MALE AND FEMALE CONSCIOUSNESS
Before proceeding to consider the main difference between the psychical
life of the sexes, so far as the latter takes subjective and objective
things as its contents, a few psychological soundings must be taken, and
conceptions formulated. As the views and principles of prevailing
systems of psychology have been formed without consideration of the
subject of this book, it is not surprising that they contain little that
I am able to use. At present there is no psychology but many
psychologists, and it would really be a matter of caprice on my part to
choose any particular school and attempt to apply its principles to my
subject. I shall rather try to lay down a few useful principles on my
own account.
The endeavours to reach a comprehensive and unifying conception of the
whole psychical process by referring it to a single principle have been
particularly evident in the relations between perceptions and sensations
suggested by different psychologists. Herbart, for instance, derived the
sensations from elementary ideas, whilst Horwicz supposed them to come
from perceptions. Most modern psychologists have insisted that such
monistic attempts must be fruitless. None the less there was some truth
in the view.
To discover this truth, however, it is necessary to make a distinction
that has been overlooked by modern workers. We must distinguish between
the perceiving of a perception, feeling of a sensation, thinking a
thought from the later repetitions of the process in which recognition
plays a part. In many cases this distinction is of fundamental
importance.
Every simple, clear, plastic perception and every distinct idea, before
it could be put into words, passes through a stage (which may indeed be
very short) of indistinctness. So also in the case of association; for a
longer or shorter time before the elements about to be grouped have
actually come together, there is a sort of vague, generalised
expectation or presentiment of association. Leibnitz, in particular, has
worked at kindred processes, and I believe them to underlie the attempts
of Herbart and Horwicz.
The common acceptance of pleasure and pain as the fundamental
sensations, even with Wundt’s addition of the sensations of tension and
relaxation, of rest and stimulation, makes the division of psychical
phenomena into sensations and perceptions too narrow for due treatment
of the vague preliminary stages to which I have referred. I shall go
back therefore to the widest classification of psychical phenomena that
I know of, that of Avenarius into “elements” and “characters.” The word
“character” in this connection, of course, has nothing to do with the
subject of characterology.
Avenarius added to the difficulty of applying his theories by his use of
a practically new terminology (which is certainly most striking and
indispensable for some of the new views he expounded). But what stands
most in the way of accepting some of his conclusions is his desire to
derive his psychology from the physiology of the brain, a physiology
which he evolved himself out of his inner consciousness with only a
slight general acquaintance with actual biological facts. The
psychological, or second part of his “Critique of Pure Experience,” was
really the source from which he derived the first or physiological part,
with the result that the latter appears to its readers as an account of
some discovery in Atlantis. Because of these difficulties I shall give
here a short account of the system of Avenarius, as I find it useful for
my thesis.
An “Element” in the sense of Avenarius represents what the usual
psychology terms a perception, or the content of a perception, what
Schopenhauer called a presentation, what in England is called an
“impression” or “idea,” the “thing,” “fact,” or “object” of ordinary
language; and the word is used independently of the presence or absence
of a special sense-organ stimulation--a most important and novel
addition. In the sense of Avenarius, and for our purpose, it is a matter
of indifference to the terminology how far what is called “analysis”
takes place, the whole tree may be taken as the “element,” or each
single leaf, or each hair, or (where most people would stop), the
colours, sizes, weights, temperatures, resistances, and so forth. Still,
the analysis may go yet further, and the colour of the leaf may be taken
as merely the resultant of its quality, intensity, luminosity, and so
forth, these being the elements. Or we may go still further and take
modern ultimate conceptions reaching units incapable of sub-division.
In the sense of Avenarius, then, elements are such ideas as “green,”
“blue,” “cold,” “warm,” “soft,” “hard,” “sweet,” “bitter,” and their
“character” is the particular kind of quality with which they appear,
not merely their pleasantness or unpleasantness, but also such modes of
presentation as “surprising,” “expected,” “novel,” “indifferent,”
“recognised,” “known,” “actual,” “doubtful,” categories which Avenarius
first recognised as being psychological. For instance, what I guess,
believe, or know is an “element”; the fact that I guess it, not believe
it or know it, is the “character” in which it presents itself
psychologically (not logically).
Now there is a stage in mental activity in which this sub-division of
psychical phenomena cannot be made, which is too early for it. All
“elements” at their first appearance are merged with the floating
background, the whole being vaguely tinged by “character.” To follow my
meaning, think of what takes place, when for the first time at a
distance one sees something in the landscape, such as a shrub or a heap
of wood, at the moment when one does not yet know what “it” is.
At this moment “element” and “character” are absolutely
indistinguishable (they are always inseparable as Petzoldt ingeniously
pointed out), so improving the original statement of Avenarius.
In a dense crowd I perceive, for instance, a face which attracts me
across the swaying mass by its expression. I have no idea what the face
is like, and should be quite unable to describe it or give an idea of
it; but it has appealed to me in the most disturbing manner, and I find
myself asking with keen curiosity, “Where have I seen that face before?”
A man may see the head of a woman for a moment, and this may make a very
strong impression on him, and yet he may be unable to say exactly what
he has seen, or, for instance, be able to remember the colour of her
hair. The retina must be exposed to the object sufficiently long, if
only a fraction of a second, for a photographic impression to be made.
If one looks at any object from a considerable distance one has at first
only the vaguest impression of its outlines; and as one comes nearer and
sees the details more clearly, lively sensations, at first lost in the
general mass, are received. Think, for instance, of the first general
impression of, say, the sphenoid bone disarticulated from a skull, or of
many pictures seen a little too closely or a little too far away. I
myself have a remembrance of having had strong impressions from sonatas
of Beethoven before I knew anything of the musical notes. Avenarius and
Petzoldt have overlooked the fact that the coming into consciousness of
the elements is accompanied by a kind of secretion of characterisation.
Some of the simple experiments of physiological psychology illustrate
the point to which I have been referring. If one stays in a dark room
until the eye has adapted itself to the absence of light, and then for a
second subjects oneself to a ray of coloured light, a sensation of
illumination will be received, although it is impossible to recognise
the quality of the illumination; something has been perceived, but what
the something is cannot be apprehended unless the stimulation lasts a
definite time.
In the same way every scientific discovery, every technical invention,
every artistic creation passes through a preliminary phase of
indistinctness. The process is similar to the series of impressions that
would be got as a statue was gradually unwrapped from a series of
swathings. The same kind of sequence occurs, although, perhaps, in a
very brief space of time, when one is trying to recall a piece of music.
Every thought is preceded by a kind of half-thought, a condition in
which vague geometrical figures, shifting masks, a swaying and
indistinct background hover in the mind. The beginning and the end of
the whole process, which I may term “clarification,” are what take place
when a short-sighted person proceeds to look through properly adapted
lenses.
Just as this process occurs in the life of the individual (and he,
indeed, may die long before it is complete), so it occurs in history.
Definite scientific conceptions are preceded by anticipations. The
process of clarification is spread over many generations. There were
ancient and modern vague anticipations of the theory of Darwin and
Lamarck, anticipations which we are now apt to overvalue. Mayer and
Helmholtz had their predecessors, and Goethe and Leonardo da Vinci,
perhaps two of the most many-sided intellects known to us, anticipated
in a vague way many of the conclusions of modern science. The whole
history of thought is a continuous “clarification,” a more and more
accurate description or realisation of details. The enormous number of
stages between light and darkness, the minute gradations of detail that
follow each other in the development of thought can be realised best if
one follows historically some complicated modern piece of knowledge,
such as, for instance, the theory of elliptical functions.
The process of clarification may be reversed, and the act of forgetting
is such a reversal. This may take a considerable time, and is usually
noticed only by accident at some point or other of its course. The
process is similar to the gradual obliteration of well-made roads, for
the maintenance of which no provision has been made. The faint
anticipations of a thought are very like the faint recollections of it,
and the latter gradually become blurred as in the case of a neglected
road over the boundaries of which animals stray, slowly obliterating it.
In this connection a practical rule for memorising, discovered and
applied by a friend of mine, is interesting. It generally happens that
if one wants to learn, say, a piece of music, or a section from the
history of philosophy, one has to go over parts of it again and again.
The problem was, how long should the intervals be between these
successive attempts to commit to memory? The answer was that they should
not be so long as to make it possible to take a fresh interest in the
subject again, to be interested and curious about it. If the interval
has produced that state of mind, then the process of clarification must
begin from the beginning again. The rather popular physiological theory
of Sigismund Exner as to the formation of “paths” in the nervous system
may perhaps be taken as a physical parallel of the process of
clarification. According to the theory, the nerves, or rather the
fibrils, make paths easy for the stimulations to travel along, if these
stimulations last sufficiently long or are repeated sufficiently often.
So also in the case of forgetting; what happens is that these paths or
processes of the nerve-cells atrophy from disuse. Avenarius would have
explained the above processes by his theory of the articulation of the
fibres of the brain, but his physical doctrine was rather too crude and
too simple for application to psycho-physics. None the less his
conception of articulation or jointing is both convenient and
appropriate in its application to the process of clarification, and I
shall employ it in that connection.
The process of clarification must be traced thoroughly in order to
realise its importance, but for the moment, it is important to consider
only the initial stage. The distinction of Avenarius between “element”
and “character,” which later on will become evident in a process of
clarification, is not applicable to the very earliest moments of the
process. It is necessary to coin a name for those minds to which the
duality of element and character becomes appreciable at no stage of the
process. I propose for psychical data at this earliest stage of their
existence the word Henid (from the Greek ἑν, because in them it is
impossible to distinguish perception and sensation as two analytically
separable factors, and because, therefore, there is no trace of duality
in them).
Naturally the “henid” is an abstract conception and may not occur in the
absolute form. How often psychical data in human beings actually stand
at this absolute extreme of undifferentiation is uncertain and
unimportant; but the theory does not need to concern itself with the
possibility of such an extreme. A common example from what has happened
to all of us may serve to illustrate what a henid is. I may have a
definite wish to say something particular, and then something distracts
me, and the “it” I wanted to say or think has gone. Later on, by some
process of association, the “it” is quite suddenly reproduced, and I
know at once that it was what was on my tongue, but, so to speak, in a
more perfect stage of development.
I fear lest some one may expect me to describe exactly what I mean by
“henid.” The wish can come only from a misconception. The very idea of a
henid forbids its description; it is merely a something. Later on
identification will come with the complete articulation of the contents
of the henid; but the henid is not the whole of this detailed content,
but is distinguished from it by a lower grade of consciousness, by an
absence of, so to speak, relief, by a blending of the die and the
impression, by the absence of a central point in the field of vision.
And so one cannot describe particular henids; one can only be conscious
of their existence.
None the less henids are things as vital as elements and characters.
Each henid is an individual and can be distinguished from other henids.
Later on I shall show that probably the mental data of early childhood
(certainly of the first fourteen months) are all henids, although
perhaps not in the absolute sense. Throughout childhood these data do
not reach far from the henid stage; in adults there is always a certain
process of development going on. Probably the perceptions of some plants
and animals are henids. In the case of mankind the development from the
henid to the completely differentiated perception and idea is always
possible, although such an ideal condition may seldom be attained.
Whilst expression in words is impossible in the case of the absolute
henid, as words imply articulated thoughts, there are also in the
highest stages of the intellect possible to man some things still
unclarified and, therefore, unspeakable.
The theory of henids will help in the old quarrel between the spheres of
perception and sensation, and will replace by a developmental conception
the ideas of element and character which Avenarius and Petzoldt deduced
from the process of clarification. It is only when the elements become
distinct that they can be distinguished from the characters. Man is
disposed to humours and sentimentalities only so long as the contours of
his ideas are vague; when he sees things in the light instead of the
dark his process of thinking will become different.
Now what is the relation between the investigation I have been making
and the psychology of the sexes? What is the distinction between the
male and the female (and to reach this has been the object of my
digression) in the process of clarification?
Here is my answer:
The male has the same psychical data as the female, but in a more
articulated form; where she thinks more or less in henids, he thinks in
more or less clear and detailed presentations in which the elements are
distinct from the tones of feeling. With the woman, thinking and feeling
are identical, for man they are in opposition. The woman has many of her
mental experiences as henids, whilst in man these have passed through a
process of clarification. Woman is sentimental, and knows emotion but
not mental excitement.
The greater articulation of the mental data in man is reflected in the
more marked character of his body and face, as compared with the
roundness and vagueness of the woman. In the same connection it is to be
remembered that, notwithstanding the popular belief, the senses of the
male are much more acute than those of the woman. The only exception is
the sense of touch, an exception of great interest to which I shall
refer later. It has been established, moreover, that the sensibility to
pain is much more acute in man, and we have now learned to distinguish
between that and the tactile sensations.
A weaker sensibility is likely to retard the passage of mental data
through the process of clarification, although we cannot quite take it
for granted that it must be so. Perhaps a more trustworthy proof of the
less degree of articulation in the mental data of the woman may be drawn
from consideration of the greater decision in the judgments made by men,
although indeed it may be the case that this distinction rests on a
deeper basis. It is certainly the case that whilst we are still near the
henid stage we know much more certainly what a thing is not than what it
is. What Mach has called instinctive experience depends on henids. While
we are near the henid stage we think round about a subject, correct
ourselves at each new attempt, and say that that was not yet the right
word. Naturally that condition implies uncertainty and indecision in
judgment. Judgment comes towards the end of the process of
clarification; the act of judgment is in itself a departure from the
henid stage.
The most decisive proof for the correctness of the view that attributes
henids to woman and differentiated thoughts to man, and that sees in
this a fundamental sexual distinction, lies in the fact that wherever a
new judgment is to be made, (not merely something already settled to be
put into proverbial form) it is always the case that the female expects
from man the clarification of her data, the interpretation of her
henids. It is almost a tertiary sexual character of the male, and
certainly it acts on the female as such, that she expects from him the
interpretation and illumination of her thoughts. It is from this reason
that so many girls say that they could only marry, or, at least, only
love a man who was cleverer than themselves; that they would be
repelled by a man who said that all they thought was right, and did not
know better than they did. In short, the woman makes it a criterion of
manliness that the man should be superior to herself mentally, that she
should be influenced and dominated by the man; and this in itself is
enough to ridicule all ideas of sexual equality.
The male lives consciously, the female lives unconsciously. This is
certainly the necessary conclusion for the extreme cases. The woman
receives her consciousness from the man; the function to bring into
consciousness what was outside it is a sexual function of the typical
man with regard to the typical woman, and is a necessary part of his
ideal completeness.
And now we are brought up against the problem of talent; the whole
modern woman question appears to be resolving itself into a dispute as
to whether men or women are more highly gifted. As the question is
generally propounded there is no attempt to distinguish between the pure
types of sex; the conclusions with regard to these that I have been able
to set forth have an important bearing on the answer to the question.