Enough perhaps as to the kind of thing a poem is, as to the general
structure of these experiences. Let us now turn to the further
questions ‘Of what use is it?’ ‘Why and how is it valuable?’
The first point to be made is that poetic experiences are valuable
(when they are) in the same ways as any other experiences. They are to
be judged by the same standards. What are these?
Extraordinarily diverse views have been held upon this point. Very
naturally, since such very different ideas have been entertained
as to what kind of thing an experience is. For our opinions as to
the differences between good and bad experiences depend inevitably
upon what we take an experience to be. As fashions have changed
in psychology men’s ethical theories have followed suit. When a
created, simple and eternal soul was the pivotal point, Good was
conformity with the will of the creator, Evil was rebellion. When the
associationist psychologists substituted a swarm of sensations and
images for the soul, Good became pleasure and Evil became pain, and so
on. A long chapter of the history of opinions has still to be written
tracing these changes. Now that the mind is seen to be a hierarchy of
interests, what will for this account be the difference between Good
and Evil?
It is the difference between free and wasteful organization, between
fullness and narrowness of life. For if the mind is a system of
interests, and if an experience is their play, the worth of any
experience is a matter of the degree to which the mind, through this
experience attains a complete equilibrium.
This is a first approximation. It needs qualifying and expanding if
it is to become a satisfactory theory. Let us see how some of these
amendments would run.
Consider an hour of any person’s life. It holds out innumerable
possibilities. Which of these are realized depends upon two main
groups of factors:--the external situation in which he is living, his
surroundings, including the other people with whom he is in contact;
and, secondly, his psychological make-up. The first of these, the
external situation, is sometimes given too much importance. We have
only to notice what very different experiences different people undergo
when in closely similar situations to recognize this fact. A situation
which is dulness itself for one may be full of excitement for another.
What an individual responds to is not the whole situation but a
selection from it, and as a rule few people make the same selection.
What is selected is decided by the organization of the individual’s
interests.
Now let us simplify the case by supposing that nothing which happens
during this hour is going to have any further consequences either in
our hypothetical person’s life or in anyone else’s. He is going to
cease to exist when the clock strikes--but for our purposes he must be
imagined not to know this--and no one is to be a whit the better or
worse whatever he thinks, feels or does during the hour. What shall we
say it would be best for him, if he could, to do?
We need not bother to imagine the detail of the external situation
or the character of the man. We can answer our question in general
terms without doing so. The man has a certain definite instinctive
make-up--the result of his past history, including his heredity. There
will be many things which he cannot do which another man could, and
many things which he cannot do in this situation, whatever it is, which
he could do in other situations. But given this particular man in this
particular situation, our question is, which of the possibilities open
to him would be better than which others? How would we as friendly
observers like to see him living?
Setting pain aside, we may perhaps agree that torpor would be the
worst choice. Complete inertness, lifelessness, would be the sorriest
spectacle--anticipating too nearly and unnecessarily what is to happen
when the hour strikes. We can then perhaps agree, though here more
resistance from preconceived ideas may be encountered, that the best
choice would be the opposite of torpor, that is to say, the fullest,
keenest, most active and completest kind of life.
Such a life is one which brings into play as many as possible of the
_positive_ interests. We can leave out the negative interests. It would
be a pity for our friend to be frightened or disgusted even for a
minute of his precious hour.
But this is not all. It is not enough that many interests should be
stirred. There is a more important point to be noted.
The Gods approve
The depth and not the tumult of the soul.
The interests must come into play and remain in play with as little
conflict among themselves as possible. In other words, the experience
must be organized so as to give all the impulses of which it is
composed the greatest possible degree of freedom.[3]
It is in this respect that people differ most from one another. It
is this which separates the good life from the bad. Far more life
is wasted through muddled mental organization than through lack of
opportunity. Conflicts between different impulses are the greatest
evils which afflict mankind.
The best life then which we can wish for our friend will be one in
which as much as possible of himself is engaged (as many of his
impulses as possible). And this with as little conflict, as little
mutual interference between different sub-systems of his activities
as there can be. The more he lives and the less he thwarts himself
the better. That briefly is our answer as psychologists, as outside
observers abstractly describing the state of affairs. And if it is
asked, what does such life feel like, how is it to live through? the
answer is that it feels like and is the experience of poetry.
There are two ways in which conflict can be avoided or overcome. By
conquest and by conciliation. One or other of the contesting impulses
can be suppressed, or they can come to a mutual arrangement, they
can adjust themselves to one another. We owe to psycho-analysis--at
present still a rather undisciplined branch of psychology--a great
deal of striking evidence as to the extreme difficulty of suppressing
any vigorous impulse. When it seems to be suppressed it is often found
to be really as active as ever, but in some other form, generally
a troublesome one. Persistent mental imbalances are the source of
nearly all our troubles. For this reason, as well as for the simpler
reason that suppression is wasteful of life, conciliation is always
to be preferred to conquest. People who are always winning victories
over themselves might equally well be described as always enslaving
themselves. Their lives become unnecessarily narrow. The minds of many
saints have been like wells, they should have been like lakes or like
the sea.
Unfortunately, most of us, left to ourselves, have no option but
to go in for extensive attempts at self-conquest. It is our only
means of escape from chaos. Our impulses must have some order, some
organization, or we do not live ten minutes without disaster. In the
past, Tradition, a kind of Treaty of Versailles assigning frontiers
and spheres of influence to the different interests, and based chiefly
upon conquest, ordered our lives in a moderately satisfactory manner.
But Tradition is weakening. Moral authorities are not as well backed by
beliefs as they were; their sanctions are declining in force. We are in
need of something to take the place of the old order. Not in need of a
new balance of power, a new arrangement of conquests, but of a League
of Nations for the moral ordering of the impulses; a new order based on
conciliation, not on attempted suppression.
Only the rarest individuals hitherto have achieved this new order, and
never yet perhaps completely. But many have achieved it for a brief
while, for a particular phase of experience, and many have recorded it
for these phases.
Of these records poetry consists.
But before going on to this new point let us return for a moment to our
hypothetical friend who is enjoying his last hour, and suppose this
limitation removed. Instead of such an hour let us consider any hour,
one which has consequences for his future and for other people. Let us
consider any piece of any life. How far is our argument affected? Will
our standards of good and evil be altered?
Clearly the case now is, in certain respects, different; it is much
more complicated. We have to take these consequences into account. We
have to regard his experience not in itself alone, but as a piece of
his life and as a probable factor in other people’s situations. If we
are to approve of the experience, it must not only be full of life and
free from conflict, but it must be likely to lead to other experiences,
both his own and those of other people, also full of life and free from
conflict. And often, in actual fact, it has to be less full of life
and more restricted than it might be in order to ensure these results.
A momentary individual good has often to be sacrificed for the sake
of a later or a general good. Conflicts are often necessary in order
that they should not occur later. The mutual adjustment of conflicting
impulses may take time, and an acute struggle may be the only way in
which they learn to co-operate peacefully in the future.
But all these complications and qualifications do not disturb the
conclusion we arrived at through considering the simpler case. A good
experience is still one full of life, in the sense which we have
explained, or derivatively one conducive to experiences full of life.
An evil experience is one which is self-thwarting or conducive to
stultifying conflicts. So far then, all is sound and shipshape in the
argument, and we can go on to consider the poet.