Philosophy

is largely an extension of the practice of which the above is a very humble example. Take, say: And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player Who struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing. I do not pretend to explain all the associations which led Shakespeare to think of these lines, but some few are obvious. “Dusty death” is suggested by Genesis iii. 19: “Dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return”. Having spoken of “lighting fools the way”, it is natural to think of a “candle”, and thence of a “walking shadow” being lighted by the candle along the way. From shadows to players was a well-established association in Shakespeare’s mind; thus in Midsummer Night’s Dream he says of players: “The best in this kind are but shadows, and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them”. From a “poor player” to a “tale told by an idiot” is no very difficult transition for a theatre-manager; and “sound and fury” no doubt often formed part of the tales to which he had to listen in spite of their “signifying nothing”. If we knew more about Shakespeare, we could explain more of him in this sort of way. Thus exceptional imaginative gifts appear to depend mainly upon associations that are unusual and have an emotional value owing to the fact that there is a certain uniform emotional tone about them. Many adjectives are suitable to death: in a mood quite different from Macbeth’s, it may be called “noble, puissant and mighty”. A Chancellor of the Exchequer, thinking of the Death Duties, might feel inclined to speak of “lucrative death”; nevertheless he would not, like Vaughan, speak of “dear, beauteous death”. Shakespeare also would not have spoken of death in such terms, for his view of it was pagan; he speaks of “that churl death”. So a man’s verbal associations may afford a key to his emotional reactions, for often what connects two words in his mind is the fact that they rouse similar emotions. The absence of belief that accompanies imagination is a somewhat sophisticated product; it fails in sleep and in strong and emotional excitement. Children invent terrors for fun, and then begin to believe in them. The state of entertaining an idea without believing it is one involving some tension, which demands a certain level of intellectual development. It may be assumed that imagination, at first, always involved belief, as it still does in dreams. I am not concerned at the moment to define “belief”, but a criterion is influence on action. If I say “suppose there were a tiger outside your front door”, you will remain calm; but if I say, with such a manner as to command belief, “there is a tiger outside your front door”, you will stay at home, even if it involves missing your train to the office. This illustrates what I mean when I say that imagination, in its developed form, involves absence of belief. But this is not true of its primitive forms. And even a civilised adult, passing through a churchyard on a dark night, may feel fear if his imagination turns in the direction of ghosts. When imagination passes into belief, it does not, as a rule, become a belief about the past. Generally we place the imagined object in the present, but not where it would be perceptible to our senses. If we place it in the past, it is because the past has some great emotional significance for us. If a person we love has been in great danger, and we do not know whether he has come through safely, imagination of his death may lead us to believe that he has been killed. And often imagination leads us to believe that something is going to happen. What is common to all such cases is the emotional interest: this first causes us to imagine an event, and then leads us to think that it has happened, is happening, or will happen, according to the circumstances. Hope and fear have this effect equally; wish-fulfilment and dread-fulfilment are equally sources of dreams and day-dreams. A great many beliefs have a source of this kind. But, in spite of psycho-analysis, there are a great many that have a more rational foundation. I believe that Columbus first crossed the ocean in 1492, though 1491 or 1493 would have suited me just as well. I cannot discover that there is any emotional element in this belief, or in the belief that Semipalatinsk is in Central Asia. The view that all our beliefs are irrational is perhaps somewhat overdone nowadays, though it is far more nearly true than the views that it has displaced. We must now return to the subject of memory. Memory proper does not, like imagination, involve a re-arrangement of elements derived from past experience; on the contrary, it should restore such elements in the pattern in which they occurred. This is the vital difference between memory and imagination; belief, even belief involving reference to the past, may, as we have seen, be present in what is really imagination though it may not seem to be so to the person concerned. That being so, we still have to consider what constitutes the reference to the past, since the view tentatively suggested before we had considered imagination turns out to be inadequate. There is one possible view, suggested, though not definitely adopted, by Dr. Broad in his chapter on “Memory” already referred to. According to this view, we have to start from temporal succession as perceived within what is called the “specious present”, i.e. a short period of time such that the events that occur throughout it can be perceived together. (I shall return to this subject presently.) For example, you can see a quick movement as a whole; you are not merely aware that the object was first in one place and then in another. You can see the movement of the second-hand of a watch, but not of the hour-hand or minute-hand. When you see a movement in this sense, you are aware that one part of it is earlier than another. Thus you acquire the idea “earlier”, and you can mean by “past” “earlier than this”, where “this” is what is actually happening. This is a logically possible theory, but it seems nevertheless somewhat difficult to believe. I do not know, however, of any easier theory, and I shall therefore adopt it provisionally while waiting for something better. For the understanding of memory, it is a help to consider the links connecting its most developed forms with other occurrences of a less complex kind. True recollection comes at the end of a series of stages. I shall distinguish five stages on the way, so that recollection becomes the sixth in gradual progress. The stages are as follows: 1. Images.—As we have seen, images, at any rate in their simpler parts, in fact copy past sensations more or less vaguely, even when they are not known to do so. Images are “mnemic” phenomena, in the sense that they are called up by stimuli formerly associated with their prototypes, so that their occurrence is a result of past experience according to the law of association. But obviously an image which in fact copies a past occurrence does not constitute a recollection unless it is felt to be a copy. 2. Familiarity.—Images and perceptions may come to us, and so may words or other bodily movements, with more or less of the feeling we call “familiarity”. When you recall a tune that you have heard before, either by images or by actually singing it, part of what comes to you may feel familiar, part unfamiliar. This may lead you to judge that you have remembered the familiar part rightly and the unfamiliar part wrongly, but this judgment belongs to a later stage. 3. Habit-Memory.—We have already discussed this in Chapter VI. People say they remember a poem if they can repeat it correctly. But this does not necessarily involve any recollection of a past occurrence; you may have quite forgotten when and where you read the poem. This sort of memory is mere habit, and is essentially like knowing how to walk although you cannot remember learning to walk. This does not deserve to be called memory in the strict sense. 4. Recognition.—This has two forms. (a) When you see a dog, you can say to yourself “there is a dog”, without recalling any case in which you have seen a dog before, and even without reflecting that there have been such cases. This involves no knowledge about the past; essentially it is only an associative habit. (b) You may know “I saw this before”, though you do not know when or where, and cannot recollect the previous occurrence in any way. In such a case there is knowledge about the past, but it is very slight. When you judge: “I saw this before”, the word “this” must be used vaguely, because you did not see exactly what you see now, but only something very like this. Thus all that you are really knowing is that, on some past occasion, you saw something very like what you are seeing now. This is about the minimum of knowledge about the past that actually occurs. 5. Immediate Memory.—I come now to a region intermediate between sensation and true memory, the region of what is sometimes called “immediate memory”. When a sense-organ is stimulated, it does not, on the cessation of the stimulus, return at once to its unstimulated condition: it goes on (so to speak) vibrating, like a piano-string, for a short time. For example, when you see a flash of lightning, your sensation, brief as it is, lasts much longer than the lightning as a physical occurrence. There is a period during which a sensation is fading: it is then called an “acoleuthic” sensation. It is owing to this fact that you can see a movement as a whole. As observed before, you cannot see the minute-hand of a watch moving, but you can see the second-hand moving. That is because it is in several appreciably different places within the short time that is required for one visual sensation to fade, so that you do actually, at one moment, see it in several places. The fading sensations, however, feel different from those that are fresh, and thus the various positions which are all sensibly present are placed in a series by the degree of fading, and you acquire the perception of movement as a process. Exactly the same considerations apply to hearing a spoken sentence. Thus not only an instant, but a short finite time is sensibly present to you at any moment. This short finite time is called the “specious present”. By the felt degree of fading, you can distinguish earlier and later in the specious present, and thus experience temporal succession without the need of true memory. If you see me quickly move my arm from left to right, you have an experience which is quite different from what you would have if you now saw it at the right and remembered that a little while ago you saw it at the left. The difference is that, in the quick movement, the whole falls within the specious present, so that the entire process is sensible. The knowledge of something as in the immediate past, though still sensible, is called “immediate memory”. It has great importance in connection with our apprehension of temporal processes, but cannot count as a form of true memory. 6. True Recollection.—We will suppose, for the sake of definiteness, that I am remembering what I had for breakfast this morning. There are two questions which we must ask about this