become. Try as I may, I have not been able to fit them, not only to
the facts of my own experience, which may not be strange, but I cannot
reconcile them even to each other. There seem to me inherent
ambiguities and self-contradictions lurking beneath their scientific
splendor. Individuality is stated to be "that bundle of ideas,
thoughts, and day-dreams which constitute our separate identity." This
seems plain and straightforward, but is it really so? Consciousness is
stated to be not only "the necessary attribute of mental action" (to
which exception might be taken on the ground of abundant proof of
unconscious mental action), but it is also considered to be the very
cause of mind itself. Not only by consciousness do we know mind, but
the consciousness itself constitutes the mind; "without it there would
be no mind to know." "Not to be conscious of one's self is not to be."
Do we then cease to be, when we sleep? or when absorbed in thought or
action? And do we become new-created when we awake? What is the bond
of connection that binds into one the successive consciousnesses of
the successive days? Does not that "bundle of ideas" become broken
into as many wholly independent fragments as there are intervals
between our sleepings? Or rather is not each fragment a whole in
itself, and is not the idea of self-continuity from day to day and
from week to week a self-delusion? How can it be otherwise if
consciousness constitutes existence? For after the consciousness has
ceased and "the bundle of ideas," which constitutes the individuality
of that day, has therefore gone absolutely out of existence, it is
impossible that the old bundle shall be resurrected by a new
consciousness. Only a new bundle can be the product of a new
consciousness. Evidently there is trouble somewhere. But let us pass
on.
"The 'I' has for its very law of existence self-consciousness." Is
not "self-consciousness" here identified with "consciousness" in the
preceding sentence? The very existence of the mind, the "I," is
ascribed to each in turn. Is there, then, no difference between
consciousness and self-consciousness? Finally, personality is stated
to be "the effect it [the "I"] produces on the self-consciousness of
others." I confess I gain no clear idea from this statement. But
whatever else it may mean, this is clear, that personality is not a
quality or characteristic of the "I," but only some effect which the
"I" produces on the consciousness of another. Is it a quality, then,
of the other person? And does impersonality mean the lack of such an
effect? But does not this introduce us to new confusion? When a human
being is wholly absorbed in an altruistic act, for instance, wholly
forgetful of self, he is, according to a preceding paragraph, quite
impersonal; yet, according to the definition before us, he cannot be
impersonal, for he is producing most lively effects on the
consciousness of the poor human being he is befriending; in his
altruistic deed he is strongly personal, yet not he, for personality
does not belong to the person acting, but somehow to the person
affected. How strange that the personality of a person is not his own
characteristic but another's!
But still more confusing is the definition when we recall that if the
benevolent man is wholly unconscious of self, and is thinking only of
the one whom he is helping, then he himself is no longer existing. But
in that case how can he help the poor man or even continue to think of
him? Perfect altruism is self-annihilation! Knowledge of itself by the
mind is that which constitutes it! But enough. It has become clear
that these terms have not been used consistently, nor are the
definitions such as to command the assent of any careful psychologist
or philosopher. What the writer means to say is, I judge, that the
measure of a man's personality is the amount of impression he makes on
his fellows. For the whole drift of his argument is that both the
physical and mental aggressiveness of the Occidental is far greater
than that of the Oriental; this characteristic, he asserts, is due to
the deficient development of personality in the Orient, and this
deficient development he calls "impersonality." If those writers who
describe the Orient as "impersonal" fail in their definition of the
term "personal," their failure to define "impersonal" is even more
striking. They use the term as if it were so well known as to need no
definition; yet their usage ascribes to it contrary conceptions. As a
rule they conceive of "impersonality" as a deficiency of development;
yet, when they attempt to describe its nature, they speak of it as
self-suppression. A clear statement of this latter point may be found
in a passage already quoted: "Politeness takes the place of
personalities. With him [the Oriental], self is suppressed, and an
ever-present regard for others is substituted." "Impersonality, by
lessening the interest in one's self, induces one to take interest in
others." In this statement it will be noted the "_self is
suppressed_." Does "impersonality" then follow personality, as a
matter of historical development? It would so appear from this and
kindred passages. But if this is true, then Japan is _more_ instead of
less developed than the Occident. Yet this is exactly the reverse of
that for which this school of thought contends.
Let us now examine some concrete illustrations adduced by those who
advocate Japanese impersonality. They may be arranged in two classes:
those that are due wholly to invention, and those that are doubtless
facts, but that may be better accounted for by some other theory than
that of "impersonality."
Mr. Lowell makes amusing material out of the two children's festivals,
known by the Japanese as "Sekku," occurring on March 3 and June 5 (old
calendar). Because the first of these is exclusively for the girls and
the second is exclusively for the boys, Mr. Lowell concludes that they
are general birthdays, in spite of the fact which he seems to know
that the ages are not reckoned from these days. He calls them "the
great impersonal birthdays"; for, according to his supposition, all
the girls celebrate their birthdays on the third day of the third moon
and all the boys celebrate theirs on the fifth day of the fifth moon,
regardless of the actual days on which they may have been born. With
regard to this understanding of the significance of the festival, I
have asked a large number of Japanese, not one of whom had ever heard
of such an idea. Each one has insisted that individual birthdays are
celebrated regardless of these general festivals; the ages of children
are never computed from these festivals; they have nothing whatever to
do with the ages of the children.[CK]
The report of the discussions of the Japanese Society of Comparative
Religion contains quite a minute statement of all the facts known as
to these festivals, much too long in this connection, but among them
there is not the slightest reference to the birthday feature
attributed to them by Mr. Lowell.[CL]
Mr. Lowell likewise invents another fact in support of his theory by
his interpretation of the Japanese method of computing ages. Speaking
of the advent of an infant into the home he says, that "from the
moment he makes his appearance he is spoken of as a year old, and this
same age he continues to be considered in most simple cases of
calculation, till the beginning of the next calendar year. When that
epoch of general rejoicing arrives, he is credited with another year
himself. So is everybody else. New Year's day is a common birthday for
the community, a sort of impersonal anniversary for his whole world."
Now this is a very entertaining conceit, but it will hardly pass
muster as a serious argument with one who has any real understanding
of Japanese ideas on the subject. The simple fact is that the Japanese
does not ordinarily tell you how old the child is, but only in how
many year periods he has lived. Though born December 31, on January 1
he has undoubtedly lived in two different year periods. This method of
counting, however, is not confined to the counting of ages, but it
characterizes all their counting. If you ask a man how many days
before a certain festival near at hand he will say ten where we would
say but nine. In other words, in counting periods the Japanese count
all, including both the first and the last, whereas we omit the first.
This as a custom is an interesting psychological problem, but it has
not the remotest connection with "personality" or "impersonality."
Furthermore, the Japanese have another method of signifying the age of
a child which corresponds exactly to ours. You have but to ask what is
the "full" age of a child to receive a statement which satisfies our
ideas of the problem. The idea of calling New Year's day a great
"impersonal" birthday because forsooth all the members of the
community and the nation then enter on a new year period, and of using
that as an argument for the "impersonality" of the whole race, is as
interesting as it is inconclusive.
Much is made of the fact that Japanese art has paid its chief
attention to nature and to animals, and but little to man. This
proves, it is argued, that the Japanese artist and people are
"impersonal"--that they are not self-conscious, for their gaze is
directed outward, toward "impersonal" nature; had they been an
aggressive personal people, a people conscious of self, their art
would have depicted man. The cogency of this logic seems questionable
to me. Art is necessarily objective, whether it depicts nature or man;
the gaze is always and necessarily outward, even when it is depicting
the human form. In our consideration of the æsthetic elements of
Japanese character[CM] we gave reasons for the Japanese love of
natural beauty and for their relatively slight attention to the human
form. If the reasons there given were correct, the fact that Japanese
art is concerned chiefly with nature has nothing whatever to do with
the "impersonality" of the people. If "impersonality" is essentially
altruistic, if it consists of self-suppression and interest in others,
then it is difficult to see how art that depicts the form even of
human beings can escape the charge of being "impersonal" except when
the artist is depicting himself. If, again, supreme interest in
objective "impersonal" nature proves the lack of "personality," should
we not argue that the West is supremely "impersonal" because of its
extraordinary interest in nature and in the natural and physical
sciences? Are naturalists and scientists "impersonal," and are
philosophers and psychologists "personal" in nature? If it be argued
that art which depicts the human emotions is properly speaking
subjective, and therefore a proof of developed personality, will it be
maintained that Japan is devoid of such art? How about the pictures
and the statues of warriors? How about the passionate features of the
Ni-o, the placid faces of the Buddhas and other religious imagery? Are
there not here the most powerful representations possible of human
emotions, both active and passive? But even so, is not the gaze of the
artist still _outward_ on others, _i.e._, is he not altruistic; and,
therefore, "impersonal," according to this method of thought and use
of terms? Are European artists who revel in landscape and animal
scenes deficient in "personal" development, and are those who devote
their lives to painting nude women particularly developed in
"personality"? Truly, a defective terminology and a distorted
conception of what "personality" is, land one in most contradictory
positions.
Those who urge the "impersonality" of the Orient make much of the
Japanese idea of the "family," with the attendant customs. The fact
that marriage is arranged for by the parents, and that the two
individuals most concerned have practically no voice in the matter,
proves conclusively, they argue, that the latter have little
"personality." Here again all turns on the definition of this
important word. If by "personality" is meant consciousness of one's
self as an independent individual, then I do not see what relation the
two subjects have. If, however, it means the willingness of the
subjects of marriage to forego their own desires and choices; because
indeed they do not have any of their own, then the facts will not bear
out the argument. These writers skillfully choose certain facts out of
the family customs whereby to illustrate and enforce this theory, but
they entirely omit others having a significant bearing upon it. Take,
for instance, the fact that one-third of the marriages end in divorce.
What does this show? It shows that one-third of the individuals in
each marriage are so dissatisfied with the arrangements made by the
parents that they reject them and assert their own choice and
decision. According to the argument for "impersonality" in marriage,
these recalcitrant, unsubmissive individuals have a great amount of
"personality," that is, consciousness of self; and this consciousness
of self produces a great effect on the other party to the marriage;
and the effect on the other party (in the vast majority of the cases
women), that is to say, the effect of the divorce on the consciousness
of the women, constitutes the personality of the men! The marriage
customs cited, therefore, do not prove the point, for no account is
taken of the multitudinous cases in which one party or the other
utterly refuses to carry out the arrangements of the parents. Many a
girl declines from the beginning the proposals of the parents. These
cases are by no means few. Only a few days before writing the present
lines a waiting girl in a hotel requested me to find her a place of
service in some foreign family. On inquiry she told me how her parents
wished her to marry into a certain family; but that she could not
endure the thought and had run away from home. One of the facts which
strike a missionary, as he becomes acquainted with the people, is the
frequency of the cases of running away from home. Girls run away,
probably not as frequently as boys, yet very often. Are we to believe
that these are individuals who have an excessive amount of
"personality"? If so, then the development of "personality" in Japan
is far more than the advocates of its "impersonality" recognize or
would allow us to believe. Mr. Lowell devotes three pages to a
beautiful and truthful description of the experience known in the West
as "falling in love." Turning his attention to the Orient, because of
the fact that marriages are arranged for by the families concerned, he
argues that: "No such blissful infatuation falls to the lot of the Far
Oriental. He never is the dupe of his own desire, the willing victim
of his self-delusion. He is never tempted to reveal himself, and by
thus revealing, realize.... For she is not his love; she is only his
wife; and what is left of a romance when the romance is left out?"
Although there is an element of truth in this, yet it is useless as a
support for the theory of Japanese "impersonality." For it is not a
fact that the Japanese do not fall in love; it is a well-known
experience to them. It is inconceivable how anyone at all acquainted
with either Japanese life or literature could make such an assertion.
The passionate love of a man and a woman for each other, so strong
that in multitudes of cases the two prefer a common death to a life
apart, is a not uncommon event in Japan. Frequently we read in the
daily papers of a case of mutual suicide for love. This is
sufficiently common to have received a specific name "joshi."[CN]
So far as the argument for "impersonality" is concerned this
illustration from the asserted lack of love is useless, for it is one
of those manufactured for the occasion by imaginative and resourceful
advocates of "impersonality."
But I do not mean to say that "falling in love" plays the same
important part in the life and development of the youth in Japan that
it does in the West. It is usually utterly ignored, so far as parental
planning for marriage is concerned. Love is not recognized as a proper
basis for the contraction of marriage, and is accordingly frowned
upon. It is deemed a sign of mental and moral weakness for a man to
fall in love. Under these conditions it is not at all strange that
"falling in love" is not so common an experience as in the West.
Furthermore, this profound experience is not utilized as it is in the
West as a refining and elevating influence in the life of a young man
or woman. In a land where "falling in love" is regarded as an immoral
thing, a breaking out of uncontrollable animal passion, it is not
strange that it should not be glorified by moralists or sanctified by
religion. There are few experiences in the West so ennobling as the
love that a young man and a young woman bear to each other during the
days of their engagement and lasting onward throughout the years of
their lengthening married life. The West has found the secret of
making use of this period in the lives of the young to elevate and
purify them of which the East knows little.
But there are still other and sadder consequences following from the
attitude of the Japanese to the question of "falling in love." It can
hardly be doubted that the vast number of divorces is due to the
defective method of betrothal, a method which disregards the free
choice of the parties most concerned. The system of divorce is, we may
say, the device of society for remedying the inherent defects of the
betrothal system. It treats both the man and the woman as though they
were not persons but unfeeling machines. Personality, for a while
submissive, soon asserts its liberty, in case the married parties
prove uncongenial, and demands the right of divorce. Divorce is thus
the device of thwarted personality. But in addition to this evil,
there is that of concubinage or virtual polygamy, which is often the
result of "falling in love." And then, there is the resort of
hopelessly thwarted personality known in the West as well as in the
East, murder and suicide, and oftentimes even double suicide, referred
to above. The marriage customs of the Orient are such that hopeless
love, though mutual, is far more frequent than in the West, and the
death of lovers in each other's arms, after having together taken the
fatal draught, is not rare. The number of suicides due to hopeless
love in 1894 was 407, and the number of murders for the same cause was
94. Here is a total of over five hundred deaths in a single year, very
largely due to the defective marriage system. Do not these phenomena
refute assertions to the effect that the Japanese are so impersonal as
not to know what it is to "fall in love"? If the question of the
personality of the Japanese is to be settled by the phenomena of
family life and the strength of the sexual emotion, would we not have
to pronounce them possessed of strongly developed personality?
XXXI
THE JAPANESE NOT IMPERSONAL
We must now face the far more difficult task of presenting a positive
statement in regard to the problem of personality in the Orient. We
need to discover just what is or should be meant by the terms
"personality" and "impersonality." We must also analyze this Oriental
civilization and discover its elementary factors, in order that we may
see what it is that has given the impression to so many students that
the Orient is "impersonal." In doing this, although our aim is
constructive, we shall attain our end with greater ease if we rise to
positive results through further criticism of defective views. We
naturally begin with definitions.
"Individuality" is defined by the Standard Dictionary as "the state or
quality of being individual; separate or distinct existence."
"Individual" is defined as "Anything that cannot be divided or
separated into parts without losing identity.... A single person,
animal, or thing." "Personality" is defined as "That which constitutes
a person; conscious, separate existence as an intelligent and
voluntary being." "Person" is defined as "Any being having life,
intelligence, will, and separate individual existence." On these
various definitions the following observations seem pertinent.
"Individuality" has reference only to the distinctions existing
between different objects, persons, or things. The term draws
attention to the fact of distinctness and difference and not to the
qualities which make the difference, and least of all to the
consciousness of identity by virtue of which "we feel each one of us
at home within himself."
"Personality" properly has reference only to that which constitutes a
person. As contrasted with an animal a person has not only life, but
also a highly developed and self-conscious intelligence, feeling, and
will; these involve moral relations toward other persons and religious
relations toward God.
Consciousness is not attendant on every act of the person, much less
is self-consciousness, although both are always potential and more or
less implicit. A person is often so absorbed in thought or act as to
be wholly unconscious of his thinking or acting; the consciousness is,
so to speak, submerged for the time being. Self-consciousness implies
considerable progress in reflection on one's own states of mind, and
in the attainment of the consciousness of one's own individuality. It
is the result of introspection. Self-consciousness, however, does not
constitute one's identity; it merely recognizes it.
The foundation for a correct conception of the term "personality"
rests on the conception of the term "soul" or "spirit." In my
judgment, each human being is to be conceived as being a separate
"soul," endowed by its very nature with definite capacities or
qualities or attributes which we describe as mental, emotional, and
volitional, having powers of consciousness more or less developed
according to the social evolution of the race, the age of the
individual, his individual environment, and depending also on the
amount of education he may have received. The possession of a soul
endowed with these qualities constitutes a person; their possession in
marked measure constitutes developed personality, and in defective
measure, undeveloped personality.
The unique character of a "person" is that he combines perfect
separateness with the possibility and more or less of the actuality of
perfect universality. A "person" is in a true sense a universal, an
infinite being. He is thus through the constitution of his psychic
nature a thinking, feeling, and willing being. Through his intellect
and in proportion to his knowledge he becomes united with the whole
objective universe; through his feelings he may become united in
sympathy and love with all sentient creation, and even with God
himself, the center and source of all being; through his active will
he is increasingly creator of his environment. Man is thus in a true
sense creating the conditions which make him to be what he is. Thus
in no figurative sense, but literally and actually, man is in the
process of creating himself. He is realizing the latent and hitherto
unsuspected potentialities of his nature. He is creating a world in
which to express himself; and this he does by expressing himself. In
proportion as man advances, making explicit what is implicit in his
inner nature, is he said to grow in personality. A man thus both
possesses personality and grows in personality. He could not grow in
it did he not already actually possess it. In such growth both
elements of his being, the individual and the universal, develop
simultaneously. A person of inferior personal development is at once
less individual and less universal. This is a matter, however, not of
endowment but of development. We thus distinguish between the original
personal endowment, which we may call intrinsic or inherent
personality, and the various forms in which this personality has
manifested and expressed itself, which we may call extrinsic or
acquired personality. Inherent personality is that which
differentiates man from animal. It constitutes the original involution
which explains and even necessitates man's entire evolution. There may
be, nay, must be, varying degrees of expression of the inherent
personality, just as there may be and must be varying degrees of
consciousness of personality. These depend on the degree of evolution
attained by the race and by the individuals of the race.
It is no part of our plan to justify this conception of the nature of
personality, or to defend these brief summary statements as to its
inherent nature. It is enough if we have gained a clear idea of this
conception on which the present chapter, and indeed this entire work,
rests. In discussing the question as to personality in the Orient, it
is important for us ever to bear in mind the distinctions between the
inherent endowment that constitutes personal beings, the explicit and
external expression of that endowment, and the possession of the
consciousness of that endowment. For these are three things quite
distinct, though intimately related.