism, 121-2
Carbon, in reference to the function of organisms, 107, 113, 114, 117, 254, 255
Carbonic acid, in reference to the function of organisms, 254, 255
Carnot, 243, 246, 256
Cartesian geometry, compared with ancient, 334
Cartesianism, 345, 356, 358
Cartesians, 358.
See Spinoza, Leibniz
Carving, the, of matter by intellect, 155
Categorical propositions, characteristic of instinctive knowledge, 149-50
Categories, conceptual, x, xiii, 48, 147, 148-9, 165, 189-90, 195-7, 207, 220-1, 257-60, 265, 358, 361.
See Concept deduction of, and genesis of the intellect, 196, 207, 359.
See Genesis of matter and of the intellect
innate, 147, 148-9
misfit for the vital, x, xiii, 48, 165, 195-9, 220-1, 257-9
in reference to the adaptation to each other of the matter and form of knowledge, 361
Cats, in illustration of the law of correlation, 67
Causal relation in Aristotle, 325
between consciousness and movement, 111
in Greek philosophy, 324-5
Causality, mechanical, a category which does not apply to life, x, xiv, 177
in the philosophy of Ideas, 323-6
Causation and adaptation, 101, 102
final, involves mechanical, 44
Cause and effect as mathematical functions of each other, 20, 21
efficient, 238, 277, 323
efficient, in Aristotle's philosophy, 324
efficient, in Leibniz's philosophy, 353
final, 40, 44, 238
final, in Aristotle's philosophy, 324
by impulsion, release and unwinding, 73
mechanical, as containing effect, 14, 233, 269
in the vital order, 95, 164
Cave, Plato's allegory of the, 191
Cell, 16, 24, 33, 162, 166, 167, 260, 269
as artificial construct, 162
in the "colonial theory," 260
division, 16, 24, 33
instinct in the, 166, 167
in relation to the soul, 269
Cellulose envelope in reference to vegetable immobility and torpor, 108, 111, 130
Cerebral activity and consciousness, 5, 109-10, 180-1, 183-4, 212 note, 252, 253, 261, 264, 268, 270, 350, 351, 354, 355, 366
mechanism, 5, 252, 253, 262, 264, 366
Cerebro-spinal system, 124.
See Nervous system
Certainty of induction, 215, 216
Chance analogous to disorder, 233, 234.
See Affection
in evolution, 86-7, 104, 114-5, 126, 169-70, 171, 252, 254, 255, 266, 267, 326-7.
See Indetermination
Change, 1, 7-8, 18, 85-6, 248, 275, 294, 300-304, 308, 313-4, 317, 326, 328-9, 343-4, 344-5
in ancient philosophy, 313-4, 316-7, 325-6, 327-9, 343, 345
in Eleatic philosophy, 314
known only from within, 307-8
Chaos, 232.
See Disorder
Character, moral, 5, 99-100
Charrin, 81 note
Chemistry, 27, 34-6, 55, 72, 74, 98, 194, 226, 256, 260
Child, intelligence in, 147-8
adolescence of, in illustration of evolutionary becoming, 311-3
Chipped stone, in paleontology, 139
Chlorophyllian function, 107-9, 114, 117, 246, 253
Choice, 110, 125, 143-5, 179, 180, 252, 260-4, 276, 366
and consciousness, 110, 179, 260-4
Chrysalis, 114 note
Cinematograph, 306-7, 339-40
Cinematographical character of ancient philosophy, 315-6
of intellectual knowledge, 306, 307, 312-8, 323-4, 331-3, 346
of language, 306-7, 312-5
of modern science, 329-31, 336-7, 341-3, 345, 346, 347
Circle of the given, broken by action, 192, 247
logical and physical, 277
vicious, in intellectualist philosophy, 193, 197, 320
vicious, in the intuitional method is only apparent, 192, 193
Circularity of God's thought in Aristotle's philosophy, 324
of each special evolution, 128
Circulation, protoplasmic, imitated, 32-3
in plants and animals, 108
Circumstances in the determination of evolution, 101-2, 128-9, 133, 138, 142, 150-1, 167, 168, 170-1, 193, 194, 252, 256
in relation to special instincts, 138, 168, 193
Classes of words corresponding to the three kinds of representation, 303-4
Clausius, 243
Clearness characteristic of intellect, 160
Cleft between the organized and the unorganized, 190, 196-9
Climbing plants, instincts of, 170 note
Coincidence of matter with space as in Kant, 206, 207, 244
of mind with intellect as in Kant, 48, 206
of qualities, 216
of seeing and willing, 237
of self with self, definition of the feeling of duration, 199-200
Coleopter, instinct in, 146
Colonial theory, 259, 260
Colonies, microbial, 259
Color variation in lizards, 72, 74
Coming and going of the mind between the without and the within gives rise to the idea of "Nothing," 279
between nature and mind, the true method of philosophy, 239
Common-sense, 29, 153, 161, 213, 224, 277
defined as continuous experience of the real, 213
Comparison of ancient philosophy with modern, 226, 228-9, 232, 328-9, 345-6, 349-51, 353-4, 356
Compenetration, 352-3.
See Interpenetration
Complementarity of forms evolved, xii, xiii, 51, 101, 103, 113, 116-7, 135, 136, 254, 255
of instinct and intelligence, 146, 173.
See Opposition of Instinct and Intelligence
of intuition and intellect, 343, 345
in the powers of life, 49, 96-7, 140-3, 177, 178-9, 183-5, 239, 246, 254, 343
of science and metaphysics, 344
Complexity of the order of mathematics, 208-10, 217, 251
Compound reflex, instinct as a, 174
Concentration, intellect as, 191, 301
of personality, 198-9, 201
Concentric spheres in Aristotle's philosophy, 328
Concept accessory to action, ix
analogy of, with the solid body, ix
in animals, 187
externality of, 160, 168, 175-8, 199-200, 251, 306, 311, 314
fringed about with intuition, 46
and image distinguished, 160, 279
impotent to grasp life, ix-xiii, 49
intellect the concept-making faculty, vi, 49
misfit for the vital, 48
representation of the act by which the intellect is fixed on things, 161
synthesis of, in ancient philosophy, 325-6, 356.
See Categories, Externality, Frames, Image, Space, Symbol
Conditions, external, in evolution, 128-9, 133, 138, 141-2, 150-1, 166-7, 168, 170, 193, 194, 251, 256, 257
external, in determination of special instinct, 141-2, 150-1, 167, 168, 171
Conduct, mechanism and finality in the evolution of, 47.
See Freedom, Determination, Indetermination
Confused plurality of life, 257
Conjugation of Infusoria, 16
Consciousness and action, ix, 5, 144, 145, 179-80, 207, 260-1
consciousness as appendage to action, ix
consciousness as arithmetical difference between possible and real activity, 145
consciousness as auxiliary to action, 179-80
consciousness as inadequacy of act to representation, 144
consciousness as instrument of action, 180
consciousness as interval between possible and real action, 145, 179
consciousness as light from zone of possible actions surrounding the real act, 179
consciousness and locomotion, 262
consciousness plugged up by action, 144, 145.
See Torpor, Sleep
consciousness as sketch of action, 207
intensity of, varies with ratio of possible to real action, 145
Consciousness in animals, as distinguished from the consciousness of plants, 130, 135-6, 143
as distinguished from the consciousness of man, 139-43, 180, 183, 184, 187, 188, 212, 263-9.
See Torpor, Sleep
characteristic of animals, torpor of plants, 109, 111, 113, 120, 128-9, 135-6, 181, 182, 292
as background of instinct and intelligence, 186
and brain, 180, 262, 263, 269, 270, 354
and choice, 110, 144-5, 179, 262-4
coextensive with universal life, 186, 270
and creation, consciousness as demand for creation, 261
current of, penetrating matter, 181, 270
as deficiency of instinct, 145
in dog and man, 180
double form of, 179
function of, 207
as hesitation or choice, 143, 144
imprisonment of, 180, 183-4, 264
as invention and freedom, 264, 270
in man as distinguished from, in lower forms of life, 180, 263, 264, 267, 268
and matter, 179, 181-2
as motive principle of evolution, 181-2
nullified, as distinguished from the absence of consciousness, 143
and the organism, 270
in plants, 131, 135-6, 143
as world principle, 237, 261
Conservation of energy, 243, 244
Construction, 139-42, 150-1, 156, 157-8, 180, 182.
See Manufacture, Solid
the characteristic work of intellect, 163-4
as the method of Kant's successors, 364-5
Contingency, 96, 255, 268.
See Accident, Chance the, of order, 231, 235
Continuation of vital process in instinct, 138, 139, 166, 167, 246.
See Variations, Vital process
Continuity, 1, 26, 29-30, 37, 138-40, 154, 162-4, 258, 302, 306-7, 311-2, 321, 325-6, 329-30, 347
of becoming, 306-7, 312
of change, 325-6
of evolution, 18, 19
of extension, 154
of germinative plasma, 26, 37
of instinct with vital process, 139, 140, 166-7, 246
of life, 1-11, 29, 163-4, 258
of living substance, 162
of psychic life, 1, 30
of the real, 302, 329-30
of sensible intuition with ultra-intellectual, 361
of sensible universe, 346
Conventionality of science, 207
"Conversion" and "procession" in Alexandrian philosophy, 323
Cook, Plato's comparison of the, and the dialectician, 156
Cope, 35 note, 77, 111
Correlation, law of, 66, 67
Correspondence between mind and matter in Spencer, 368.
See Simultaneity
Cortical mechanism, 252, 253, 262.
See Cerebral mechanism
Cosmogony and genesis of matter, 188.
See Genesis of matter and of intellect, Spencer
Cosmology the, that follows from the philosophy of Ideas, 315, 328
as reversed psychology, 208
Counterweight representation as, to action, 145
Counting simultaneities, the measurement of time is, 338, 341-2
Creation, xi, 7, 11, 12, 22, 29, 30, 45, 93, 100, 101, 103, 105, 108, 114, 128-31, 161, 163-4, 178, 200, 217, 218, 223, 226, 230, 237-40, 261, 270, 275, 339-40
in Descartes's philosophy, 345
of intellect, 248-9
of matter, 237, 239, 247-8, 249.
See Materiality the inversion of spirituality
of present by past, 5, 20-3, 27, 167, 199-202
the vital order as, 230
Creative evolution, 7, 15, 21, 27, 29, 36, 37, 65, 100, 104-5, 161, 163, 223-4, 230-1, 237, 264, 269
Creativeness of free action, 192, 243
of invention, 250
Creeping plants in illustration of vegetable mobility, 108
Cricket victim of paralyzing instinct of sphex, 172
Criterion, quest of a, 53 ff.
of evolutionary rank, 133, 265
Criticism, Kantian, 205, 287 note, 356, 360-2
of knowledge, 194-5
Cross-cuts through becoming by intellect, 314.
See Views of reality
through matter by perception, 206
Cross-roads of vital tendency, 51, 52, 54, 110, 126
Crustacea, 19, 111, 129-30
Crystal illustrating (by contrast) individuation, 12
Cuénot, 79 note
Culminating points of evolutionary progress, 50, 133-5.
See Evolutionary superiority
Current, 26, 27, 51, 185, 236, 237, 250, 266, 269
Currents, antagonistic, 250
of existence, 185
of life penetrating matter, 26, 27, 266, 270
vital, 26, 27, 51, 237, 266, 270
of will penetrating matter, 237
Curves, as symbol of life, 32, 90, 213
Cuts through becoming by the intellect, 313-4.
See Views of reality, Snapshots in illustration, etc.
through matter by perception, 206
Cuvier, 125 note

Dantec (Le), 18 note, 34 note
Darwin, 62-5, 66, 72, 108, 170 note
Darwinism, 56, 85, 86
Dastre, 36 note
Dead, the, is the object of intellect, 165
Dead-locks in speculation, 155, 312
Death, 246 note, 271
Declivity descended by matter, 208, 246, 256, 339-40.
See Descending movement
Decomposing and recomposing powers characteristic of intellect, 157, 251
Deduction, analogy between, related to moral sphere and tangent to curve, 213
and astronomy, 213
duration refractory to, 213
geometry the ideal limit of, 213-26, 361
in animals, 212
inverse to positive spiritual effort, 212
nature of, 211
physics and, 213
weakness of, in psychology and moral science, 213
Defence and attack in evolution, 132
Deficiency of will the negative condition of mathematical order and complexity, 209
Definition in the realm of life, 13, 105, 106
Degenerates, 133-5
Dégénérescence sénile (La), by Metchnikoff, 18 note
Degradation of energy, 241, 242, 246
of the extra-spatial into the spatial, 207
of the ideas into the sensible flux in ancient philosophy, 317-9, 324-5, 327-9, 331, 343, 345, 352-3
Degrees of being in the successors of Kant, 362-3
Degrees of reality in Greek philosophy, 324, 327
Delage, 59 note, 81 note, 260 note
Delamare, 81 note
Deliberation, 144
De Manacéine, 124 note
Deposit, instinct and intelligence as deposits, emanations, issues, or aspects of life, x, xii, xiii, 49, 103, 105, 136, 365
De Saporta, 107 note
Descartes, 280, 334, 345, 346, 353, 358
becoming, 345-6
creation, 346
determinism, 345
duration, 346
freedom, 345, 346
geometry, 334
God, 346
image and idea or concept, 281
indeterminism, 345
mechanism, 345, 346
motion, 346
vacillation between abstract time and real duration, 345
Descending movement of existence, 11, 202, 203, 208, 271, 275, 369
Design, motionless, of action the object of intellect, 154-5, 299, 301-2, 303
Detention in the dream state, 202
of intuition in intellect, 238
Determination, 76-7, 129-30, 223, 246
Determinism, 217, 264, 345, 348. See Inert matter, Geometry in Descartes, 345
Development, 133, 134-5, 141.
See Order, Progress, Evolution, Superiority
Deviation from type, 82-4
Dialect and intuition in philosophy, 238
Dichotomy of the real in modern philosophy, 350
Differentiation of parts in an organism, 253, 260
Dilemma of any systematic metaphysics, 195, 197, 230
Diminution, derivation of becoming from being by, in ancient philosophy, 316, 317, 322, 323-4, 327-8, 343-5, 352
geometrical order as, or lower complication of the vital order, 236
Dionaea illustrating certain animal characteristics in plants, 107, 108, 109
Discontinuity of action, 154, 306-7
of attention, 2
of extension relative to action, 154, 163
of knowledge, 306
of living substance, 163
a positive idea, 154
Discontinuous the object of intellect, 154
Discord in nature, 127, 128, 254-5, 267
Disorder, 40, 104, 222-3, 225-6, 232-5, 274.
See Expectation, Order, mathematical, Orders of reality, two
Disproportion between an invention and its consequences, 182
Dissociation as a cosmic principle opposed to association, 260
of tendencies, 54, 89, 135, 254, 255, 257, 258.
See Divergent lines of evolution
Distance, extension as the, between what is and what ought to be, 318-9, 327-8, 331
Distinct multiplicity in the dream state, 201, 210
of the inert, 257
Distinctness characteristic of the intellect, 160, 237, 251
characteristic of perception, 227, 251
as spatiality, 203, 207-8, 244, 250
Divergent lines of evolution, xii, 54, 55, 87, 97-101, 103-4, 106, 107, 109, 112, 113, 116, 119, 130, 132, 134-5, 142, 149, 150, 168, 173, 181, 254, 255, 266, 267.
See Dissociation of tendencies, Complementarity, etc., Schisms in the primitive impulsion of life
Diversity, sensible, 205, 220-1, 231, 235, 236
Divination, instinct as, 176.
See Sympathy, etc.
Divisibility of extension, 154, 162
Division as function of intellect, 152, 154, 162-3, 189
of labor, 99, 110, 118, 157, 166, 260
of labor in cells, 166
Dog and man, consciousness in, 180
Dogmatism of the ancient epistemology contrasted with the relativism of the modern, 230
of Leibniz and Spinoza, 356-7
skepticism, and relativism, 196-7, 230
Dogs and the law of correlation, 66
Domestication of animals and heredity, 80
Dominants of Reinke, 42 note
Dorfmeister, 72
Dream, 144, 180-1, 202, 209, 256.
See Interpenetration, Relaxation, Detention, Recollection
as relaxation, 202
Driesch, 42 note
Drosera, 107, 108, 109
Dufourt, 124 note
Duhem, 242 note
Dunan, Ch., xv note
Duration, xiv note, 2, 4-6, 8-11, 15, 17, 21, 22, 37, 39, 46, 51, 199, 201, 206, 213, 216, 240, 272, 273, 276, 298-9, 308-9, 317-8, 319 note, 324, 328, 332, 339, 342, 343, 345, 354, 361, 363-4
absoluteness of, 206
and deduction, 213
in Descartes's philosophy, 346
gnawing of, 4, 8, 46
indivisibility of, 6, 308-9
and induction, 216
and the inert, 343-4
in the philosophy of the Ideas, 316-7, 319 note, 324, 327, 328-9
rhythm of, 11, 128, 346.
See Creation, Evolution, Invention, Time, Unforeseeableness, Uniqueness

Echinoderms in reference to animal mobility, 130, 131
Efficient cause in conception of chance, 234
Spinoza and, 269
Effort in evolution, 170
Ειδος, 314-5
Eimer, 55, 72, 73, 86
Elaborateness of the mathematical order, 208-10, 217, 251
Eleatic philosophy, 308, 314-5
Emanation, logical thought an, issue, aspect or deposit of life, ix, xii, xiii, 49
Embroidering "something" on the canvas of "nothing," 297
Embroidery by descendants on the canvas handed down by ancestors, 23
Embryo, 18, 19, 26, 27, 75, 81, 89, 101, 166
Embryogeny, comparative, and transformism, 25
Embryonic life, 27, 166
Empirical study of evolution the centre of the theory of knowledge and of the theory of life, 178
theories of knowledge, 205
Empty, thinking the full by means of the empty, 273-4
End in Eleatic philosophy, 314-5
of science is practical utility, 329
Energy, 115-7, 120-3, 242, 243, 245, 246, 252-5, 256, 257, 262
conservation of, 242
degradation of, 242, 243, 246
solar, stored by plants, released by animals, 245, 254
Enneadae of Plotinus, 210 note
Entelechy of Driesch, 42 note
Entropy, 243
Environment in evolution, 129, 133, 138, 140, 142, 150, 167, 168, 170, 192, 193, 252, 256, 257
and special instincts, 138, 168, 192, 193
Epiphenomenalism, 262
Essence and accidents in Aristotle's philosophy, 353
or form in Eleatic philosophy, 314-5
the meaning of, 302-3
Essences (or forms), qualities and acts, the three kinds of representation, 303-4
Eternity, 39, 298, 314, 317, 320, 324, 328, 346, 352, 354
in the philosophy of Ideas, 316-7, 319, 324, 328
in Spinoza's philosophy, 353
Euglena, 116
Evellin, 311 note
Eventual actions, 11, 96.
See Possible activity
Evolution, ix-xv, 18, 20, 22, 24, 25, 26-7, 37, 46-55, 63, 68, 79 note, 84-8, 97-105, 107, 113, 116, 126, 127, 129-30, 131-2, 133, 134, 136, 138-40, 141-2, 143, 161, 166, 167, 168-72, 173, 174, 175, 179, 181, 182, 185, 186, 190, 193, 198-9, 207-8, 224, 231, 242 note, 246, 248, 249, 251, 252, 254, 264-6, 268, 273, 302, 311, 345, 359, 360, 366
accident in, 104, 169, 170, 173, 174, 251, 252
animal, a progress toward mobility, 131
antagonistic tendencies in, 103, 113, 185
automatic and determinate, is action being undone, 248
blind alleys of, 129
circularity of each special, 128
complementarity of the divergent lines of, 97-102, 103, 116
conceptually inexpressible, 49, 50, 52, 53, 127, 181, 273
continuity of, 18, 19, 26, 37, 46, 273, 302, 312, 345
creative, 7, 15, 21, 27, 30, 36, 37, 65, 100, 105, 161, 162, 163, 223, 230, 238, 264, 269
culminating points of, 50, 133, 174, 185, 265, 266, 268
development by, 133, 134, 141-2
divergent lines of, xii, 53, 54, 87, 97-101, 103-4, 107, 173-4, 246
and duration, 20, 22, 37, 45-6
empirical study of, the centre of the theory of knowledge and of life, 178
and environment, 101-3, 129, 133, 138, 142, 150, 167, 168, 169, 192, 193, 251, 256, 257
of instinct, 170, 171, 174-5.
See Divergent lines, etc., Culminating points, etc., Evolution and environment
of intellect, x-xii, 153, 186, 189-90, 193, 198-9, 207-8, 359, 360.
See Divergent lines, etc., Culminating points, etc., Genesis of matter and of intellect
as invention, 344
of man, 264, 266, 268.
See Culminating points, etc.
motive principle of, is consciousness, 181
of species product of the vital impetus opposed by matter, 247-8, 254
and transformism, 24
unforeseeable, 47, 48, 53, 86, 224
variation in, 23-4, 55, 63, 68, 72 note, 85, 131, 137-8, 167, 169, 171, 264
Evolutionary, qualitative, and extensive motion 302-3, 311, 312
superiority, 133-5, 174-5.
See Success, Criterion of evolutionary rank, Culminating points, etc.
Evolutionism, x-xii, xiv, 77, 84, 364
Exhaustion of the mutability of the universe, 337-8
Existence, logical, as contrasted with psychical and physical, 276, 362
of matter tends toward instantaneity, 201
of self means change, 1 ff.
superaddition of, upon nothingness, 276
Expectation, 214-6, 221, 222, 226, 233, 235, 274, 281, 292
in conception of disorder, 221, 222, 226, 233, 234, 235, 274
in conception of void or naught, 282, 292
Experience, 138, 147, 177, 197, 204, 229, 321, 354, 359, 363, 368
Explosion, illustrating cause by release, 73
Explosive character of animal energy, 116, 119, 120, 246
of organization, 92
Explosives, manufacture of, by plants and use by animals, 246, 254
Extension, 149, 154, 161, 202, 203, 207, 211, 223, 236, 245, 318-20, 324, 327, 351, 352
continuity of, 154
discontinuity of, relative to action, 154, 162
as the distance between what is and what ought to be, 318
divisibility of, 154, 162
the most general property of matter, 154, 250, 251
the inverse movement to tension, 245
of knowledge, 150
in Leibniz's philosophy, 351, 352
of matter in space, 204, 211
in the philosophy of Ideas, 318-9, 323-4, 327
and relaxation, 202, 207, 209, 211, 212, 218, 223, 245
in Spinoza's philosophy, 350
in the Transcendental Aesthetic, 203
unity of, 158-9
as weakening of the essence of being, in Plotinus, 210 note
Extensive, evolutionary and qualitative motion, 302-3, 311, 312
External conditions in evolution, 128, 133, 137, 141-2, 150-1, 167, 168, 170, 192, 193, 252, 256, 257
finality, 41
Externality of concepts, 160, 168, 174, 177, 199, 251, 305, 311-4
the most general property of matter, 154, 250, 251
Externalized action in distinction from internalized, 147, 165.
See Somnambulism, etc., Automatic activity, etc.
Eye of mollusc and vertebrate compared, 60, 75, 77, 84, 86, 87-8
Fabre, 172 note
Fabrication. See Construction
Fallacies, two fundamental, 272, 273
Fallacy of thinking being by not-being, 276, 277, 284, 297-8
of thinking the full by the empty, 273-5
of thinking motion by the motionless, 272, 273, 297-8, 307-8, 309-14
Fallibility of instinct, 172-3
Falling back of matter upon consciousness, 264
bodies, comparison of Aristotle and Galileo, 228, 331-2, 334
weight, figure of material world, 245, 246
Familiar, the, is the object of intellect, 163, 164, 199, 270
Faraday, 203
Fasting, in reference to primacy of nervous system over the other physiological systems, 124
Fauna, menace of torpor in primitive, 130
Feeling in the conception of chance, 207
and instinct, 143, 174-5
Fencing-master, illustrating hereditary transmission, 79
Ferments, certain characteristics of, 106
Fertilization of orchids by insects, by Darwin, 170 note
Fichte's conception of the intellect, 189-90, 357
Filings, iron, in illustration of the relation of structure to function, 94, 95
Film, cinematographic, figure of abstract motion, 304-6
Final cause, 40, 45, 234, 325
conception of, involves conception of mechanical cause, 44
God as, in Aristotle, 322-3
Finalism, 39-53, 58, 74, 88-97, 101-5, 126-8
Finality, 41, 164, 177-8, 185, 223, 224, 266
external and internal, 41
misfit for the vital, 177, 223-4, 225, 266
and the unforeseeableness of life, 164, 185
Fischel, 75 note
Fish in illustration of animal tendency to mobility, 130, 131
Fixation of nutritive elements, 107-9, 113, 117, 246, 247, 253
Fixity, 108-13, 118, 119, 130, 155.
See Torpor
apparent or relative, 155
cellulose envelope and the, of plants, 108, 111, 130
of extension, 155
of plants, 108-13, 118, 119, 130-1
of torpid animals, 130
Flint hatchets and human intelligence, 137
Fluidity of life, 153, 165, 193
of matter as a whole, 186, 369
Flux of material bodies, 265
of reality, 250, 251, 337, 342, 344
Flying arrow of Zeno, 308, 309, 310
Focalization of personality, 201
Food, 106-9, 113-4, 117, 120, 121, 246, 247, 254
Foraminifera, failure of certain, to evolve, 197
Force, 126-7, 141, 149, 150, 175, 246, 254, 339
life a, inverse to matter, 246
limitedness of vital force, 126, 127, 141, 149, 162
time as, 339-40
Forel, 176 note
Foreseeing, 8, 28, 29, 30, 37, 45, 47, 96.
See Unforeseeableness
Form, xi, 51, 101, 104, 113, 116-8, 129, 135-6, 148-53, 155, 156, 160, 164, 195-7, 222, 237, 250, 255, 302, 303, 314, 317, 318, 322, 341, 357, 359, 361, 362
complementarity of forms evolved, xi, 51, 101, 104, 113, 116-8, 135-6, 255
expansion of the forms of consciousness, xii, xiii
(or essences), qualities and acts the three kinds of representation, 302-3
God as pure form in Aristotle, 196, 322
or idea in ancient philosophy, 317, 318, 330
of intelligence, xiv, 48, 147, 148, 165, 190, 195, 196, 198, 207, 219, 257-9, 266, 358-9, 361.
See Concept
and matter in creation, 239, 250
and matter in knowledge, 195, 361
a snapshot view of transition, 302
Formal knowledge, 152
logic, 292
Forms of sensibility, 361
Fossil species, 102
Foster, 125 note
Fox in illustration of animal intelligence, 138
Frames of the understanding, 46-7, 48, 150-2, 173, 177, 197-9, 219-20, 223-4, 258, 270, 313, 358, 364
fit the inert, 197, 218
inadequate to reality entire, 364
misfit for the vital, x, xiii, xiv, 46, 48, 173, 177, 197-9, 223, 258, 313
product of life, 358
transform freedom into necessity, 270
utility of, lies in their unlimited application, 149-50, 152
Freedom, 11, 48, 126, 130, 163, 164, 200, 202, 207, 208, 217, 223, 231, 237, 239, 247, 249, 264-6, 269, 270, 277, 300, 339-41, 345, 346
the absolute as freely acting, 277
affirmed by conscience, 269
animal characteristic rather than vegetable, 129-30
caprice attribute not of, but of mechanism, 47
coextensiveness of consciousness with, 111, 112, 202, 264, 270
of creation and life, 247, 254, 255
creativeness of, 223, 239, 248
in Descartes's philosophy, 345, 346
as efficient causality, 277
inversion of necessity, 236
and liberation of consciousness, 265, 266.
See Imprisonment of consciousness
and novelty, 12, 163, 164, 200, 218, 231, 239, 249, 270, 339-42
order in, 223
property of every organism, 129-31
relaxation of, into necessity, 217
tendency of, to self-negation in habit, 127
tension of, 200, 201, 202, 207, 223, 237, 301
transformed by the understanding into necessity, 270
See Spontaneity
Fringe of intelligence around instinct, 136
of intuition around intellect, xii, xiii, 46
of possible action around real action, 179, 272
Froth, alveolar, in imitation of organic phenomena, 33-4
Full, fallacy of thinking the, by the empty, 273-6
Function, ix, 3, 5, 44, 46, 47, 88-90, 94, 95, 106-10, 113, 114, 117, 120, 121, 127, 132, 140, 141, 145, 152, 153, 157, 161, 163, 164, 168, 173-5, 186-92, 199,206, 207, 233, 237, 246, 251, 254-6, 262, 263, 270, 273, 298, 306, 346, 358, 369
accumulation of energy the function of vegetable organisms, 254, 255
action the, of intellect, ix, 12, 44, 47, 93, 161, 162, 186-8, 206, 251, 273, 305
action the, of nervous system, 262, 263
alimentation, 106, 107, 120, 121, 246, 254
of animals is canalization of energy, 93, 110, 126, 255, 256
carbon and the, of organisms, 107, 113, 114, 117, 254, 255
chlorophyllian, 107-9, 114, 117, 246, 254
concept-making the, of intellect, x, 49
of consciousness: sketching movements, 207
construction the, of intellect, 108
illumination of action, of perception, 5, 206, 307-8
of intelligence: action, ix, 12, 44, 46, 93, 160, 162, 186-8, 206, 251, 273, 307-8
of intelligence: concept-making, x, 50
of intelligence: construction, 160, 163, 181-2
of intelligence: division, 154, 155, 162, 189
of intelligence: illumination of action by perception, 5, 206, 301
of intelligence: repetition, 164, 199, 214-6
of intelligence: retrospection, 47, 237
of intelligence: connecting same with same, 199, 233, 270
of intelligence: scanning the rhythm of the universe, 346
of intelligence: tactualizing all perception, 168
of intelligence: unification, 152, 154, 357
of the nervous system: action, 262, 263
and organ, 88-90, 94, 95, 132-3, 140, 141, 158.
See Function and structure
and organ in arthropods, vertebrates and man, 132-3
of the organism, 94, 106-10, 112, 114, 117, 120, 126, 173-5, 246, 253-6
of the organism, alimentation, 106, 107, 120, 121, 246, 254
of the organism, animal: canalization of energy, 93, 110, 126, 255, 256
of the organism, carbon in, 107, 113, 114, 117, 254, 255
of the organism, chlorophyllian function, 107-9, 114, 117, 246, 247, 254
of the organism, primary functions of life: storage and expenditure of energy, 254-6
of the organism, vegetable: accumulation of energy, 254, 255
of philosophy: adoption of the evolutionary movement of life and consciousness, 370
of science, 168, 346
sketching movements the, of consciousness, 207
and structure, 55, 62, 66, 69, 74, 75, 76, 86, 88-91, 93, 94, 96, 118, 132, 140, 141, 158, 162, 250, 252, 256
tactualizing all perception the, of science, 168
of vegetable organism: accumulation of energy, 254, 255
Functions of life, the two: storage and expenditure of energy, 254-6

Galileo, homogeneity of time in, 332
his influence on metaphysics, 20, 228
his influence on modern science, 334, 335
extension of Galileo's physics, 357, 370
his theory of the fall of bodies compared with Aristotle's, 228, 331, 332, 334
Ganoid breast-plate of ancient fishes, in reference to animal mobility, 130, 131
Gaudry, 130 note
Genera, relation of, to individuals, 226
relation of, to laws, 225, 226, 330
potential, 226-7
and signs, 158
Generality, ambiguity of the idea of, in philosophy, 229-31, 236
Generalization dependent on repetition, 230, 231
distinguished from transference of sign, 158
in the vital and mathematical orders, 224, 225, 230
Generic, type of the: similarity of structure between generating and generated, 223, 224
Genesis, xiii, xiv, 153, 186-199, 207, 359, 360
of intellect, xiii, xiv, 153, 186, 187, 190, 193, 194, 196-7, 207, 264, 360
of knowledge, 191
of matter, xiii, xiv, 153, 186, 188, 190, 193, 199, 207, 360
Genius and the willed order, 223, 237
Genus. See Genera
Geometrical, the, is the object of the intellect, 190
Geometrical order as a diminution or lower complication of the vital, 223, 225, 236, 330.
See Genera, Relation of, to laws
mutual contingency of, and vital order, 235
See Mathematical order
space, relation of, to the spatiality of things, 203
Geometrism, the latent, of intellect, 194, 211-3
Geometry, fitness of, to matter, 10
goal of intellectual operations, 211, 213, 218
ideal limit of induction and deduction, 214-8, 361.
See Space, Descending movement of existence
modern, compared with ancient, 36, 161, 333-4
natural, 194, 211-2
perception impregnated with, 205, 230
reasoning in, contrasted with reasoning concerning life, 7, 8
scientific, 161, 211
Germ, accidental predisposition of, in Neo-Darwinism, 168, 169, 170
Germ-plasm, continuity of, 27, 37, 78-83
Giard, 84
Glucose in organic function, 122, 123
Glycogen in organic function, 122-4
God, as activity, 249
of Aristotle, 196, 322, 325, 349, 353, 356-7
ascent toward, in Aristotle's philosophy, 322-3
circularity of God's thought, in Aristotle's philosophy, 324, 325
in Descartes's philosophy, 346, 347
as efficient cause in Aristotle's philosophy, 324
as hypostasis of the unity of nature, 196, 322, 357
in Leibniz's philosophy, 352, 353, 356-7
as eternal matter, 196-7
as pure form, 196-7, 322
in Spinoza's philosophy, 351, 357
Greek philosophy. See Ancient philosophy
Green parts of plants, 107-9, 114, 117, 246, 247, 254
Growing old, 15
Growth, creation is, 240-1, 275
and novelty, 231
of the powers of life, 132, 134-5
reality is, 237
of the universe, 343, 345
Guérin, P., 59 note
Guinea-pig, in illustration of hereditary transmission, 80, 81

Habit and consciousness annulled, 143
form of knowledge a habit or bent of attention, 148
and heredity, 78, 93, 169, 170, 173.
See Acquired characters, inheritance of
instinct as an intelligent, 173-4
and invention in animals, 264
and invention in man, 265
tendency of freedom to self-negation in, 127-8
Harmony between instinct and life, and between intelligence and the inert, 187, 194-5, 198
of the organic world is complementarity due to a common original impulse 50, 51, 103, 116, 118
pre-established, 205, 206
in radical finalism, 127-8.
See Discord
Hartog, 60 note
Hatchets, ancient flint, and human intellect, 137
Heliocentric radius-vector in Kepler's laws, 333-4
Hereditary transmission, 76-83, 87, 168-9, 170, 173, 225-6, 230
domestication of animals and, 80-1
habit and, 79, 83, 169, 170, 173
Hesitation or choice, consciousness as, 143, 144
Heteroblastia and identical structures on divergent lines of evolution, 75
Heymons, 72 note
History as creative evolution, 6, 15, 21, 26, 29, 36, 37, 65-6, 103-4, 105, 163, 264, 269
of philosophy, 238
Hive as an organism, 166
Homo faber, designation of human species, 139
Homogeneity of space, 156, 212
the sphere of intellect, 163
of time in Galileo, 332
Horse-fly illustrating the object of instinct, 146
Houssay, 109 note
Human and animal attention, 184
and animal brain, 184, 263-5
and animal consciousness, 139-43, 180, 183, 184, 187, 188, 191, 212, 263-8
and animal instruments of action, 139-43, 150
and animal intelligence, 138, 187, 188, 191, 192, 212
and animal invention, relation of, to habit, 264, 265
intellect and language, 157-8
intellect and manufacture, 137, 138
Humanity in evolution, 134, 137-9, 142, 147, 158, 181, 184, 185, 264-71.
See Culminating points, etc.
goal of evolution, 266, 267
Huxley, 38
Hydra and individuality, 13
υλη of Aristotle, 353
Hymenoptera, the culmination of arthropod and instinctive evolution, 134, 173-4
as entomologists, 146, 172-3
organization and instinct in, 140
paralyzing instinct of, 146, 172, 173-4
social instincts of, 101, 171
Hypostasis of the unity of nature, God as, 196-7, 322, 356
Hypothetical propositions characteristic of intellectual knowledge, 149-50

Idea or form in ancient philosophy, 49, 314, 316-7, 318, 329-30
in ancient philosophy, ειδος, 314-5
in ancient philosophy, Platonic, 48
and image in Descartes, 280
Idealism, 232
Idealists and realists alike assume the possibility of an absence of order, 220, 232
Identical structures in divergent lines of evolution, 55, 60-1, 62, 69, 74-7, 86, 119
Illumination of action the function of perception, 5, 206, 307
Image and idea in Descartes, 280
distinguished from concept, 160-1, 280
Imitation of being in Greek philosophy, 324, 327
of instinct by science, 168-9, 173-4
of life in intellectual representation, 4, 33, 88-9, 101, 176, 208, 209, 213, 226, 259, 341, 365
of life by the unorganized, 33, 35, 36
of motion by intelligence, 305, 307-8, 312, 313, 329.
See Imitation of the real, etc.
of the physical order by the vital, 230
of the real by intelligence, 258, 270, 307
Immobility of extension, 155
and plants, 108-13, 118, 119, 130
of primitive and torpid animals, 130-1
relative and apparent; mobility real, 155
Impatience, duration as, 10, 339-40
Impelling cause, 73
Impetus, vital, divergence of, 26-7, 51-5, 97-105, 110, 118-9, 126-7, 131, 134-6, 257, 258, 266, 270
vital, limitedness of, 126, 141, 148-9, 254
vital, loaded with matter, 239
vital, as necessity for creation, 252, 261
vital, transmission of, through organisms, 25, 27, 79, 85, 87, 88, 230, 231, 250, 251
vital, See Impulse of life
Implement, the animal, is natural: the human, artificial, 139-43
artificial, 137-40, 150-1
constructing, function of intelligence, 159, 182-3
life known to intelligence only as, 162
matter known to intelligence only as, 161, 198
natural, 141, 145, 150
organized, 141, 145, 150
unorganized, 137-9, 141, 150-1
Implicit knowledge, 148
Impotence of intellect and perception to grasp life, 176-8
Imprisonment of consciousness, 180-3, 264-6
Impulse of life, divergence of, 26, 27, 51-5, 97-105, 110, 118-9, 126-7, 131, 134-6, 257, 258, 266, 270
limitedness of, 126, 141, 148-9, 254
loaded with matter, 239
tendency to mobility, 131, 132
as necessity for creation, 252, 261
negates itself, 247, 248
prolonged in evolution, 246
prolonged in our will, 239
transmitted through generations of organisms, 25, 26, 79, 85, 87, 230, 231
unity of, 202, 250, 270
Impulsion and attraction in Greek philosophy, 323-4
release and unwinding, the three kinds of cause, 73
given to mind by matter, 202
Inadequacy of act to representation, consciousness as, 143
Inadequate and adequate in Spinoza, 353
Inanition, illustrating primacy of nervous system, 124 note
Incoherence, 236.
See Absence of order, Chance, Chaos
in nature, 104
Incommensurability of free act with conceptual idea, 47, 201
of instinct and intelligence, 167-8, 175
Incompatibility of developed tendencies, 104, 168
Independent variable, time as, 20, 335-6
Indetermination, 86, 114, 126, 252, 253, 326.
See Accident in evolution
Indeterminism in Descartes, 345
Individual, viewed by intelligence as aggregate of molecules and of facts, 250-1
and division of labor, 140
in evolutionist biology, 169, 171, 246 note
and genus, 226-9
mind in philosophy, 191
aesthetic intuition only attains the, 177
and society, 260, 265
transmits the vital impetus, 250, 259, 270
Individuality never absolute, x, 12, 13, 16, 19, 42, 260
and age, 15-23, 27, 43
corporeal, physics tends to deny, 188, 189, 208.
See Interpenetration, Obliteration of outlines, Solidarity of the parts of matter
and generality, 226-8
the many and the one in the idea of, x, 258
as plan of possible influence, 11
Individuation never absolute, x, 12-16, 43, 260
as a cosmic principle in contrast with association, 259-60
property of life, 12-5
partly the work of matter, 257-8, 259, 270
Indivisibility of action, 94, 95
of duration, 6, 308
of invention, 164
of life, 225, 270-1.
See Unity
of life of motion, 307-11
Induction in animals, 214
certainty of, approached as factors approach pure magnitudes, 222, 223
and duration, 216
and expectation, 214-6
geometry the ideal limit of, 214-8, 361.
See Space, Geometry, Reasoning, "Descending" movement of matter, etc.
and magnitude, 215, 216
repetition the characteristic function of intellect, 164, 199, 205-16
and space, 216.
See Space as the ideal limit, Systems, etc.
Industry, ix, 161, 162, 164
Inert matter and action, 96, 136, 141, 155, 187, 198, 225, 367
in Aristotle, 316, 327, 353
bodies, 7, 8, 12, 14, 20, 21, 156, 159, 174, 186, 188, 189, 204, 213, 215, 228, 240, 241, 298, 300, 341, 342, 346-8, 360
Creation of. See Inert matter the inversion of life
flux of, 186, 265, 273, 369
and form, 148, 149, 157, 239, 250
genesis of, 188
homogeneity of, 156
imitation of living matter by, 33, 35, 36
imitation of physical order by vital, 230
instantaneity of, 10, 201
and intellect, ix, 31, 141, 159-62, 164, 165, 167-8, 175, 179, 181, 186, 187, 195, 196, 197, 198, 205-12, 216-9, 224,
264, 270, 319, 369
the inversion or interruption of life, 93, 94, 98, 99, 128-9, 153, 177, 186, 189, 190, 196, 197, 201, 203, 208, 216-9, 231,
235, 236, 239, 240, 245-50, 252, 254, 256, 258, 259, 261, 264, 267, 272, 276, 319, 339-40, 343.
See Inert matter, order inherent in
knowledge of, approximate but not relative, 206
the metaphysics and the physics of, 195-6
as necessity, 252, 264
the order inherent in, 40, 103, 153, 201, 207-12, 216, 226-7, 230-6, 245, 251, 263, 274, 319-20.
See Inert matter, inversion of life
penetration of, by life, 25, 26, 51, 179, 181, 237, 239, 266, 270, 271
and perception, 12, 206, 226
and the psychical, 201, 202, 205, 269, 270, 350, 367
solidarity of the parts of, 188, 202, 207, 241, 257-9, 270, 271, 352
and space, 10, 153, 189, 204-11, 214, 244, 250, 251, 257
in Spencer's philosophy, 365
Inertia, 176, 224
Infant, intelligence in, 147, 148
Inference a beginning of invention, 138
Inferiority in evolutionary rank, 174-5
Influence, possible, 11, 189
Infusoria, conjugation of, 15
development of the eye from its stage in, 60-1, 72, 78, 84
and individuation, 260
and mechanical explanations, 34, 35
vegetable function in, 116
Inheritance of acquired characters. See Hereditary transmission
Innate knowledge, 146-7, 150-1
Innateness of the categories, 148, 149-50
Inorganic matter. See Inert matter
Insectivorous plants, 107-9
Insects, 19, 101, 107, 126, 131, 134, 135, 140-1, 146, 147, 157, 166, 169, 171-5, 188
apogee of instinct in hymenoptera, 134, 173-4
consciousness and instinct, 145, 167, 173
continuity of instinct with organization, 139, 145
fallibility of instinct in, 172-3
instinct in general in, 169, 173-4
language of ants, 157-8
object of instinct in, 146
paralyzing instinct in, 146, 171, 172-3
social instinct in, 101, 157-8, 171
special instincts as variations on a theme, 167.
See Arthropods in evolution
Insensible variation, 63, 66
Inspiration of a poem an undivided intuitive act, contrasted with its intellectual imitation in words, 209, 210, 258.
See Sympathy
Instantaneity of the intellectual view, 31, 70, 84, 89, 199, 201-2, 207, 226, 249, 258, 273, 300-6, 311, 314, 331-3, 342, 351, 352,
Instinct and action on inert matter, 136, 141
in animals as distinguished from plants, 170
in cells, 166
and consciousness, 143-5, 166, 167, 173, 174, 175, 186
culmination of, in evolution, 133, 174-5.
See Arthropods in evolution, Evolutionary superiority
fallibility of, 173-4
in insects in general, 169, 173-4
and intelligence, xii, 51, 100, 103, 113, 116-8, 132-7, 141-3, 145, 150, 152, 159, 168-70, 173-9, 184-5, 186, 197-8, 238,
246, 254, 255, 259,267, 268, 343, 345, 366
and intuition, 177, 178-9, 181
object of, 146-52, 165, 168, 172-9, 186, 189, 195, 234, 254
and organization, 23-4, 138-40, 145, 166-8, 171-2, 173, 176, 193, 194, 264
paralyzing, in certain hymenoptera, 146, 171, 172-3
in plants, 170, 171
social, of insects, 101, 157-8, 171
Instinctive knowledge, 148, 167, 168, 173-4
learning, 193
metaphysics, 192, 269, 270, 277
Instrument, action as, of consciousness, 180
animal, is natural; human artificial, 139-43
automatic activity as instrument of voluntary, 252
consciousness as, of action, 180
intelligence: the function of intelligence is to construct instruments, 159, 192-3
intelligence transforms life into an, 162
intelligence transforms matter into an, 161, 198
intelligence: the instruments of intelligence are artificial, ix, 137-9, 140-1, 150-1
natural or organized instruments of instinct, 140-1, 145, 150
Intellect and action, ix, 11, 29, 44-8, 93, 136, 142, 152-7, 162, 179, 186, 187, 192, 195, 197-8, 219, 220, 226-9, 251, 270, 273, 297-9, 301, 302, 306, 329,346-7
in animals, 187

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Part 2 of 2

Fichte's conception of the, 189, 190, 357
function of the, 5, 11, 12, 44-50, 92, 93, 126, 137-45, 149-60, 162-4, 168, 174, 176, 181, 187-99, 204-8, 214-9, 229,
233, 237, 241, 242, 246, 247, 251, 270, 290, 298, 299, 328, 336, 337, 341, 342, 347, 348, 356, 357
genesis of the, xi-xv, 49, 103, 104-5, 126-7, 152, 153, 186, 187, 189, 193, 194, 195, 198, 207, 247-9, 358, 359, 366
as inversion of intuition, 7, 8, 11, 12, 46, 49, 51, 86, 88-91, 93, 94, 103-4, 113, 116-8, 129, 132, 133, 135, 136, 139-43,
145, 157, 161, 168-80, 181, 183, 184, 185, 190-204, 207-12, 216-8, 221, 223, 225-6, 230-3, 235, 236, 238, 245-52,
254-9, 264, 267-71, 276, 277, 313, 330, 339, 342-5, 361, 369
and language, 4, 148, 158-60, 258, 265, 292, 303, 304, 312, 313, 326
and matter, ix-xv, 10, 11, 48-9, 92, 135, 136, 141, 142, 152-4, 155, 160, 161, 165, 168, 175, 179, 181, 182, 186-7, 190,
193, 194, 195, 198, 199, 201-4, 205-10, 213, 215, 218-20, 224, 225-30, 240-2, 245, 246, 248-52, 254, 256-9, 264,
270, 271, 272, 273, 275, 297-8, 306, 319, 321, 329, 340, 341-3, 347-9, 355, 358-61, 368, 369
mechanism of the, ix-xv, 4, 30, 32, 47-9, 70, 84-5, 88-9, 101, 137-8, 150-5, 156-7, 160, 161, 164, 165, 167, 168, 173,
174, 176, 177, 186, 187, 190-3, 194-218, 223-40, 244, 246-7, 249-51, 254, 255, 257, 258, 266, 270, 273, 276-7, 292,
300-21, 325, 329, 330, 332, 337, 338, 339, 341-8, 351, 358-9, 361-2, 363-4, 365, 367
object of the, ix-xv, 7, 8, 10, 17, 20, 21, 30, 31, 34, 35, 37, 46-9, 52, 71, 74, 84, 87-92, 93, 95, 102, 103, 139, 140, 149,
152-66, 168, 173, 175-9, 180, 181, 186, 190, 193-211, 213, 216-20, 223, 224, 226, 228-30, 233, 237, 238, 240, 245,
249-51, 254, 255, 257-9, 261, 264, 265, 270, 271, 273, 274, 298-314, 318-22, 326, 328, 329, 332-8, 342, 344-9, 351,
352-7, 359-61, 363, 365, 369-70
and perception, 4-5, 11, 12, 93-4, 161-2, 168, 176-7, 188, 189, 205, 207, 226-7, 228-9, 230, 238, 249-51, 273,
299-300, 301, 306, 359-60
and rhythm, 299, 300-1, 306-7, 329, 337, 346-7
and science, 8-12, 31, 92-3, 152, 153, 157-8, 159, 160-1, 162-3, 168, 173-6, 187, 193-8, 202, 204, 207-9, 214-6, 217,
225-6, 228-9, 241, 251, 270, 273, 297-8, 306, 321, 322, 329, 333-5, 345, 346-8, 354, 356, 357, 359-60, 362-3,
369-70
and space, 10-11, 154, 156-7, 160-3, 174-5, 176-7, 189, 202-4, 207-12, 215, 218, 222-3, 244, 245, 250, 251, 257-8,
361-2
and time, 4, 8-9, 17, 18, 20-2, 36, 39, 45-6, 47, 51, 163, 300, 301, 331-2, 335-7, 341
possibility of transcending the, xii, xiii, 48, 152, 177-8, 193-4, 198-200, 205-6, 207-8, 266, 360-1.
See Philosophy, Intelligence
Intellectualism, hesitation of Descartes between, and intuitionism, 345
Intelligence and action, 137-41, 150, 154-5, 161, 162-3, 181, 189, 198, 306
animal, 138, 187, 188, 212
categories of, x, 48, 195-6
of the child, 147-8
and consciousness, 187
culmination of, 130, 139-40, 174-5.
See Superiority
genesis of, 136, 177-8, 366
and the individual, 251
and instinct, 109, 135, 136, 141, 142, 168-70, 173-7, 179, 186, 197, 209, 238, 259, 267
in Kant's philosophy, 357-8
and laws, 229-30
limitations of, 152
and matter, 152, 159-60, 161-2, 175, 179, 181, 186, 189, 194-8, 230, 237, 250, 369, 370
mechanism of, 152, 153, 164, 165
and motion, 153, 159-60, 274, 303-7, 312, 313, 329
object of, 145-56, 161, 162, 175, 179, 250
practical nature of, ix-xv, 137-9, 141, 150-1, 247-8, 305, 306, 328-9
and reality, ix-xv, 161-2, 177, 237, 251, 258, 269, 271, 307
and science, 175, 176, 193, 194-5
and signs, 157, 158, 159, 160
and space, 205
See Intellect, Understanding, Reason
Intelligent, the, contrasted with the merely intelligible, 175
Intelligible reality in ancient philosophy, 316-7
world, 160-1
Intelligibles of Plotinus, 353
Intension of knowledge, 149-50
Intensity of consciousness varies with ratio of possible to real action, 144-5
Intention as contrasted with mechanism, 233.
See Automatic order, Willed order of life the object of instinct, 176, 233
Interaction, universal, 188-9
Interest as cause of variation, 131
in representation of "nought," 296, 297.
See Affection, rôle of, etc.
Internal finality, 41
Internality of instinct, 168, 174-5, 176-7
of subject in object the condition of knowledge of reality, 307, 317, 358-9
Interpenetration, 161, 162, 174-5, 177, 184 note, 188, 189, 201-3, 207-8, 257, 258, 270, 319-20, 341, 352
Interruption, materiality an, of positivity, 219, 246, 247-8, 319-20.
See Inverse relation, etc.
Interval of time, 8-9, 22, 23
between what is done and what might be done covered by consciousness, 179
Intuition, continuity between sensible and ultra-intellectual, 360-1
dialectic and, in philosophy, 238.
See Intellect as inversion of intuition
fringe of, around the nucleus of intellect, xiii, 12, 46, 49, 193
and instinct, 176-9, 182
and intellect in theoretical knowledge, 176-9, 270-1
Intuitional cosmology as reversed psychology, 207-8
metaphysics contrasted with intellectual or systematic, 191-2, 268-70, 277-8
method of philosophy, apparent vicious circle of, 191-4, 195-8
Intuitionism in Spinoza, 347-8
and intellectualism in Descartes, 345-6
Invention, consciousness as, and freedom, 264, 270-1
creativeness of, 164, 237, 340, 341
disproportion between, and its consequences, 181, 182-3
duration as, 10-1
evolution as, 102-3, 255, 344-5
fervor of, 164
indivisibility of, 164
inference a beginning of, 138
mechanical, 142-3, 194-5
of steam engine as epoch-marking, 138-9
time as, 341
unforeseeableness of, 164
upspringing of, 164
See New
Inverse relation of the physical and psychical, 126-7, 143-4, 145, 173-4, 177-8, 201, 202, 206-7, 208, 210-1, 212, 217, 218, 222, 223, 236, 240, 245, 246,247-8, 249, 256, 257, 261, 264, 265, 270, 319-20
Irreversibility of duration. See Repetition
Isolated systems of matter, 204, 213, 215, 241, 242, 341, 342, 346, 347-8.
See Bodies

Janet, Paul, 60-1 note
Jennings, 35 note
Jourdain and the two kinds of order, 221
Juxtaposition, 207-8, 338, 339, 341.
Cf. Succession

Kaleidoscopic variation, 74
Kant, antinomies of, 204-5, 206
becoming in Kant's successors, 362
coincidence of matter with space in Kant's philosophy, 206, 207-8, 244
construction the method of Kant's successors, 364-5
his criticism of pure reason, 205, 287 note, 356-62, 364
degrees of being in Kant's successors, 362-3
duration in Kant's successors, 362-3
intelligence in Kant's philosophy, 230, 357
ontological argument in Kant's philosophy, 285
space and time in Kant's philosophy, 204-6
and Spencer, 364
See Mind and matter, Sensuous manifold, Thing-in-itself
Kantianism, 358, 364
Katagenesis, 34
Kepler, 228-9, 332-5
Knowledge and action, 150, 193-4, 196, 197, 206-7, 208, 218
criticism of, 193-4
discontinuity of, 306
extension of, 149
form of, 148, 194-5, 358-362
formal, 152
genesis of, 190
innate or natural, 146-50
instinct in, 143, 144, 166-9, 173, 177, 192-3, 198, 268
intellect in, ix-xv, 48, 149, 162-4, 177, 179, 193-4, 196-9, 206-7, 208, 218, 237, 238, 251, 270, 305, 306, 312, 313, 315,
317, 325, 331-2, 342, 343, 347-8, 359-60, 361
intension of, 149-50
of reality viewed as the internality of subject in object, 307, 317, 358-9
intuition and intellect in theoretical knowledge, 174-7, 179, 238, 70, 342-4
matter of, 194-5, 357-8, 359-62
of matter, xi, 48, 206-7, 360-1
object of, ix-xv, 1, 48, 147, 148, 159-60, 163, 164, 197-9, 270, 342, 359-60
fundamental problem of, 273-5
as relative to certain requirements of the mind, 152, 190-1, 230
scientific, 193-4, 196-8, 206, 207, 218
theory of, xiii, 177, 179, 197, 204-5, 207-8, 229, 231
unconscious, 142-6, 146, 150, 165, 166
alleged unknowableness of the thing-in-itself, 205, 206
Kunstler, 260 note

Labbé 260 note
Labor, division of, 99, 110, 118, 140, 157, 166, 260
Lalande, André, 246 note
Lamarck, 75-6
Lamarckism, 75-6, 77, 84-87
Language, 4, 147, 157-60, 258, 265, 293, 302-3, 305, 312-4, 320
La Place, 38
Lapsed intelligence, instinct as, 169, 175
Larvae, 19, 140, 145-66, 172-3
Latent geometrism of intellect, 194, 211-2
Law of correlation, 66, 67
and genera, 226-9, 330
heliocentric radius-vector in Kepler's laws, 334
imprint of relations and laws upon consciousness in Spencer's philosophy, 188
and intuitional philosophy, 176-7
physical, contrasted with the laws of our codes, 218-9
physical, expression of the negative movement, 218
physical, mathematical form of, 218, 219, 229-30, 241
relation as, 228, 229-30
Learning, instinctive, 192, 193
Le Dantec, 18 note
Leibniz, cause in, 277
dogmatism of, 356, 357
extension in, 351, 352
God in, 351, 352, 356
mechanism in, 348, 351, 355, 356
his philosophy a systematization of physics, 347
space in, 351-2
teleology in, 39, 40
time in, 352, 362
Lepidoptera, 114 note, 134
Le Roy, Ed., 218 note
Liberation of consciousness, 183-4, 265, 266
Liberty. See Freedom
Life as activity, 128-9, 246
cause in the realm of, 94, 164
complementarity of the powers of, ix-xv, 25-6, 27, 51-5, 97-105, 110, 113, 116-9, 126-7, 131-6, 140-3, 176, 177, 183,
184, 246, 254-7, 266, 270, 343, 344-5
consciousness coextensive with, 186, 257, 270, 362-3
mutual contingency of the orders of life and matter, 235
continuity of, 1-11, 29, 30, 162, 163, 258
as creation, 57-8, 161-2, 223, 230, 246, 247-8, 252, 254, 255
symbolized by a curve, 31, 89, 90
embryonic, 166
and finality, 44, 89, 164, 185, 222-3
fluidity of, 153, 165, 191-2, 193
as free, 129-30
function of, 93-4, 106-10, 113, 114, 117, 120, 121, 126-7, 173-5, 246, 254-6
harmony of the realm of, 50, 51, 103, 116, 117-8, 127
imitation of the inert by, 230
imitation of, by the inert, 33-6
impulse of, prolonged in our will, 239
and individuation, 12-4, 26, 27, 79-80, 85, 87, 88, 127-8, 149, 195-6, 230, 231, 250, 259, 261, 269, 300-1, 302-3.
See Individuality
indivisibility of, 225-6, 270
and instinct. 136-40, 145, 165-8, 170, 172, 173, 175-9, 186, 192-7, 233, 264, 366
and intellect, ix-xv, 13, 32-5, 44-9, 89, 101, 102-3, 104-5, 127, 136, 152, 160-5, 168, 173-4, 176-9, 181, 191-201, 206,
207, 213, 220, 222-3, 224, 225-6, 257-61, 266, 270, 300-1, 342, 355, 359-61, 365, 366
and interpenetration, 271
as inversion of the inert, 6-7, 8, 176, 177, 186, 190, 191, 196, 197, 201, 202, 207, 208-9, 210-1, 212, 216, 217, 218,
222-3, 225-6, 232, 235, 236, 238, 239, 245-50, 264, 329-31
a limited force, 126, 127, 141, 148, 149, 254
and memory, 167
penetrating matter, 26, 27, 52, 179, 181, 182, 237, 239, 266, 269-70
as tendency to mobility, 128, 131, 132
and physics and chemistry, 31, 33, 35, 36, 225-6
in other planets, 256
as potentiality, 258
repetition in, and in the inert, 224, 225, 230, 231
sinuousness of, 71, 98, 99, 102, 112, 113, 116, 129-30, 212
social, 138, 140, 157-8, 265
in other solar systems, 256
and evolution of species, 247-8, 254, 269
theory of, and theory of knowledge, xii, 177, 179, 197
unforeseeableness of, 6, 8-9, 20, 26-7, 28, 29, 37, 45-6, 47, 48, 52, 86, 96, 163, 164, 184, 223-4, 249, 339, 341
unity of, 250, 268, 270
as a wave flowing over matter, 251, 266
See Impulse of, Organic substance, Organism, Organization, Vital impetus, Vital order, Vital principle, Vitalism,
Willed order
Limitations of instinct and of intelligence, 152
Limitedness of the scope of Galileo's physics, 357, 370
of the vital impetus, 126, 127, 141, 148, 149, 255
Linden, Maria von, 114 note
Lingulae illustrating failure to evolve, 102
Lizards, color variation in, 72, 74
Locomotion and consciousness, 108, 111, 115, 261.
See Mobility, Movement
Logic and action, ix, 44, 46, 162, 179
formal, 292
genesis of, x-xi, xiii-xiv, 49, 103, 104-5, 136, 191-2, 193, 301, 359, 366
and geometry, ix, 161, 176, 212
impotent to grasp life, x, 13, 32, 35, 36, 46-9, 89, 101, 152, 162-5, 194-201, 205, 206, 213, 219, 220, 222, 223, 225-6,
256-61, 266, 270, 313, 355, 360-1, 365
natural, 161, 194-5
of number, 208
and physics, 319-20, 321
and time, 4, 277
See Intellect, Intelligence, Understanding, Order, mathematical
Logical existence contrasted with psychical and physical, 277, 298, 328, 361-2
categories, x, 48, 195, 196
and physical contrasted, 276-7
Logik, by Sigwart, 287 note
λογος, in Plotinus, 210 note
Looking backward, the attitude of intellect, 46, 237
Lumbriculus, 13

Machinery and intelligence, 141
Machines, natural and artificial, 139.
See Implement, Instrument
organisms, for action, 252, 254, 300-1
Magnitude, certainty of induction approached as factors approach pure magnitudes, 215-16
and modern science, 333, 335
Man in evolution, attention, 184
brain, 183, 184, 263-5
consciousness, 139-43, 180, 181, 183, 185, 187, 188, 191-2, 212, 262-8
goal, 134, 174-5, 185, 266, 267, 269, 270
habit and invention, 265
intelligence, 133, 137-9, 143, 146, 174, 175, 187, 188, 212, 266, 267
language, 158
Manacéine (de), 124 note
Manufacture, the aim of intellect, 137, 138, 145, 152-4, 159-65, 181, 191, 192, 199, 251, 298
and organization, 92, 93, 126-7, 139-43, 150
and repetition, 44, 45, 155-8
See Construction, Solid, Utility
Many and one, categories inapplicable to life, x, 162-3, 177-8, 257, 261, 268
in the idea of individuality, 258
See Multiplicity
Martin, J., 102 note
Marion, 107 note
Material knowledge, 152
Materialists, 240
Materiality the inversion of spirituality, 212
Mathematical order. See Inert matter, Order
Matter. See Inert matter
Maturation as creative evolution, 47-8, 230
Maupas, 35 note
Measurement a human convention, 218, 242
of real time an illusion, 336-40
Mechanical account of action after the fact, 47
cause, x, 34, 35, 40, 44, 177, 234, 235
procedure of intellect, 165
invention, 138, 140, 194-5
necessity, 47, 215, 216, 218, 236, 252, 265, 270, 327
Mechanics of transformation, 32
Mechanism, cerebral, 252, 253, 262, 263, 265, 366.
See Cerebral activity and consciousness
of the eye, 88
instinct as, 176-7
of intellect. See Intellect, mechanism of
and intention, 233.
See Automatic order, Willed order
life more than, x, xiv note, 78-9
Mechanistic philosophy, xii, xiv, 17, 29, 30, 37, 74, 88-96, 101, 102, 194-5, 218, 223, 264, 345, 346, 347, 348, 351, 355, 356, 362
Medical philosophers of the eighteenth century, 356
science, 165
Medullary bulb in the development of the nervous system, 252
and consciousness, 110
Memory, 5, 17, 20, 21, 167, 168, 180, 181, 201
Menopause in illustration of crisis of evolution, 19
Mental life, unity of, 268
Metamorphoses of larvae, 139-40, 146-7, 166
Metaphysics and duration, 276
and epistemology, 177, 179, 185, 197, 208-9
Galileo's influence on, 20, 238
instinctive, 191-2, 269, 270, 277-8
and intellect, 189-90
and matter, 194
natural, 21, 325
and science, 176-7, 194-5, 198, 208-9, 344, 354, 369-70
systematic, 191, 192, 194, 195-6, 238, 269, 270, 347
Metchnikoff, 18 note
Method of philosophy, 191-2
Microbes, illustrating divergence of tendency, 117
Microbial colonies, 259
Mind, individual, in philosophy, 191
and intellect, 48-9, 205-6
knowledge as relative to certain requirements of the mind, 152, 190-1, 230
and matter, 188-9, 201, 202, 203, 205-6, 264, 269, 270, 350, 365-9
See Psychic, Psycho-physiological parallelism, Psychology and Philosophy, ψυχη
Minot, Sedgwick, 17 note
Mobility, tendency toward, characterizes animals, 109, 110, 113, 129-32, 135, 180
and consciousness, 108, 111, 115-6, 261
and intellect, 154-5, 161-2, 163, 300, 326, 327, 337
of intelligent signs, 158, 159
life as tendency toward, 127-8, 131, 132
in plants, 112, 135
See Motion
Möbius, 60 note
Model necessary to the constructive work of intellect, 164, 166-7
Modern astronomy compared with ancient science, 334, 335
geometry compared with ancient science, 31, 161, 334
idealism, 231
philosophy compared with ancient, 225-9, 231, 327-8, 344, 345, 349-51, 354, 356-7
philosophy: parallelism of body and mind in, 180, 350, 355, 356
science: cinematographical character of, 329, 330, 336, 341, 342, 346-7
science compared with ancient, 329-36, 342-5, 356-7
science, Galileo's influence on, 334, 335
science, Kepler's influence on, 334
science, magnitudes the object of, 333, 335
science, time an independent variable in, 20, 335
Molecules, 251
Molluscs, illustrating animal tendency to mobility, 129-31
perception in, 189
vision in, 60, 75, 77, 83, 86, 87
Monads of Leibniz, 351-4
Monera, 126
Monism, 355
Moral sciences, weakness of deduction in, 212
Morat, 123 note
Morgan, L., 79 note, 80
Motion, abstract, 304
articulations of, 310-1
an animal characteristic, 252
and the cinematograph, 304-5
continuity of, 310
in Descartes, 346-7
evolutionary, extensive and qualitative, 302, 303, 311, 312
in general (i.e. abstract), 304-5
indivisibility of, 306-7, 311, 336-7, 338
and instinct, 139-40, 331-2
and intellect, 71, 155, 156, 159-60, 273, 274, 298, 317-8, 321, 329, 331-2, 338, 344-5
organization of, 310-1
track laid by motion along its course, 308-11, 337, 338
See Mobility, Movement
Motive principle of evolution: consciousness, 181-2
Motor mechanisms, cerebral, 252, 253, 263, 265
Moulin-Quignon, quarry of, 137
Moussu, 81
Movement and animal life, 108, 131, 132
ascending, 12, 101, 103, 104, 185, 208-9, 210-1, 369-70.
See Vital impetus
consciousness and, 111, 118, 144-5, 207-8
descending, 11-2, 202-4, 207-10, 212, 246, 252, 256, 270, 276, 339, 361, 369-70
goal of, the object of the intellect, 155, 299-300, 302, 303
intellect unable to grasp, 313
mutual inversion of cosmic movements, 126-7, 143, 144, 173-4, 176, 177, 209-10, 212, 217, 218, 222-3, 236, 245-51,
261, 264, 265, 272, 342-3
life as, 166, 176-7
and the nervous system, 110, 132, 134, 180, 262-3
of plants, 109, 135-6
See Mobility, Motion, Locomotion, Current, Tendency, Impetus, Impulse, Impulsion
Movements, antagonistic cosmic, 128-9, 135, 181, 185, 250, 259.
See Movement, Mutual inversion of cosmic
Multiplicity, abstract, 257, 259
distinct, 202, 209-10, 257.
See Interpenetration
does not apply to life, x, 162, 177, 257, 261, 270
Mutability, exhaustion of, of the universe, 244, 245
Mutations, sudden, 28, 62-3, 64-8
theory of, 85-6

Natural geometry, 195-6, 211-2
instrument, 141, 144-5, 150-1
or innate knowledge, 147, 150-1
logic, 161, 194-5
metaphysic, 21, 325-6
selection, 54, 56-7, 59-60, 61-5, 68, 95, 169-70
Nature, Aristotelian theory of, 135, 174
discord in, 127-8, 255, 267
facts and relations in, 368
incoherence in, 104
as inert matter, 161-2, 218, 219, 228-9, 239, 245, 264, 280-1, 303, 356, 359-60, 367
as life, 100, 138, 139-40, 141-2, 143, 144-5, 150, 154, 155-6, 227, 241, 260, 269, 270, 301-2
order of, 225-6
as ordered diversity, 231, 233
unity of, 105, 190, 191, 195, 196-9, 322, 352-7, 358
Nebula, cosmic, 249, 257
Necessity for creation, vital impetus as, 252, 261
and death of individuals, 246 note
and freedom, 218, 236, 270
in Greek philosophy, 326-7
in induction, 215, 216
and matter, 252, 264
Negation, 275, 285-97.
See Nought
Negative cause of mathematical order, 217.
See Inverse relation, etc.
cosmic principle, 126-7, 143, 144, 173-4, 176-7, 209, 212, 218, 223-4, 236, 245-51, 261, 264-5, 272, 243.
See Inert matter, Opposition of the two ultimate cosmic movements, etc.
Neo-Darwinism, 55, 56, 85, 86, 169-70
Neo-Lamarckism, 42 note
Nervous system a centre of action, 109, 130-1, 132, 134-5, 180, 253, 261-3
of the plant, 114
primacy of, 120-1, 126-7, 252
Neurone and indetermination, 126
New, freedom and the, 11-2, 164, 165, 199-200, 218, 230, 239, 249, 270, 339-42
Newcomen, 184
Newton, 335
Nitrogen and the function of organisms, 108, 113-4, 117, 255
νοησεως νοησις of Aristotle, 356
Non-existence. See Nought
Nothing. See Nought
Nought, conception of the, 273-80, 281-3, 289-90, 292-8, 316-7, 327.
See Negation, Pseudo-ideas, etc.
νους ποιητικος of Aristotle, 322
Novelty. See new.
Nucleus intelligence as the luminous, enveloped by instinct, 166-7
in microbial colonies, 259
intelligence as the solid, bathed by a mist of instinct, 193, 194
of Stentor, 260
Number illustrating degrees of reality, 324-5, 327
logic of, 208
Nuptial flight, 146
Nutritive elements, fixation of, 107-9, 114, 117, 246, 247, 254
Nymph (Zool.), 139, 146
Object of this book, ix-xv
of instinct, 146-52, 163, 175-9
of intellect, 146-52, 161-5, 175, 179, 190-1, 199-200, 237, 250, 252, 270, 273, 298-304, 307-8, 311-2, 354, 359
internality of subject in, the condition of knowledge of reality, 307-8, 317-8, 359
of knowledge, 147, 148-9, 159-60
idea of, contrasted with that of universal interaction, 11, 188-9, 207-8
of philosophy as contrasted with object of science, 195-6, 220-1, 225-6, 227, 239, 251, 270, 273, 297-9, 305-6, 347
of science, 329, 332-3, 335-6
Obliteration of outlines in the real, 11, 188, 189, 207-8
Oenothera Lamarckiana, 63, 85-6
Old, growing. See Age
the, is the object of the intellect, 163, 164, 199, 270
One and many in the idea of individuality, x, 258.
See Unity
Ontological argument in Kant, 284
Opposition of the two ultimate cosmic movements, 128-9, 175-6, 179, 186, 201, 203, 238, 248, 254, 259, 261, 267.
See Inverse relation of the physical and psychical
Orchids, instincts of, 170
Order and action, 226-7
complementarity of the two orders, 145-6, 173-4, 221-2.
See Order, Mutual inversion of the two orders
mutual contingency of the two orders, 231, 235
and disorder, 40, 103-4, 220-2, 225-6, 231-6, 274
mutual inversion of the two orders, 186, 201, 202, 206-9, 211, 212, 216-8, 219-21, 222-3, 225-6, 230, 232, 235, 236,
238, 240, 245-8, 256, 257, 258, 264, 270, 274, 313, 330
mathematical, 153, 209-11, 217-9, 223-6, 230-3, 236, 245, 251, 270, 330-1
of nature, 225-6, 231, 233
as satisfaction, 222, 223, 274
vital, 94-5, 164, 222-7, 230, 235, 236, 237, 330-1
willed, 224, 239
Organ and function, 88-91, 93-4, 95, 132, 140, 141, 157, 161-2
Organic destruction and physico-chemistry, 226
substance, 131, 140, 141-2, 149, 162-3, 195-6, 240 note, 255, 267
world, cleft between, and the inorganic, 190, 191, 196, 197-8
world, harmony of, 50-1, 103, 104, 116, 118, 126-7
world, instinct the procedure of, 165
Organism and action, 123-4, 125, 174, 253, 254, 300-1
ambiguity of primitive, 99, 112, 113, 116, 129, 130
association of organisms, 260
change and the, 301, 302-3
complementarity of intelligence and instinct in the, 141-2, 150, 181, 184, 185
complexity of the, 162, 250, 252, 253, 260
consciousness and the, 111, 145, 179, 180, 262, 270
contingency of the actual chemical nature of the, 255, 257
differentiation of parts in, 252, 260.
See Organism, complexity of
extension of, by artificial instruments, 141, 161
freedom the property of every, 130, 131
function of, 26, 27, 79, 80, 85, 87, 88, 93-4, 106-110, 113, 114, 117, 120, 121, 126-7, 128, 136, 173-5, 230, 231, 246,
247, 250, 251, 254, 255, 256, 258, 270
function and structure, 55, 61, 62, 69, 74, 75, 76-7, 86, 88-91, 93-4, 95, 96-7, 118-9, 132, 139, 140, 157-8, 161-3, 250,
252, 256
generality typified by similarity among organisms, 223, 224, 228-9, 230
hive as, 166
and individuation, x, 12, 13, 15, 23, 26-7, 42, 149, 195-6, 225-6, 228-9, 259, 260, 261, 270
mutual interpenetration of organisms, 177-8
mechanism of the, 31, 92-3, 94
philosophy and the, 195-6
unity of the, 176-8
Organization of action, 142, 145, 147-8, 150, 181, 184, 185
of duration, 5-6, 15, 25, 26
explosive character of, 92
and instinct, 24, 138-46, 150, 165-7, 171-2, 173, 176, 192-3, 194, 264
and intellect, 161-2
and manufacture, 92, 93, 94-5, 96, 126-8
is the modus vivendi between the antagonistic cosmic currents, 181, 250, 254
of motion, 310
and perception, 226-7
Originality of the willed order, 224
Orthogenesis, 69, 86-7
Oscillation between association and individuation, 259, 261.
See Societies
of ether, 301-2
of instinct and intelligence about a mean position, 136
of pendulum, illustrating space and time in ancient philosophy, 318-9, 320
between representation of inner and outer reality, 279-80
of sensible reality in ancient philosophy about being, 316-8
Outlines of perception the plan of action, 5, 11, 12, 93, 188, 189, 204-5, 206-7, 226-7, 228-9, 230, 250, 299-300, 306
Oxygen, 114, 254, 255

Paleontology, 24-5, 129, 139
Paleozoic era, 102
Parallelism, psycho-physiological, 180, 350, 351, 355, 356
Paralyzing instinct in hymenoptera, 139-40, 146, 172, 174-5
Parasites, 106, 108, 109, 111-13, 134-5
Parasitism, 132
Passivity, 222-4
Past, subsistence of, in present, 4, 20-3, 26-7, 108, 199-202
Peckham, 173-4 note
Pecten, illustrating identical structures in divergent lines of evolution, 62, 63, 75
Pedagogical and social nature of negation, 287-97
Pedagogy and the function of the intellect, 165
Penetration, reciprocal, 161-2.
See Interpenetration
Perception and action, 4-5, 11, 12, 93, 188, 189, 206, 226-7, 228-9, 300-1, 306-7
and becoming, 176-7, 303-6
cinematographical character of, 206-7, 249, 251, 331-2
distinctness of, 226-7, 250
and geometry, 205, 230
in molluscs, 188
and organization, 226-7
prolonged in intellect, 161-2, 273
reaction in, 264
and recollection, 180, 181
refracts reality, 204, 238, 359-60
rhythm of, 299-300, 301
and science, 168
Permanence an illusion, 299-301
Peron, 80
Perrier, Ed., 260 note
Personality, absolute reality of, 269
concentration of, 201, 202
and matter, 269, 270
the object of intuition, 268
tension of, 199, 200, 201
Perthes, Boucher de, 137
Phaedrus, 156 note
Phagocytes and external finality, 42
Phagocytosis and growing old, 18
Phantom ideas and problems, 177, 277, 283, 296
Philosophical explanation contrasted with scientific explanation, 168
Philosophy and art, 176-7
and biology, 43-4, 194-6
and experience, 197-8
function of 29-30, 84-5, 93-4, 168, 173-4, 194-7, 198, 268, 269, 369-70
history of, 238
incompletely conscious of itself, 207-8, 209
individual mind in, 191
and intellect, ix-xv
intellect and intuition in, 238
of intuition, 176-7, 191-4, 196, 197, 277
method of, 191-2, 194, 195, 239
object of, 239
and the organism, 195-6
and physics, 194, 208
and psychology, 194, 196
and science, 175, 196-7, 208, 345, 370
See Ancient philosophy, Cosmology, Finalism, Mechanistic philosophy, Metaphysics, Modern philosophy,
Post-Kantian philosophy
Phonograph illustrating "unwinding" cause, 73
Phosphorescence, consciousness compared to, 262
Photograph, illustrating the nature of the intellectual view of reality, 31, 304-5
Photography, instantaneous, illustrating the mechanism of the intellect, 331-2, 333
Physical existence, as contrasted with logical, 276, 297-8, 328, 361
laws, their precise form artificial, 218, 219, 229, 240-1
laws and the negative cosmic movement, 218
operations the object of intelligence, 175, 250
order, imitation of, by the vital, 230
science, 176-7
Physicochemistry and organic destruction, 226
and biology, 25-6, 29-30, 34, 35, 36, 55, 57, 98, 194
Physics, ancient, "logic spoiled," 320, 321-2
of ancient philosophy, 315, 320, 321-2, 355
of Aristotle, 228 note, 324 note, 331, 332
and deduction, 213
of Galileo, 357, 369-70
and individuality of bodies, 188, 208
as inverted psychics, 202
and logic, 319-20, 321
and metaphysics, 194, 208
and mutability, 245
success of, 218, 219
Pigment-spot and adaptation, 60, 61, 71-3, 76-7
and heredity, 83, 84
Pinguicula, certain animal characteristics of, 107
Plan, motionless, of action the object of intellect, 155, 298-9, 301-2, 303
Planets, life in other, 256
Plants and animals in evolution, 105-39, 142-3, 144, 145-6, 147, 168, 169-70, 181, 182, 183-4, 185, 254, 267
complementarity of, to animals, 183-4, 185, 267
consciousness of, 109, 111, 113, 120, 128-35, 142-3, 144, 181, 182, 292.
See Torpor, Sleep
function of, 107-9, 113, 114, 117, 246, 247, 254, 256
function and structure in, 67, 77-8, 79
individuation in, 12
instinct in, 170, 171
and mobility, 108, 109, 111-13, 118-9, 129, 130, 135-6
parallelism of evolution with animals, 59-60, 106-8, 116
supporters of all life, 271
variation of, 85, 86
Plasma, continuity of germinative, 25-6, 42, 78-83
Plastic substances, 255
Plato, 49, 156, 191, 210 note, 316, 318, 319, 320, 321, 327, 330, 347, 349
Platonic ideas, 49, 315-6, 321, 322, 327, 330, 352
Plotinus, 210 note, 314-5, 323, 324 note, 349, 352, 353
Plurality, confused, of life, 257.
See Interpenetration
Poem, sounds of, distinct to perception; the sense indivisible to intuition, 209
illustrating creation of matter, 240, 319-20
ποιητικος νους, of Aristotle, 322
Polymorphism of ants, bees, and wasps, 140
of insect societies, 157
Polyzoism, 260
Positive reality, 208, 212. See Reality
Positivity, materiality an inversion or interruption of, 219, 246, 247-8, 319-20
Possible activity as a factor in consciousness, 11, 12, 96, 144, 145, 146-7, 158-9, 165, 179, 180, 181, 189, 264, 368
existence, 290, 295
Post-Kantian philosophy, 362, 363
Potential activity. See Possible activity
genera, 226
knowledge, 142-7, 150, 166
Potentiality, life as an immense, 258, 270
zone of, surrounding acts, 179, 180, 181, 264.
See Possible activity
Powers of life, complementarity of, xii, xiii, 26, 27, 51-5, 97-105, 110, 113, 116-8, 119, 126-7, 131-6, 140-3, 176, 177, 183, 184, 246, 254, 255, 257, 266, 270, 343, 345
Practical nature of perception and its prolongation in intellect and science, 137-41, 150, 193-4, 196, 197, 206, 207-8, 218, 247-8, 273, 281, 305, 306-7, 328, 329
Preëstablished harmony, 205-6, 207
Present, creation of, by past, 5, 20-3, 26-7, 167, 199-202
Prevision. See Foreseeing
Primacy of nervous system, 120-6, 252
Primary instinct, 138-9, 168
Primitive organisms, ambiguous forms of, 99, 112, 113, 116, 129, 130
"Procession" in Alexandrian philosophy, 323
Progress, adaptation and, 101 ff.
evolutionary, 50, 133, 134, 138, 141-2, 173-4, 175, 185, 264-5, 266
Prose and verse, illustrating the two kinds of orders, 221, 232
Protophytes, colonizing of, 259
Protoplasm, circulation of, 32-3, 108
and senescence, 18, 19
imitation of, 32-3, 35
primitive, and the nervous system, 124, 126-7
of primitive organisms, 99, 108, 109
and the vital principle, 42-3
Protozoa, association of, 259-61
ageing of, 16
of ambiguous form, 112
and individuation, 14, 259-61
mechanical explanation of movements of, 33
and nervous system, 126
reproduction of, 14
Pseudo-ideas and problems, 177, 277, 283, 296
Pseudoneuroptera, division of labor among, 140
ψχνη of Aristotle, 350
of Plotinus, 210 note
Psychic activity, twofold nature of, 136, 140-1, 142-3
life, continuity of, 1-11, 29-30
Psychical existence contrasted with logical, 276, 297-8, 327-8, 361
nature of life, 257
Psychics inverted physics, 201, 202.
See Inverse relation of the physical and psychical
Psychology and deduction, 212-3
and the genesis of intellect, 187, 194, 195-6, 197
intuitional cosmology as reversed, 208-9
Psycho-physiological parallelism, 180, 350, 351, 355, 356
Puberty, illustrating crises in evolution, 19, 320-1

Qualitative, evolutionary and extensive becoming, 313
motion, 302-3, 304, 311
Qualities, acts, forms, the classes of representation, 303, 314
bodies as bundles of, 300-1
coincidence of, 309
and movements, 299-300
and natural geometry, 211
superimposition of, in induction, 216
Quality is change, 299-300
in Eleatic philosophy, 314-5
and quantity in ancient philosophy, 323-4
and quantity in modern philosophy, 350
and rhythm, 300-2
Quaternary substances, 121
Quinton, René, 134 note

Radius-vector, Heliocentric, in Kepler's laws, 334
Rank, evolutionary, 50, 133-5, 173-4, 265
Reaction, rôle of, in perception, 226-7
Ready-made categories, x, xiv, 48, 237, 250, 251, 273, 311, 321, 329, 354, 359
Real activity as distinguished from possible, 145
common-sense is continuous experience of the, 213
continuity of the, 302, 329
dichotomy of the, in modern philosophy, 349
imitation of the, by intelligence, 90, 204, 258, 270, 307, 355
obliteration of outlines in the, 11-2, 188, 189, 207-8
representation of the, by science, 203-4
Realism, ancient, 231-2
Realists and idealists alike assume possibility of absence of order, 220, 231-2
Reality, absolute, 198, 228-9, 230, 269, 359-60, 361
as action, 47, 191-2, 194-5, 249
degrees of, 323, 327
in dogmatic metaphysics, 196
double form of, 179-80, 216, 230-1, 236
as duration, 11-2, 217, 272
as flux, 165, 250, 251, 294, 337, 338, 342
and the frames of the intellect, 363-4, 365.
See Frames of the understanding
as freedom, 247
of genera in ancient philosophy, 226-7
is growth, 239
imitation of, by the intellect, 89-90, 365
and the intellect, 52, 89-90, 153, 191, 192, 314-5, 355-6
intelligible, in ancient philosophy, 317
knowledge of, 307-8, 317, 358-9
and mechanism, 351, 354-5
as movement, 90, 155, 301-2, 312
and not-being, 276, 280, 285
of the person, 269
refraction of, through the forms of perception, 204, 238, 359-60
and science, 194, 196, 198, 199, 203-4, 206-8, 354, 357
sensible, in ancient philosophy, 314, 317, 321, 327, 328, 352
symbol of, xi, 30-1, 71, 88-9, 93-4, 195-6, 197, 209, 240, 342, 360-1, 369
undefinable conceptually, 13, 49
unknowable in Kant, 205
unknowable in Spencer, xi
views of, 30-1, 71, 84, 88, 199, 201, 206-7, 225-6, 249, 258, 273, 300-7, 311, 314, 331-2, 342, 351, 352
Reason and life, 7, 8, 48, 161
cannot transcend itself, 193-4
Reasoning and acting, 192-3
and experience, 203-4
and matter, 204-5, 208-9
on matter and life, 7, 8
Recollection, dependence of, on special circumstances, 167, 180
in the dream, 202, 207-8
and perception, 180, 181
Recommencing, continual, of the present in the state of relaxation, 201
Recomposing, decomposing and, the characteristic powers of intellect, 157, 251
Record, false comparison of memory with, 5
Reflection, 158-9
Reflex activity, 110
compound, 173-4, 175-6
Refraction of the idea through matter or non-being, 316-7
of reality through forms of perception, 204, 238, 359-60
Regeneration and individuality, 13, 14
Register of time, 16, 20, 37
Reinke, 42 note
Relation, imprint of relations and laws upon consciousness, 188
as law, 229, 230-1
and thing, 147-52, 156-7, 160, 161, 187, 202, 352, 357
Relativism, epistemological, 196, 197, 230
Relativity of immobility, 155
of the intellect, xi, 48-9, 152, 153, 187, 195-6, 197-8, 199, 219, 273, 306-7, 360-1
of knowledge, 152, 191, 230
of perception, 226-7, 228, 300-1
Relaxation in the dream state, 201, 209-10
and extension, 201, 207-8, 209, 210, 212, 218, 223, 245
and intellect, 200, 207-8, 209, 212, 218
logic a, of virtual geometry, 212
matter a, of unextended into extended, 218
memory vanishes in complete, 200
necessity as, of freedom, 218
present continually recommences in the state of relaxation, 200
will vanishes in complete, 200, 207-8
See Tension
Releasing cause, 73, 74, 115, 118-9, 120
Repetition and generalization, 230-1, 232
and fabrication, 44-5, 46, 155-8
and intellect, 156-7, 199, 214-6
of states, 5-6, 7-8, 28-9, 30, 36, 45-6, 47
in the vital and in the mathematical order, 225, 226, 230, 231
Representation and action, 143-4, 145, 180
classes of: qualities, forms, acts, 302-3, 314
and consciousness, 143-4
of motion, 159-60, 303-4, 305, 306-7, 308, 313, 315, 344-5
of the Nought, 273-80, 281-4, 289-317, 327
Represented or internalized action distinguished from externalized action, 144-7, 158-9, 165
Reproduction and individuation, 13, 14
Resemblance. See Similarity
Reservoir, organism a, of energy, 115, 116, 125-6, 245, 246, 254
Rest and motion in Zeno, 308-12
Retrogression in evolution, 133, 134
Retrospection the function of intellect, 47-8, 237
Reversed psychology: intuitional cosmology, 208
Rhizocephala and animal mobility, 111
Rhumbler, 34 note
Rhythm of duration, 11-2, 127-8, 300-1, 345-7
intelligence adopts the, of action, 305-6
of perception, 299-300, 301
and quality, 301
scanning the, of the universe the function of science, 346-7
of science must coincide with that of action, 320
of the universe untranslatable into scientific formulae, 337
Rings of arthropods, 132-3
Ripening, creative evolution as, 47-8, 340-1
Romanes, 139
Roule, 27 note
Roy (Le), Ed., 218 note

Salamandra maculata, vision in, 75
Salensky, 75 note
Same, function of intellect connecting same with same, 199-200, 233, 270
Samter and Heymons, 72 note
Saporta (De), 112 note
Savage's sense of distance and direction, 212
Skepticism or dogmatism the dilemma of any systematic metaphysics, 195-6, 197, 230-1
Schisms in the primitive impulsion of life, 254-5, 257.
See Divergent lines of evolution
Scholasticism, 370
Science and action, 93, 195, 198, 328-9
ancient, and modern, 329-37, 342-5, 357
astronomy, ancient and modern, 334-5, 336
cartesian geometry and ancient geometry, 333-4
cinematographical character of modern, 329, 330, 336-7, 340-1, 342, 345-8
conventionality of a certain aspect of, 206-7
and deduction, 212-3
and discontinuity, 161-2
function of, 92, 167-8, 173-4, 176-7, 193-4, 195-6, 198-9, 328-9, 346-7
Galileo's influence on modern, 333-4, 335
and instinct, 169, 170, 173-4, 175, 193-5
and intelligence, 176, 177, 193-6
Kepler's influence on modern, 334
and matter, 194-5, 206-7, 208
modern. See Modern science
object of, 195-6, 220, 221, 251, 270-1, 273, 296-8, 306-7, 328-9, 332-3, 335-6, 347-8
and perception, 168
and philosophy, 175-6, 196-7, 208-9, 344, 370
physical. See Physics and reality. See Reality and science
and time, 8-13, 20, 335-8
unity of, 195-6, 197, 228-9, 230, 321-2, 323, 344-5, 347-8, 349, 354, 355-6, 359-60, 362-3
Scientific concepts, 338-40
explanation and philosophical explanation, 168
formulae, 337
geometry, 161, 211
knowledge, 193-4, 196-7, 198, 199, 207, 208, 218
Sclerosis and ageing, 19
Scolia, paralyzing instinct in, 172
Scope of action indefinitely extended by intelligent instruments, 141
of Galileo's physics, 357, 370
Scott, 63 note
Sea-urchin and individuality, 13
Séailles, 29 note
Secondary instincts, 139, 168
Sectioning of becoming in the philosophy of ideas, 317-8
of matter by perception, 206-7, 249, 251
Sedgwick, 260 note
Seeing and willing, coincidence of, in intuition, 237
Selection, natural, 54, 56-7, 59-60, 61-2, 63, 64, 68, 95-6, 169, 170
Self, coincidence of, with, 199
existence of, means change, 1 ff.
knowledge of, 1 ff.
Senescence, 15-23, 26-7, 42-3
Sensation and space, 202
Sense-perception. See Perception
Sensible flux, 316-7, 318, 321, 322, 327, 343, 345
intuition and ultra-intellectual, 360-1
object, apogee of, 342-3, 344-5, 349
reality, 314, 317, 319, 327, 328, 352
Sensibility, forms of, 361
Sensitive plant, in illustration of mobility in plants, 109
Sensori-motor system. See Nervous system
Sensuous manifold, 205, 221, 232, 235, 236
Sentiment, poetic, in illustration of individuation, 258, 259
Serkovski, 259 note
Serpula, in illustration of identical evolution in divergent lines, 96
Sexual cells, 14, 26, 27, 79-81
Sexuality parallel in plants and animals, 58-60, 119-21
Shaler, N.S., 133 note, 184 note
Sheath, calcareous, in illustration of animal tendency to mobility, 130-1
Signs, function of, 158, 159, 160
the instrument of science, 329-30
Sigwart, 287 note
Silurian epoch, failure of certain species to evolve since, 102
Similarity among individuals of same species the type of generality, 224-6, 228-9, 230-1
and mechanical causality, 44, 45
Simultaneity, to measure time is merely to count simultaneities, 9, 336, 337, 341
Sinuousness of evolution, 71, 98, 102, 212-3
Sitaris, unconscious knowledge of, 146, 147
Situation and magnitude, problems of, 211
Sketching movements, function of consciousness, 207-8
Sleep, 129-31, 135, 181
Snapshot, in illustration of intellectual representation of motion, 305, 306, 313, 315, 344
See View of reality, Cinematographical character, etc.
form defined as a, of transition, 301-2, 317, 318, 321-2, 345
Social instinct, 101, 140, 158, 171-2
life, 138, 140, 158, 265
and pedagogical character of negation, 287-97
Societies, 101, 131-2, 158, 171-2, 259
Society and the individual, 260, 265
Solar energy stored by plants, released by animals, 246, 254
systems, 241-4, 246 note, 256, 270
systems, life in other, 256
Solid, concepts analogous to solids, ix
intellect as a solid nucleus, 193, 194
the material of construction and the object of the intellect, 153, 154, 161, 162, 251
Solidarity between brain and consciousness, 180, 262
of the parts of matter, 203, 207-8, 241, 271
Solidification operated by the understanding, 249
σωμα in Aristotle, 350
Somnambulism and consciousness, 144, 145, 159
Soul and body, 350
and cell, 269
creation of, 270
Space and action, 203
in ancient philosophy, 318, 319
and concepts, 160-1, 163, 174-5, 176-7, 188-9, 257-9
geometrical, 203
homogeneity of, 156, 212
and induction, 216
in Kant's philosophy, 205, 206, 207, 244
in Leibniz's philosophy, 351
and matter, 189, 202-13, 244, 257, 264, 361-2, 368
and time in Kant's philosophy, 205-6
unity and multiplicity determinations of, 357-9
See Extension
Spatiality atmosphere of, bathing intelligence, 205
degradation of the extra-spatial, 207
and distinctness, 203, 207, 244, 250, 257-9
and geometrical space, 203, 211, 213, 218
and mathematical order, 208, 209
Special instincts and environment, 138, 168, 192-3, 194
and recollections, 167, 168, 180
as variations on a theme, 167, 172, 264
Species, articulate, 133
evolution of, 247, 255, 269
and external finality, 128-9, 130-1, 132, 266
fossil, 102
human, as goal of evolution, 266, 267
human, styled homo faber, 139
and instinct, 140, 167, 170-2, 264
and life, 167
similarity within, 223-6, 228-9, 230-1
Speculation, dead-locks in, xii, 155, 156, 312, 313-4
object of philosophy, 44, 152, 196, 198, 220, 225-6, 227, 251, 270-1, 273, 297-8, 306-7, 317, 347-8
Spencer, Herbert, xi, xiv, 78-9, 153, 188, 189, 190, 364, 365
Spencer's evolutionism, correspondence between mind and matter in, 368
cosmogony in, 188
imprint of relations and laws upon consciousness in, 188
matter in, 365, 367
mind in, 365, 367
Spheres, concentric, in Aristotle's philosophy, 328
Sphex, paralyzing instinct in, 172-5
Spiders and paralyzing hymenoptera, 172
Spinal cord, 110
Spinoza, the adequate and the inadequate, 353
cause, 277
dogmatism, 356, 357
eternity, 353
extension, 350
God, 351, 357
intuitionism, 347
mechanism, 348, 352, 355, 356
time, 362
Spirit, 251, 269, 270
Spirituality and materiality, 128-9, 201-3, 316-7, 208-9, 210-1, 212-3, 217, 218, 219, 222-3, 237, 238, 245, 247-8, 249, 251, 254, 256, 257, 259, 261, 267, 270-1, 272, 276, 343
Spontaneity of life, 86, 237.
See Freedom
and mechanism, 40
in vegetables, 109
and the willed order, 224
Sport (biol.), 63
Starch, in the function of vegetable kingdom, 114
States of becoming, 1, 13, 163, 247-8, 299, 300, 307
Static character of the intellect, 155-6, 163, 274, 298
views of becoming, 273
Stehasny, 124 note
Steam-engine and bronze, parallel as epoch-marking, 138-9
Stentor and individuality, 260
Stoics, 316
Storing of solar energy by plants, 246, 253-6
Strain of bow and indivisibility of motion, 308
Stream, duration as a, 39, 338
Structure and function. See Function and structure
identical, in divergent lines of evolution, 55, 60, 61-2, 63, 69, 73-4, 75, 76-7, 83, 86, 87, 118-9
Subject and attribute, 147-8
Substance, albuminoid, 120-1
continuity of living, 162
organic, 121, 131, 140, 142, 149, 162-3, 195-7 note, 255, 267
in Spinoza's philosophy, 350
ternary substances, 121
Substantives, adjectives, verbs, correspond to the three classes of representation, 302-4
Substitution essential to representation of the Nought, 281, 283-4, 289-90, 291, 294, 296
Success of physics, 218, 219-20
and superiority, 133, 264-5
Succession in time, 10, 339, 340, 341, 345. Cf. Juxtaposition
Successors of Kant, 363, 364
Sudden mutations, 28, 62-3, 64-5, 68-9
Sun, 115, 241, 323
Superaddition of existence upon nothingness, 276
of order upon disorder, 236, 275
Superimposition. See Measurement of qualities, in induction, 216
Superiority, evolutionary, 133-5, 173, 174-5
Superman, 267
Supraconsciousness, 261
Survival of the fit, 169.
See Natural selection
Swim, learning to, as instinctive learning, 193, 194
Symbol, the concept is a, 161, 209, 341-2
of reality, xi, 30-1, 71, 88-9, 93, 195-6, 210, 240, 342, 360-1, 369-70
Symbolic knowledge of life, 199, 342, 360
Symbolism, 176, 180, 360
Sympathetic or intuitive knowledge, 209, 210, 342
Sympathy, instinct is, 164, 168, 172-8, 342-3.
See Divination, Feeling, Inspiration
Systematic metaphysics, dilemma of, 195, 196, 230-1
contrasted with intuitional, 191-2, 193-4, 238, 269, 270, 277, 346-8
postulate of, 190, 195
Systematization of physics, Liebniz's philosophy, 347
Systems, isolated, 9-13, 203, 214, 215, 241, 242, 342, 347-9

Tangent and curve, analogy with deduction and the moral sphere, 214
analogy with physico-chemistry and life, 31
Tarakevitch, 124 note
Teleology. See Finalism
Tendency, antagonistic tendencies of life, 13, 98, 103, 113, 135, 150
antagonistic tendencies in development of nervous system, 124-5
complementary tendencies of life, 51, 103, 135, 150, 168, 246
to dissociation, 260
divergent tendencies of life, 54, 89, 99, 101, 107-8, 109-10, 112, 116-8, 134, 135, 150, 181, 246, 254-8
to individuation, 13
life a tendency to act on inert matter, 96
toward mobility in animals, 109, 110, 113, 127-8, 129-33, 135, 181, 182
the past exists in present tendency, 5
to reproduce, 13
of species to change, 85-86
mathematical symbols of tendencies, 22, 23
toward systems, in matter, 10
transmission of, 80-1
a vital property is a, 13
Tension and extension, 236, 245
and freedom, 200-2, 207-8, 223, 237, 239, 300-2
matter the inversion of vital, 239
of personality, 199-200, 201, 207-8, 237, 239, 300
Ternary substances, 121
Theology consequent upon philosophy of ideas, 316
Theoretic fallacies, 263, 264
knowledge and instinct, 177, 268
knowledge and intellect, 155, 177, 179, 238, 270, 342, 343
Theorizing not the original function of the intellect, 154-5
Theory of knowledge, xiii, 178, 180, 184-5, 197, 204, 207-8, 209, 228-9, 231
of life, xiii, 178, 180, 197
Thermodynamics, 241-2.
See Conservation of energy, Degradation of energy
Thesis and antithesis, 205
Thing as distinguished from motion, 187, 202, 247-8, 249, 299-300
as distinguished from relation, 147, 148, 150, 152, 158-9, 159-60, 161, 187, 202, 352, 356-7
and mind, 206
as solidification operated by understanding, 249
Thing-in-itself, 205, 206, 230-1, 312
Timaeus, 318 note
Time and the absolute, 240, 241, 297-8, 339, 343-4
abstract, 21, 22, 37, 39
articulations of real, 331-3
as force, 16, 45-6, 47, 51, 103, 339
homogeneous, 17, 18, 163-4, 331-3
as independent variable, 20, 335-7
interval of, 9, 22, 23
as invention, 341-2
in Leibniz's philosophy, 351, 352, 362
and logic, 4, 277
and simultaneity, 9, 336, 337, 341
in modern science 321-37, 341-5
and space in Kant, 205
and space in ancient philosophy, 318, 319.
See Duration
Tools and intellect, 137-41, 150-1.
See Implement
Torpor, in evolution, 109, 111, 113, 114 note, 120, 128-35, 181, 292
Tortoise, Achilles and the, in Zeno, 311
Touch, science expresses all perception as touch, 168
is to vision as intelligence to instinct, 169
Track laid by motion along its course, 309-12, 337
Transcendental Aesthetic, 203
Transformation, 32, 72, 73, 131, 231, 263
Transformism, 23-5
Transition, form a snapshot view of, 301-2, 316-7, 318, 321, 344-5
Transmissibility of acquired characters, 75-84, 87, 168, 169, 172-3, 225-6, 230-1
Transmission of the vital impetus, 26, 27, 79, 85, 87, 88, 93-4, 110, 126-7, 128, 230, 231, 246, 255, 256, 257, 259, 270
Trigger-action of motor mechanisms, 272
Triton, Regeneration in, 75
Tropism and psychical activity, 35 note
Truth seized in intuition, 318-20

Unconscious effort, 170
instinct, 142-3, 144, 145-6, 147, 166
knowledge, 145-8, 150-1
Unconsciousness, two kinds of, 144
Undefinable, reality, 13, 48
Understanding, absoluteness of, 153-4, 190-1, 197-8, 199, 200
and action, ix, xi, 179
genesis of the, ix-xv, 49, 189, 207-8, 257-9, 359, 361-2
and geometry, ix, xii
and innateness of categories, 147, 148-9
and intuition, 46-7
and life, ix-xv, 13, 32-3, 46-50, 88-9, 101, 147-8, 149, 152, 162-5, 173-4, 176-7, 178, 195-201, 213, 220, 222-3, 224,
226, 257-9, 261, 266, 270, 271, 313, 361-2, 365
and inert matter, 166, 168, 179, 194-5, 198, 205-6, 207, 219, 355
and the ready-made, xiii, 48, 237, 250, 251, 273, 311, 321, 328-9, 354, 358
and the solid, ix
unlimited scope of the, 149, 150, 152
See Intellect, Intelligence, Concept, Categories, Frames of the understanding, Logic
Undone, automatic and determinate evolution is action being, 249
Unfolding cause, 73, 74
Unforeseeableness of action, 47
of duration, 6, 164, 340-2
of evolution, 47, 48, 52, 86, 224
of invention, 164
of life, 164, 184
and the willed order, 224, 342-3
See Foreseeing
Unification as the function of the intellect, 152, 154, 357-8
Uniqueness of phases of duration, 164
Unity of extension, 154
of knowledge, 195-6
of life, 106-7, 250, 268, 271
of mental life, 268
and multiplicity as determinations of space, 351-3
of nature, 104-5, 189-90, 191, 195-6, 197, 199, 322, 352, 356-8
of the organism, 176-7
of science, 195-6, 197, 228-9, 230, 321, 322, 344-5, 347, 359-60, 362-3
Universal interaction, 188, 189
life, consciousness coextensive with, 186, 257, 270
Universe, continuity of, 346
Descartes's, 346
physical, and the idea of disorder, 233, 275
duration of, 10, 11, 241
evolution of, 241, 246 note
growth of, 342-3, 344
movement of, in Aristotle, 323
mutability of, 244, 245
as organism, 31, 241
as realization of plan, 40
rhythm of, 337, 339, 346-7
states of, considered by science, 336, 337
as unification of physics, 348-9, 357
Unknowable, the, of evolutionism, xi
the, in Kant, 204, 205, 206
Unmaking, the nature of the process of materiality, 245, 248, 249, 251, 272, 342-3
Unorganized bodies, 7-8, 14, 20, 21, 186.
See inert matter
instruments, 137-9, 140-1, 150-1
matter, cleft between, and the organized, 190, 191, 196, 197-9
matter, imitation of the organized by, 33-4, 35, 36
matter and science, 194-6
matter. See inert matter
Unwinding cause, 73
of immutability in Greek philosophy, 325, 352
Upspringing of invention, 164
Utility, 4-5, 150, 152, 154-5, 158-9, 160, 168, 187, 195-6, 247-8, 297-8, 328-9, 330

Vanessa levana and Vanessa prorsa, transformation of, 72
Variable, time as an independent, 20, 336
Variation, accidental, 55, 63-4, 68, 85, 168-9
of color, in lizards, 72, 74
by deviation, 82-3, 84
of evolutionary type, 23-4, 72 note, 131-2, 137-8, 167, 169, 171-2, 264
insensible, 63, 68
interest as cause of, 131-2
in plants, 85-86
Vegetable kingdom. See Plants
Verb, relation expressed by, 148
Verbs, substantives and adjectives, 303
Verse and prose, in illustration of the two kinds of order, 221, 232
Vertebrate, ix, 126, 130, 131-4, 141
Vibrations, matter analyzed into elementary, 201
Vicious circle, apparent, of intuitionism, 192-4, 196-7
of intellectualism, 194, 197, 318-9, 320
View, intellectual, of becoming, 4, 90-1, 273, 298-9, 304, 305, 310, 326-7
intellectual, of matter, 203, 240, 250, 254, 255
of reality, 206
Vignon, P., 35 note
Virtual actions, 12.
See Possible action
geometry, 212
Vise, consciousness compressed in a, 179
Vision of God, in Alexandrian philosophy, 322
in molluscs. See Eye of molluscs, etc.
in Salamandra maculata, 75
Vital activity, 134-6, 139, 140, 166-9, 246, 247-8
current, 26, 27, 53-5, 80, 85, 87, 88, 96-105, 118-9, 120, 230-1, 232, 239, 257, 266, 270
impetus, 50-1, 53-5, 85, 87, 88, 98-105, 118-9, 126-7, 128, 131-2, 141-2, 148-9, 150, 218, 230-1, 232, 247-8, 250,
252, 254-5, 261
order, cause in, 34, 35, 94-5, 164
order, finality and, 223-5, 226
order, generalization in the, and in the mathematical order contrasted, 225, 226, 230-1
order, and the geometrical order, 222-3, 225, 226, 230, 231, 235, 236, 330-1
order, imitation of physical order by vital, 230
principle, 42, 43, 225, 226
order, repetition in the vital and the mathematical orders contrasted, 225, 226, 230, 231
process, 166-7
Vitalism, 42, 43
Void, representation of, 273, 274, 275, 277-8, 281, 283-4, 289-90, 291, 292, 294, 296, 298
Voisin, 80
Volition and cerebral mechanism, 253-4
Voluntary activity, 110, 252
Vries (de), 24, 63 note, 85

Wasps, instinct in, 140, 172
Weapons and intellect, 137
Weismann, 26, 78, 80-1
Will and caprice, 47
and cerebral mechanism, 252
current of, penetrating matter, 237
insertion of, into reality, 305-6, 307
and relaxation, 201, 207-8
and mechanism in disorder, 233
tension of, 199, 201, 207-8
Willed order, mutual contingency of willed order and mathematical order, 231-3
unforeseeability in the, 224, 342-3
Willing, coincidence of seeing and, in intuition, 237
Wilson, E.B., 36
Wolff, 75 note
Words and states, 4, 302-3
three classes of, corresponding to three classes of representation, 302-3, 313-4
World, intelligible, 162-3
principle: conciousness, 237, 261
Worms, in illustration of ambiguity of primitive organisms, 130

Yellow-winged sphex, paralyzing instinct in, 172

Zeno on motion, 308-13
Zone of potentialities surrounding acts, 179-80, 181, 264
Zoology, 128-9
Zoospores of algae, in illustration of mobility in plants, 112