ASSOCIATION
Here is a kind of attraction which in the mental world will be found
to have as extraordinary effects as in the natural, and to show itself
in as many and as various forms.—DAVID HUME
§ 31. =The Association of Ideas.=—The doctrine of the ‘association
of ideas’ is one of the oldest and most influential in the history
of psychology. It begins, in a somewhat casual way, with Aristotle.
Suppose, Aristotle says, that we are trying to recall something that
has slipped our mind; what do we ordinarily do? We hunt through a
number of things, beginning with something that is like what we want
to recall, or contrary to it, or that was next it in time, or adjacent
to it in space. These other things, the like, the contrary, the just
before or just after, the adjoining, have the power to suggest what we
have forgotten. Aristotle gives the impression that everybody acts in
this way, as a matter of course; and no doubt his hearers acquiesced;
for the statement sounds reasonable. We want, for instance, to remember
a certain picture that we saw ten years ago: how do we set to work?
We start from something like it: ‘I remember that it reminded me of
Van Eyck’; or from something opposite: ‘I remember smiling to think
how a Venetian would have treated it’; or from something next it in
time: ‘I remember coming to it after three whole hours of Dutch
_genre_’; or from something next it in space: ‘I remember that it
hung beside a Mabuse portrait.’ Seeing how natural and obvious such
remarks are, we can understand that Aristotle’s single sentence had
tremendous consequences for psychology. It foreshadowed the four ‘laws
of the association of ideas,’ _the laws of similarity, of contrast,
of succession in time, and of coexistence in space_. According to the
doctrine of association, one idea ‘calls up’ another _because_ it is
like that other, or contrasts with it, or was next to it in time or
space; likeness and difference, succession and adjacency, somehow give
an idea the power to recall, and render it liable in its turn to be
recalled. The four laws thus represent an attempt to _explain_ the
course of our ideas, and for that reason they have always appealed to
common sense.
But, for the same reason, the laws have not proved an unmixed blessing
to psychology. Aristotle, it is clear, was simply raising a practical
question; and practical questions are answered in terms of meaning,
not of process. Moreover, Aristotle was temperamentally a logician,
and he could not help throwing even this bit of everyday practice into
formal logical shape. Notice the arrangement in pairs: like-contrary,
coexistent-successive; that is logical. Notice also the nature of the
pairs. Like-contrary is the extreme way of saying like-unlike; and when
you mention succession, you mention the only kind of non-coexistence
that can come into account for psychology; so that both pairs have the
form ‘A and not-A’ (like and not-like, coexistent and not-coexistent);
and that is logical again. _Aristotle’s four rules are therefore not
really empirical_, in the sense that they are directly derived from
a study of experience; they rather show the inveterate logician, who
is bound to schematise and tabulate. Later writers, swayed now by
experience and now by logic, have both increased and decreased the
number of these ‘laws’ of association; _the general tendency has been
to reduce them to two, or even to one_. Thus, we can make contrast,
logically, a case of likeness; the palace reminds us of the hovel,
apparently by contrast; yet are not the palace and the hovel alike,
as human habitations? We can, still more easily, reduce space to
time. If the two pictures hung together on the wall, they were seen
at the same time. Simultaneity, however, is one kind of contiguity in
time; succession is another; and temporal contiguity thus includes
everything. The four laws have become two: _similarity, and contiguity
in time_.
Can we go further? Yes, if we go on arguing. The picture reminded me
of Van Eyck; it was _like_ a Van Eyck; the association seems to be
an association by similarity. Yet it is practically certain that the
picture in question was, at some time or other, present in my mind
_along with_ some picture by Van Eyck. It is practically certain,
in other words, that the two ideas were in temporal contiguity; and
every instance of association by similarity raises the same sort of
presumption. That being the case, we may discard the law of similarity;
and =contiguity= stands alone, the sole survivor of the Aristotelian
quartet. Only, =this is all logic=, a matter of meanings, a translation
of psychological fact; we have not got to the facts themselves.
We shall come to psychology presently. Meantime _you should try to
realise how well this doctrine of association works for practical
purposes, and how strong is the appeal it makes to the practical side
of our nature_. It explains the appearance of every single idea that
has ever occurred to anybody; it offers to take us to the very heart
of psychology without need of training or preparation; it flatters us
into the belief that we have all our lives been talking and thinking
psychology without knowing it; it covers up the gap that separates
common sense from science. Small wonder that Hume compared the law of
association in psychology with the law of gravitation in physics! All
the great names in British psychology (and the fact throws a good deal
of light on the psychology of the nation itself) are connected with the
doctrine of association; a whole science has taken its national colour
from a single principle of explanation. Association has also played its
part, though less dominantly, in France and Germany.
Realise all this; and realise also that the doctrine was of great
service in the days when psychology was in the making; it is not only
agreeable to common sense, it is not only historically important,
but it also _did true psychological service_. Let us admit all this:
and then we must add that _the reign of associationism was over as
soon as ever psychology became scientific_; as soon, that is, as the
proper task of psychology was recognised and formulated (p. 18). For
let us take an instance: what does the word ‘summer’ suggest to you?
Very likely it suggests ‘winter.’ How, then, is this association to be
explained psychologically? By contrast? But the ideas of summer and
winter may be exactly alike, both of them verbal-auditory-motor, or
both of them mental pictures; the contrast is a contrast of meaning,
not of mental process or pattern; the real summer, what we mean by the
word ‘summer,’ contrasts with the real winter, and not the idea of
summer with the idea of winter. By resemblance? But, if the ideas of
summer and winter are exactly alike, so are they also like thousands
of other ideas, verbal-auditory-motor or visual-imaginal; there is
no reason in their psychological likeness why the one should suggest
the other; and if they do suggest each other by ‘resemblance,’ the
resemblance is again a likeness of meaning (they are both seasons
of the year) and not of mental constitution. Try the matter out for
yourself, in any concrete case of association, and you will reach
the same result; the ideas of associationism are not psychological
ideas. James sums things up for us: “Association,” he says, “so far
as the word stands for an _effect_, is between _things thought of_;
it is things, not ideas, which are associated in the mind. And so
far as association stands for a _cause_, it is between _processes
in the brain_; it is these which, by being associated in certain
ways, determine what successive objects shall be thought.” =The
brain associates, and meanings are associated.= We have already said
something of the psychology of meaning (pp. 26 ff., 117 ff.); what can
we now say of the associative functions of the brain?
§ 32. =Associative Tendencies: Material of Study.=—We want to find
out how those processes in the brain which are the correlates of
our ideas go together, get connected or associated. The brain is a
machine; and it is not only complicated, but it is also plastic, that
is, it is subject to change and modification. The _complexity_ of the
machine makes it necessary for us to work with simple stimuli and by
strict methods; only if we work with simple stimuli shall we get to the
bare essentials of the associative functions; and only if we work by
strict methods shall we obtain results which other investigators can
repeat and verify. Even so, the _plasticity_ of the machine makes it
impossible for us to lay down hard and fast laws of connection; we can
speak only of connective tendencies or of =associative tendencies=;
what actually happens, in any particular case, is likely to be the
joint result of many tendencies, weak and strong, conflicting and
concurring.
The task before us is, therefore, not easy; but it is straightforward;
and that is the next best thing. We want to find out how associative
tendencies in the brain are set up; and to do this we must, evidently,
find some way of _creating_ a bond between one nervous process and
another; we must devise experiments in which we _make_ or _construct_
brain-connections. We need not look far afield; for we make such
connections whenever we =learn= anything new; so that we have only to
learn under experimental conditions, and the task is accomplished. But
what shall we learn? what stimuli shall we employ in the experiments?
‘Words,’ you will say; and words have many advantages for learning;
but they have, in this case, the supreme disadvantage that they are
ingrained meanings. Words therefore will not do; but something very
like them will. The question of the stimuli to be employed was, in
fact, answered for us, thirty years ago, by the German psychologist
Hermann Ebbinghaus, who—by one of those happy thoughts that come after
long and intensive occupation with a subject—hit upon the notion of
the =meaningless syllable=. Ebbinghaus made up over 2000 meaningless
‘words,’ all consisting of a vowel or diphthong between two consonants;
syllables standing in the same relation to his own language that leb,
rit, mon, yup, kig, wes, der, zam, for instance, bear to English. See
the advantage of this kind of material for the work we have in view!
The syllables are just like words, in that they may be seen, heard,
or felt in the throat; they are unlike words, and vastly superior to
them, in that they have no habitual associates; they lack context and
meaning; every syllable in a series may be considered to have the same
chances of making connections as every other. The material is so rich
and varied that endless experiments can be made; it is so simple and
uniform that the results of one experiment may be compared directly
with the results of another; it may be drawn from any language, and
so may be used in the laboratories of any country. Moreover, it is
absolutely under control; it is just the kind of material that we need
when we are tied down to strict and accurate method; we can vary at
will the manner of presentation to the learner, the number of syllables
in a series, the rate at which they follow one another, and so on;
and the report required from the learner himself is easy and natural;
there are no long descriptive phrases; he has only to say or to write
the syllables he has learned. Lastly, _we may proceed from experiments
with this meaningless material to experiments with real words_,
words that mean; and we may hope in that way to pass beyond the bare
essentials of the brain’s associative function, and to get a clue to
the complex interplay of associative tendencies in real life. All in
all, it is not too much to say that Ebbinghaus’ recourse to meaningless
syllables, as means to the study of associative tendencies, marks the
most considerable advance, in this chapter of the psychological system,
since the time of Aristotle.
§ 33. =The Establishment of Associative Tendencies.=—The use of
=meaningless syllables= has brought with it a whole armoury of
technical methods for the study of the associative tendencies. We have
here no space to treat of these methods in detail; fortunately, the
results that we shall mention speak for themselves; and it may be added
that all the methods of experiment are, in principle, changes rung
upon one simple model, in which the observer sits down before a series
of syllables, reads them through, so-many times over, in a state of
attention, and then, either immediately or after an interval of time,
repeats them ‘from memory.’ We proceed, then, to answer the question:
How are associative tendencies established in the brain?
Their establishment depends, first and most obviously, upon the _number
of syllables_ in the series presented to the observer. While he can
recite correctly, after a single reading, a series of 6 or 7, a longer
series simply throws him into confusion. The first and last terms have
a definite advantage; they may, indeed, be the only syllables that can
be repeated after a single reading of a 12-term series. Secondly, the
tendencies are strengthened by _repetition_. The first reading is more
important than any other single reading; after that, there is for a
while little if any improvement; then the results take a sudden step
up; and thenceforward progress is fairly steady until the limit of
the experiment is reached. Thirdly, the tendencies are furthered by a
_grouping_ of the syllables. The observer learns a series more quickly
if, for instance, he throws it into a rhythm. Fourthly, it is important
to _distribute_ the readings in time. Two readings a day for 12 days
give better results than four a day for 6 days, or eight a day for 3
days, although the total number remains the same. Fifthly, the _rate_
of reading has its effect; the syllables must not follow one another
too fast or too slowly. There are great differences between individual
learners; but we may say in general that the syllables should at first
be presented at a moderate rate (perhaps two in the second), and that
the rate should be slowly increased as the readings proceed. Sixthly,
not only repetition itself, but also the _manner of repetition_, makes
a difference. Meaningless syllables are learned somewhat better if the
whole series is read through, over and over, from end to end, than if
they are taken a few at a time, in small lots. Lastly, _recitation_
or reading aloud is ordinarily more effective than silent reading;
largely, perhaps, because the separate pronouncing of every syllable
equalises attention; every term of the series is brought out sharply
and clearly, and there is no chance to slur.
Here, however, we must remember the differences of imaginal type (p.
138); and it is true that a markedly visual learner will profit less
by recitation than an auditory-motor learner. These experiments have,
indeed, revealed other typical differences between individuals, such as
those of _slow and quick_, and of _receptive and ingenious_ learning.
Some of us, it seems, are naturally quick, and some are naturally slow
learners, just as some work best at night and others in the morning.
Some observers, again, accept the series of syllables, passively and
without question; others embroider and interpret the meaningless
forms in all manner of ways; _mon_ becomes man, and _kig_ king, and
_wer_ where, and so on. We know nothing at present of the correlated
differences in the nervous system.
The results just given may be compared with those obtained when
=meaningful stimuli= are employed. Thus, 8 or 9 one-syllable words,
and 10 to 12 one-place numbers, can be recited after a single reading.
Meaningful material, which is grouped or unified by its topic, may be
learned ten times as quickly as meaningless syllables. It may also be
presented more rapidly; iambic and trochaic verses, for instances,
may be taken at double the rate of the syllables. Dates of historical
events, and the words of a foreign language, are best learned like the
meaningless syllables; and connected meaningful material, like a poem
or an oration, should very decidedly be read as a whole, from end to
end, in the successive repetitions. If there are brief passages of
unusual difficulty, they may, of course, be gone over by themselves, in
the intervals between the total readings; the general rule, however,
is to learn by wholes. This appears, in fact, to be the procedure
generally followed by bards and tellers of folktales; and actors who
play many rôles in quick succession are able to ‘wing a part,’ as
the phrase goes, by reading it through several times over at brief
intervals. Children who memorise a poem in sections, a stanza now and a
stanza to-morrow, waste a great deal of time.
Let us now come back to the =meaningless syllables=, and ask what is
_the net result of all the influences_ that we have listed. Suppose,
in other words, that a series of syllables has been presented at
a certain rate, thrown into a certain rhythm, repeated a certain
number of times with fitting distribution in time, recited at every
repetition: what is the final outcome, as regards the establishment
of associative tendencies in the brain? It is this: _that a strong
connection has been set up between the successive terms of the series,
in the order of their presentation; and that weaker connections have
been set up between every term and every other term, whether the terms
are near or remote in the series, and whether they are taken forwards
or backwards_. Let us illustrate by reference to the alphabet. If the
alphabet represents a series of meaningless syllables, then there is a
strong connection between _a_ and _b_, _b_ and _c_, ... _y_ and _z_;
but there are also weaker connections between _a_ and _d_, ... _v_
and _z_; and further, there are connections backward between _z_ and
_y_, _z_ and _x_, ... _d_ and _a_. The series of syllables has thus
impressed the brain with _a very complex meshwork of associative
tendencies_, stronger in some places (direct forward connection)
and weaker in others (remote and backward connection), but still
functionally interconnected through all its parts.
§ 34. =The Interference and Decay of Associative Tendencies.=—If a set
of associative tendencies, such as we have just described, is left to
itself, and neither disturbed nor renewed, it _gradually disappears_;
the loss is at first very rapid, then proceeds more slowly, and
thereafter goes on only at a snail’s pace. To make the matter concrete,
we may think of the meshwork of tendencies as a meshwork of channels,
deeper and shallower, in the substance of the brain; then the rule is
that the channels tend to fill up,—the shallow ones speedily, the
deeper ones at first quickly and then more and more slowly,—until
everything is smooth again. This is a mere figure, but it carries the
meaning that we desire. The same thing happens with _the tendencies
set up by meaningful material_; they too slowly die away; but _it is
doubtful if they ever wholly disappear_; in their case the brain, if
it has been thoroughly impressed, seems never wholly to ‘forget.’
Ebbinghaus learned some stanzas of Byron’s Don Juan, for experimental
purposes, and did not look at them again for 22 years; yet he relearned
those stanzas in 93 per cent. of the time required to learn new
stanzas; a saving of 7 per cent. Some stanzas that he had learned more
thoroughly were not read again for 17 years; these were relearned
with a saving of nearly 20 per cent. He had no memory whatever of the
verses formerly learned; but his brain ‘remembered’; the associative
tendencies had not completely disappeared.
As a rule, however, a particular set of tendencies is not allowed to
die a natural death; it is interfered with by others. _All associative
tendencies need a certain time to establish themselves_, to settle
down; and if this time is not granted, but stimulus treads on the heels
of stimulus, there is no impression of the meshwork, and no connections
are formed; we have seen that a series of excessive length simply
throws the learner into confusion. A recently acquired connection may
even be abolished, as most of us know to our cost, by interruption of
the train of thought; you have just got to your point, to the insight,
the phrasing, the argument, that will clinch things; you are distracted
by some irrelevant matter; and when you come back to your work, the
point has gone. So nicely balanced and so easily disturbed are the
associative tendencies, that you may never recover it; no wonder that
the constructive worker, in literature, in science, in affairs, ‘hates
to be interrupted’!
With meaningful material, interference may arise in other ways. Take
the alphabet again; _a_ is connected with _b_ through the frequent
repetition of _abc_, but is also connected with _z_ by the phrase
‘_a_ to _z_.’ If, then, _a_ appears; and if the _b_-tendency and the
_z_-tendency are of approximately equal strength; then there may be no
connection at all; the two tendencies cancel or inhibit each other.
A question may leave you dumb, not because you have no answer, but
because you have so many different answers that no one of them can
force through to expression. This sort of interference, which comes at
the end of the associative process, is called =terminal inhibition=;
there is another kind, coming at the beginning of the process, which
we may call =initial inhibition=. If _a_ is already connected with
_b_, then it is difficult to connect it with _k_; _b_ gets in the way.
You have some particular fault of style, or you have fallen into the
habit of spelling wrongly some particular word; you want to correct
the fault, to spell aright. But every time that you are off guard, the
mistake recurs; the existing connection _a-b_ heads off the desired
connection _a-k_.
Fortunately, there are compensations. If a group of tendencies, for
instance, does escape interference, then _the brain settles down of
itself_. Schoolboys, with a keen sense for economy of effort, learn
their lessons only partway overnight, and find that a hasty review next
morning is enough to fix them; the associative tendencies work while
their owners sleep. The practised speaker, knowing that he has to talk
on a certain subject at a certain date, marshals his present ideas in
half-an-hour of concentrated attention, and then drops the whole thing;
his brain incubates it for him; and when the appointed day comes near,
he finds that his associative tendencies have practically prepared his
address. Besides, the tendencies may converge, as well as interfere;
we have seen how continued attention opens the mind to relevant facts
and closes it against the irrelevant (p. 98). If they did not, it
would be impossible for us to follow the thread of a paragraph, to say
nothing of a chapter or of a whole book. =Convergence= thus offsets
interference. We shall meet it in various forms later (§§ 42, 45,
65); meantime we leave the brain, and pass to the mental processes
themselves. How are they connected?
§35. =The Connections of Mental Processes.=—So far as the elementary
processes are concerned, this question has already been answered in
our discussion of perception. We found that there were _two modes of
sensory connection_, two ways in which sensations may go together. In
qualitative perceptions, such as the perception of a musical note,
there is a blend or =fusion= of qualities; we can, to be sure, analyse
the compound tone, after practice, into fundamental and overtones; yet
it still comes to us as unitary, as a single impression; it stands only
at one remove, so to speak, from the simplicity of sensation itself.
The tastes of coffee and lemonade, with their blending of taste and
smell, of touch and temperature; the organic feels of hunger and thirst
and nausea; the kinæsthesis aroused by grasping and pulling, by lifting
the arm and swinging the foot; all these experiences are fusions,
more or less intimate, more or less complex, of sensory qualities.
They too can be analysed; but the analysis is not easy; the qualities
cling together, seem in a way to merge into one another. In spatial
perceptions, on the other hand, in such perceptions as the sight of my
desk with its litter of writing materials, the elementary processes
stand out side by side; brown contrasts with blue, dark with light;
here, we might say, is no confluence, but rather concourse. In the
perception of rhythm we have the same separateness of sensations, only
that it is now temporal instead of spatial; and in the perception of
change (p. 132) we find both modes of connection, separate qualities
or intensities passing into one another by that peculiar blur or
fusion which we have called the index of change. This second type of
connection, whether it is the side-by-side of space or the end-to-end
of time, may be named =conjunction=.
The associative tendencies which we have been more recently discussing
are set up by series of meaningless syllables, that is to say, by
discrete stimuli. It is clear, then, that the connection of the
correlated mental processes is of the conjunctive type; we have said
nothing of the brain-processes which underlie sensory fusion. We can,
indeed, say nothing of them; we have no knowledge of their nature.
It has been suggested that qualitative perception is correlated with
a _synergy_ of the brain-processes, that is, with a cooperation so
close that every process taking part in it loses something of its
individuality. That is possible; we cannot say more.
When we leave the elementary processes for _complex experiences_, for
perceptions and ideas, and ask how these are connected, we cannot
return any completely satisfactory answer. Experiments may be made;
thus, a familiar visual stimulus (word or simple picture) may be shown
for a few seconds to the observer, with the instruction that he receive
it passively and report the consequent course of his mental processes.
Under these circumstances, it invariably happens that the stimulus is
immediately named. After that, apparently, any one of _three typical
things may happen_. First, the named perception is supplemented by
a sense-feeling. A word printed in very small letters on a large
background aroused the feeling of loneliness; a word printed in red, a
feeling of excitement; the word ‘blinding,’ the disagreeable feeling
of a dazzling light. Then the feeling gives way to an idea, which
supplants the meaning of the stimulus. Secondly, the named perception
is resolved into the idea of some object previously seen. An outline
drawing of a face may be replaced by the idea of a friend, whose
features are, so to say, read into the drawing; or the word ‘Tell,’
printed on a blue ground, may be replaced by the idea of the familiar
picture of William Tell springing from a boat to the rocks; the blue
of the background becomes the blue sky of the painting. Thirdly, and
only occasionally, the named perception is followed by an idea which
comes separate and detached; we have the traditional pattern of the
‘successive association.’ These three types of connection (there
are, of course, intermediate forms) do not furnish a satisfactory
answer to our question, mainly because the experiments are not
properly under control; the observer comes to them with all sorts
of associative tendencies at work; and unless we make a very large
number of observations, we cannot be sure that our results are either
representative or exhaustive.
At the same time, such experiments help us; they show, for instance,
that the doctrine of association—quite apart from its logical
leanings, or perhaps just by reason of them—regarded the course of
ideas in too ‘intellectual’ a way; _the sense-feelings, and other
feeling-blends that we shall mention later, play a larger part in
our thinking than the associationists dreamed of_. They show, too,
that _the ‘successive association’ is not the commonest, but rather
the least common, form of mental connection_. Listen to a quotation
from Hobbes! “In a discourse of our present civil war,” he writes,
“what could seem more impertinent [less to the point] than to ask,
as one did, what was the value of the Roman penny? Yet the coherence
to me was manifest enough. For the thought of the war introduced the
thought of delivering up the king to his enemies; the thought of that
brought in the thought of the delivering up of Christ; and that again
the thought of the thirty pence, which was the price of that treason.
And thence easily followed that malicious question: and all this in
a moment of time, for thought is quick.” Hobbes has worked out the
logical coherence, the coherence of meaning; but he is very far from a
psychology of the situation. What actually took place in the mind of
the questioner we shall never know; we may be very sure, however, that
his mental processes did not follow one another in logical order, as
Hobbes imagines. There was a convergence of associative tendencies,
which expressed itself in the question; there need not have been any
succession of ideas at all.
§ 36. =The Law of Mental Connection.=—We have spoken at some length
of the establishment of associative tendencies in the brain, of their
decay with time, and of their mutual interference. Can we sum up our
knowledge of them in _a single general statement_? And can we then
translate this general statement into =psychological= language, and so
reach a _formula of mental connection_ that may stand in place of the
logical laws of association? Let us try.
We must proceed very carefully, even if our care drives us into
clumsiness of expression. We cannot, for instance, leave out the fact
that the meaningless syllables are given in the state of _attention_.
It appears, indeed, that attention is necessary to association; we may
doubt if any amount of repetition—to take that example—would set up
an associative tendency, were it not for attention. Repetition, we
remember, is one of the determinants of attention (p. 94); so that the
repeated experience is likely to become vivid in the very nature of the
case; but if it does not, if for any reason our attention is diverted
or we fail to notice the stimulus, repetition has no associative power.
How many of us would like to recall the carpet or wall-paper of the
room we slept in as children! Thousands of times we saw the colours and
the patterns; but our adult memory is an absolute blank; those repeated
stimuli never ‘impressed’ us.
We cannot either leave out the fact that the meaningless syllables
are bracketed all together, so to speak, by a certain _situation_,
namely, the situation created by the experiment. The observer comes to
them, in accordance with this situation, intending to learn them, to
memorise them: a fact of very great importance!—and a fact that needs
to be dwelt on for a little, if we are to see our way clearly in what
follows. We said on p. 149 that _meanings_ are associated. Yet we have
been studying the formation of associative tendencies in the brain,
the associating organ, by the help of—meaningless syllables! Is there
not a flat contradiction here between theory and practice? No, that is
really not the case; and the key to the riddle lies in this fact of the
‘situation’ which we are now discussing. The syllables are meaningless
_as_ syllables; they are thus set apart from ordinary syllables that
are meaningful; and it is this difference from _words_, combined with
their likeness to words in other respects, that makes them useful to
the experimenter (p. 151). For since they are themselves meaningless,
we can put upon them a constant meaning of our own; we can introduce
them into any situation of our own making; and the meaning that we give
them, in the study of the associative tendencies, is the meaning of
‘an experimental series to be learned under certain instructions’: a
meaning which is definite, and which remains the same throughout the
experiments. You see, then, that the ‘situation’ is important.
Attention, as we know, means reinforcement of certain nervous processes
and inhibition of others (p. 107); and the intention to learn implies
the activity of directive nerve-forces (p. 96), the existence of a
special set or disposition of the brain. Let us keep these things in
mind; and let us call the brain-processes that are correlated with
mental processes ‘psychoneural’ processes. Then we may say: _When a
number of psychoneural processes, all of which are reinforced and
all of which stand alike under the directive influence of a nervous
disposition, occur together under certain favourable conditions, then_
=associative tendencies= _are established among them, such that the
recurrence of any one tends to involve, according to circumstances, the
recurrence of the others_. The phrase ‘under favourable conditions’
refers to the effect of repetition of the series, of their distribution
in time, and so forth; and the phrase ‘according to circumstances’
means that heed must be paid to the lapse of time since learning, to
the working of initial or terminal inhibition, and so forth.
So much for a generalised law of associative tendency, derived from the
work with meaningless syllables! That is _a law of nervous action_;
now let us turn to =psychology=, and see if we can formulate a law of
mental connection. We shall be dealing with perceptions and ideas;
and we shall be dealing with them as experiences, made up of core and
context (p. 117).
_Attention_ is again necessary. Intention, on the other hand, seems
not to be necessary; there need be no special purpose behind the
experiences, as the intention to learn is behind the experiments with
meaningless syllables; attention is enough. The idea of a surgical
operation, for instance, may be permanently connected with the idea
of the surgeon who performed it, although the intervention of that
particular surgeon was quite casual and unexpected. The reason is
that _attention brings a situation, its own situation, with it_;
the determinants of primary attention are, as we put it on p. 97,
the ‘great biological stimuli,’ things that an organism _must_ take
notice of, if it is to persist as a living organism at all; and the
determinants of derived primary attention are also what we may call
‘situational’ affairs, things that appeal in certain circumstances
to certain sides of our nature, things that interest or ‘impress’
us. So attention, too, implies a set or disposition of the nervous
system; common sense is so far in the right—though its words are
misleading—when it talks of a ‘concentration of the mind,’ of ‘pulling
oneself together,’ and the like; and _this general set is sufficient_,
without the presence of a distinct purpose. Our law will read, then,
somewhat to this effect: _If a number of vivid perceptions or ideas,
whose situational context is the same, occur together under favourable
conditions, then the later appearance in the same situational context
of any one will tend to be accompanied, according to circumstances, by
the reappearance (as ideas) of the others_.
That is correct, so far as it goes; though, as we shall see in a
moment, it does not go quite far enough. Meanwhile, you must clearly
realise that _the processes which compose the perceptions and ideas
are extremely variable_. We have already discussed this matter; we
have seen that the perception of an object and the idea of the same
object do not by any means correspond, term for term, like original and
copy; the form of our ideas depends, in the first instance, upon our
imaginal type, and secondarily upon the special circumstances under
which they appear (pp. 139 f.). When, therefore, we speak of ‘the later
appearance of an idea in the same situational context,’ we really mean
the appearance of that complex of mental processes which, under the law
of imaginal type and under the special circumstances of the moment,
has taken the place of the original complex. In the next chapter we
shall be discussing the ‘memory-image,’ and you will then be shown
how radically an idea may be transformed; so radically, that it may
be likened rather to a translation than a copy of the perception,
rather to a rendering into another language than a reproduction. If you
want a catch-phrase, to hold this fact of change in mind, _think of
association as a marriage by proxy_; the marriage-bond, the situational
context, remains the same, but the parties are represented by very
variable mental complexes.
[Illustration]
Now for the law once more! _The formula does not go far enough; for
while it covers the movement of ideas within a single situational
context, it does not show how we may pass, as we undoubtedly do, from
one situational context to another._ Here a diagram will, perhaps, make
things plain. Suppose that we start out with an idea _a_, composed of
core and context, and lying within the wider situational context of
the right-hand oval. The appearance of _a_ is followed, let us assume,
by the reappearance of _b_, which lies within the same situational
context. The idea _b_ may be followed, in its turn, by _c_. But since
_b_ belongs also to a second situation, represented by the left-hand
oval, it may be followed instead by the idea _x_; and in that event we
shall have travelled from the one situational context to the other.
Whether _c_ or _x_ comes up is a matter which depends entirely upon
the relative strength of the associative tendencies at the moment.
The diagram, it is needless to say, is immensely over-simplified; we
have placed _a_, _c_, and _x_ within _one_ situational context only,
and we have made the ideas _follow_ one another in single file; but it
shows how our formulation of the law must be extended, if we are to
‘get in’ all the facts. We must add: _If certain of these reappearing
ideas belong also to a different situational context, they will tend
to be accompanied, again according to circumstances, by the ideas
which formerly occurred together (as perceptions or ideas) within that
context_. In point of fact, most ideas belong to very many different
situations, so that the interweaving of the associative tendencies may
be highly complicated.
These paragraphs will strike you as both difficult and clumsy; but,
if you review the course of the whole chapter, you will perhaps agree
that our attempt at formulation has been worth while. We began with
Aristotle’s four rules, and found that they are logical and practical,
and also that they may logically be reduced to one, the ‘law of
association by contiguity.’ That law did not satisfy us; we agreed with
James that the _brain_ associates and that _meanings_ are associated.
So we went to the brain; and by the aid of meaningless syllables we
traced the history of the associative tendencies. Coming back to
psychology proper, we distinguished the fusion and the conjunction of
mental processes, and noted that the experimental method does not yet
permit us to follow the patterns of mental connection in the large;
though the experiments already made furnish additional proof that
the old ‘laws’ of association are psychologically valueless. Now, to
conclude, we have sought, first, to bring all that we know of the
associative tendencies under a single formula; and then, building
upon that formula and upon our partial knowledge of the patterns of
mental connection, to write a psychological law that shall replace the
logical law of contiguity. We have had to safeguard and qualify, and
to leave loose ends for individual variation; but at any rate we have
something positive whereby to support our criticism of the doctrine of
association.
§ 37. =Practice, Habit, Fatigue.=—The establishment of an associative
tendency may be looked upon as the establishment of a _habit_ of
brain-function; the learning of series of syllables improves with
_practice_; and continued learning gives rise to _fatigue_. It is
natural, therefore, that we should here pause to say something about
these three things in their relation to psychology.
All =practice= begins in the state of _attention_; but practice, once
started, may go on when attention is distracted from the matter in
hand. We give a great deal of attention to our first finger-exercises
on the piano; presently, if we have continued them long enough, we
may practise Chopin on the clavier while we are reading a book or
thinking out a problem; the fingers do the practising for themselves.
If we follow _the course of practice_, from day to day, we find that
improvement is not steady; we gain very quickly at first, then come to
a point at which we remain stationary for a while, then make another
and slower gain, then rest at a second plateau or level of practice,
and so on. It is doubtful, however, whether this stepwise advance is
characteristic of practice itself, that is, of the nervous change
produced by repeated stimulation of the same nerve-elements; it seems
rather to be due to changes in our method of working, to the sudden
discovery of some new trick of procedure, or the sudden release from
some hampering peculiarity of method. We cannot speak in positive terms
since, unfortunately for psychology, the investigators of practice have
been more concerned with outward results and practical value than with
description of the correlated mental processes.
In psychological experiments, _the practised observer has a threefold
superiority over the unpractised_: his attitude to the stimuli, in
successive observations, is more nearly uniform; his attention is
sustained at a higher level; and his discrimination is more refined.
This means that the focal mental processes are few in number; that they
are extremely vivid; and that they are protected, by strong inhibitory
forces, against intrusion from the outside. It is clear therefore that
practice is very desirable; but it is clear also that experimental
results may be compared only if the stage of practice at which they are
obtained is the same. This rule has some odd examples: an observer,
for instance, who is practised in the discrimination of lifted weights
grows physically stronger with his practice, and may therefore judge
quite differently from the unpractised observer.
=Habit= is, in general, the outcome of practice; if practice shows us a
nervous set or disposition in the making, habit is the set taken, the
disposition established; the plastic organ has hardened in some special
way. Like practice, habit in its early stages requires _attention_;
but it is to be noticed that a habit may be formed, not only by the
repetition that practice brings, but also by any single stimulus that
violently impresses the nervous system; the plastic mechanism may be
thrown, by a sudden wrench, into a new and permanent arrangement; just
as we may give a permanent bend to a fencing foil by a single violent
lunge. We have already seen, in our discussion of the development of
attention (p. 99), that habits already formed are the basis of new
acquisition; and we may remark in passing that the moral and practical
importance of habit has often been written upon and can hardly be
overestimated.
In all experimental work of a serial kind, habit shows itself as a
_tendency to experience and report the same things_. Suppose, for
example, that we wish to ascertain the least perceptible difference of
tonal pitch. We begin with two identical tones, and gradually separate
them in the successive experiments of the series. The observer begins
with the experience and report of ‘same’ or ‘alike.’ If, now, the
differences between the tones are made very small, so that the series
of observations is long drawn out, the observer may get into the habit
of hearing and reporting ‘same’; although the tonal difference is
definitely perceptible, it nevertheless passes without notice. The
focal processes are here, as they are in the case of practice, few in
number; but they run their course at a low level of attention; they
are intrinsically obscure, and the report of them simply follows the
line of least resistance. The observer is correspondingly liable to
distraction from the outside; the inhibitory protection is weak.
Habituation is consequently to be avoided, as practice is to be desired.
=Fatigue= appears to be due to a sort of blood-poisoning;
waste-products thrown off by the other tissues are poured into the
blood-stream and there accumulate. It shows itself first of all by way
of _muscular sensation_ (p. 46), and soon becomes a sense-feeling;
whereupon the biological theory of feeling lays hold of it (p. 84),
and bids us stop work because we are suffering harm. _The feeling of
fatigue, however, gives no sure evidence that the capacity of the
nervous system is reduced_; the biological theory signally breaks down;
not only can we work effectively, but we often do our best work, after
we have begun to feel tired. We should take our cue to rest not from
the feeling of fatigue, but rather from the impairment of our work,
in quantity and quality, on the one hand, and from derangement of the
great bodily functions, such as digestion and sleep, on the other.
In psychological experiments, fatigue _lowers the level and lessens
the duration of attention_, and so, like habituation, makes against
discrimination; unlike habituation, it tends also to _inhibit
expression_, and thus renders the observer’s report hesitating and
uncertain. It is characterised, unlike practice and habituation both,
by a special mental complex; a diffused feeling of lassitude which may
be dominated by some local strain or pain.
In conclusion, we may mention that a great deal of controversy has
centred about the questions _whether special practice has a general or
a merely local effect_, and _whether general fatigue may be estimated
from the results of some special and local test_. The first question
may be answered in the words of Professor Thorndike: “One mental
function or activity improves others in so far as and because they
are in part identical with it, because it contains elements common to
them. These identical elements may be in the stuff, the data concerned
in the training, or in the attitude, the method taken with it.” The
second question cannot yet be answered. We have every reason to think
that fatigue is everywhere and always one and the same state, that
mental and muscular fatigue, for instance, are identical; if we are
mentally fatigued, we get rest neither by a change of mental work nor
by physical exertion. But no single test or index of the danger-point
of fatigue has yet been discovered.
Questions and Exercises
(1) Criticise the following statements. (A good plan would be, first,
to go behind the expression to the meaning, and to make sure of that;
then to take up precisely the opposite position, and see what can be
said for it; and then finally to write your comments on the statements
themselves.) (_a_) When two elementary brain-processes have been active
together or in immediate succession, one of them, on reoccurring, tends
to propagate its excitement into the other. (_b_) There is no tendency
on the part of _simple_ ‘ideas,’ attributes, or qualities to remind us
of their like, (_c_) Association marries only universals. (_d_) Brick
is one complex idea, mortar is another complex idea; these ideas, with
ideas of position and quantity, compose my idea of a wall.
W. James, Principles of Psychology, i., 1890, 566, 579; F. H. Bradley,
in Mind, xii., 1887, 358; J. Mill, Analysis of the Phenomena of the
Human Mind, i., 1869, 115.
(2) How does the dominance of associationism in British psychology
throw light upon the psychology of the nation itself?
(3) What sort of service could the doctrine of association render to
psychology?
(4) Can you give specific reasons for the fact that too long a series
of syllables throws the learner into confusion? and for the advantage
that results from distribution of the series in time?
(5) Do you think that the quick or the slow learner has the better
chance to retain what he has learned? Have you any evidence?
(6) Associative tendencies decay with time; yet we have said that the
practised speaker drops his speech, and lets his brain incubate it. Is
there not a contradiction here? Consider the two cases carefully.
(7) Can you give instances, from your own recent experience, of the
working of initial and terminal inhibition?
(8) Later writers have added to the four ‘laws’ of Aristotle
(similarity, contrast, succession, coadjacency) various other laws:
means and end, cause and effect, whole and part, thing and properties,
sign and thing signified, and so on. Can you suggest any reason for
these additions? Can you give an instance under every ‘law,’ and reduce
it psychologically to our own law of association? Try to get real
instances, taken from your own or your friends’ experience.
(9) Trace the connection of mental processes in your own case as
follows. An experimenter prepares a set of simple pictures, and
arranges to show them for 3 sec. by removal and replacement of a
cardboard screen. Sit at a convenient distance, and let the stimulus
have its way with you; report your mental processes as they come; the
experimenter writes down what you say. Try to give the facts, and not
to express yourself in meanings. Do not be discouraged if the task
seems, at first, to be too difficult.
(10) (_a_) Can you give any reason why your work might be unusually
good when you are feeling a little tired? (_b_) What is the relation of
interest to practice?
(11) State, in your own words, what the doctrine of association
professes to do, and what cardinal mistake it falls into when it tries
to do it.
(12) (_a_) Write out, in common-sense terms, the facts that the law
of mental connection has to translate into psychological language.
Next, write out, in your own words, the law itself. Now compare your
formulation with that of the text: do they tally? If not, do you
understand the difference? Do not be satisfied to leave any point
obscure. (_b_) Show that the law of mental connection does justice, as
the older ‘laws’ of association do not, to the facts of § 35. (_c_)
You often read in fiction of situations whose every detail makes an
indelible impression; you will find one described, for instance,
in Mrs. Deland’s ‘Philip and his Wife,’ ch. xxix. Is the writer’s
psychology sound?
References
W. James, Principles of Psychology, i., 1890, chs. iv., xiv.; F. H.
Bradley, The Principles of Logic, 1883, 273 ff.; H. Ebbinghaus, Memory,
trs. H. A. Ruger and C. E. Bussenius, 1913; C. S. Myers, A Text-book
of Experimental Psychology, i., 1911, chs. xii., xiii.; O. Kuelpe,
Outlines of Psychology, 1909, 169 ff.; E. B. Titchener, A Text-book
of Psychology, 1910, 374 ff.; M. Offner, Mental Fatigue, trs. G. M.
Whipple, 1911; E. L. Thorndike, Educational Psychology, ii., 1913; E.
Meumann, The Psychology of Learning, trs. J. W. Baird, 1913.