say that Sedgwick was perfectly justified. That, however, is not the
present question. Prejudice itself may sometimes be justified. But
Sedgwick tacitly admitted that he not only believed the shell had not
been imbedded, he actually _desired_ that it had not been. And our
desires always determine, to a great extent, the trouble we take to get
evidence, and the importance we attach to it after we have it.
Emerson’s remark, that inconsistency is the hobgoblin of little minds,
is true in a double sense. For not only is it harmful to fear to
change an opinion which we have entertained, it is even harmful at
times to fear to hold simultaneously two opinions incongruous with
one another. If a thought springs up in your mind, and you come to
see after a time that it is inconsistent with another thought, do not
immediately try to throw out one or the other. Instead, think the new
thought out in all its bearings and implications, just as if you had
never had the first. Perhaps follow the same practice with the first
idea. By and by one will reveal its falsity and the other its truth.
Or more likely you will find that there was some truth in each idea,
and you will reconcile the two in a truth higher, deeper, or more
comprehensive.
* * * * *
I have set down these three cases of prejudice to help the reader in
recognizing the same or similar prejudices in himself. And the mere
recognition of prejudices as prejudices will do much toward their
elimination. But though we all strenuously maintain our anxiety to get
rid of prejudices, the real reason most of us have them is that we do
not want to get rid of them. We are all willing to get rid of prejudice
in the abstract. But when some one troubles himself to point out any
particular concrete prejudice of ours we defend it and cling to it
like a dog to his bone. The only way we can get rid of this desire
to cling to our prejudices, is thoroughly to convince ourselves of
the superiority of the truth; to leave not the slightest doubt in our
own minds as to the value of looking with perfect indifference on all
questions; to see that this is more advantageous than believing in
that opinion which would benefit us most if true, more important than
“being consistent,” more to be cherished than the comfortable feeling
of certainty. When we really do desire to get rid of our prejudices we
will put ourselves on the path of getting rid of them. And not before
then.
One more prejudice has yet to be considered. This may be called the
prejudice of imitation. We agree with others, we adopt the same
opinions of the people around us, because we fear to disagree. We fear
to differ with them in thought in the same way that we fear to differ
with them in dress. In fact this parallel between style in thought
and style in clothing seems to hold throughout. Just as we fear to
look different from the people around us because we will be considered
freakish, so we fear to think differently because we know we will be
looked upon as “queer.” If we have a number of such dissenting opinions
we will be regarded as anything from a mere crank to a fanatic or one
with a “screw loose.” When our backs are turned people will wisely
point their index fingers to their temples and move them around in
little circles.
Our fear of freak opinions is only equalled by our dread of ideas
old-fashioned. A little while ago it was considered popular to laugh
at the suffragettes. And everybody laughed. Now it is getting to be
popular to laugh at the anti-suffragettes. A little while ago it was
considered quite _comme il faut_ to fear socialism. Now it is becoming
proper to remark, “There is really quite a good deal of truth in their
theories.” And soon we shall doubtless all be out and out socialists.
Nor is the prejudice of imitation confined to the layman. If anything,
it is even more common among so-called “thinkers.” I remember
quoting some remark of Spencer to an acquaintance, and getting this:
“Yes, but isn’t Herbert Spencer’s philosophy considered dead?” This
same acquaintance also informed me that John Stuart Mill had been
“superseded.” He candidly admitted—in fact seemed rather proud of the
fact—that he had read practically nothing of either philosopher. I am
not trying to defend Spencer or John Stuart Mill, nor am I attempting
to bark at the heels of any of our present-day philosophers. But I am
willing to wager that most of these same people now so dithyrambic in
their praise of James, Bergson, Eucken and Russell will twenty-five
years hence be ashamed to mention those names, and will be devoting
themselves solely to Post-neofuturism, or whatever else happens to be
the passing fadosophy of the moment.
If this is the most prevalent form of prejudice it is also the most
difficult to get rid of. This requires moral courage. It requires the
rarest kind of moral courage. It requires just as much courage for a
man to state and defend an idea opposed to the one in fashion as it
would for a city man to dress coolly on a sweltering day, or for a
young society woman to attend a smart affair in one of last year’s
gowns. The man who possesses this moral courage is blessed beyond
kings, but he must pay the fearful price of ridicule or contempt.
There is another form of this prejudice of imitation radically opposed
to this. Just as with fashions in clothes there are people who strive
to imitate others, so there are people who devote themselves entirely
to being “different.” Their greatest fear is that they will be taken
for “one of the mob.” They dress themselves as uniquely as possible
in order to acquire “individuality.” We have these same people in
the realm of thought. They are in constant trepidation lest they say
something that everybody else says. They say things not for the sake
of truth but for humor or paradox. Their great delight is to affirm or
defend something “new” regardless of its truth; something deliciously
radical which will shock everybody else and startle even themselves.
The worst part of this is that these people gradually come to regard
their propositions as true, just as a liar finally comes to believe his
own lies.
The only cure for such a mental condition is a constant sincerity in
every opinion we advance. People are often led into the fault by a
motive not incommendable in itself—the desire for originality. But
they choose the wrong path to their goal. If you make originality and
radicalness your aim, you will attain neither truth nor originality.
But if you make truth your aim you will very likely get truth, and
originality will come of itself.
There are hundreds of prejudices, hundreds of forms of prejudice.
There is, for instance, the prejudice of conservatism, which manifests
itself in a vague fear that if the present order were changed in any
particular—if women were given the vote, if socialism were to triumph,
if a new filing system were to be installed at the office—all would be
lost. But I cannot deal adequately with all the forms of bias which
flock to mind.
The distinguishing mark of the great thinkers of the ages was their
comparative freedom from the prejudices of their time and community.
In order to avoid these prejudices one must be constantly and
uncompromisingly sounding his own opinions. Eternal vigilance is the
price of an open mind.
* * * * *
Prejudice is not the only danger which lies in wait for the would-be
thinker. In his very efforts to get rid of prejudice he is liable to
fall into an even greater intellectual sin. This sin is uncertainty.
As uncertainty and doubt are nearly synonymous, the reader will
probably be surprised at this statement because of the praise I have
hitherto accorded to the doubtful attitude. But the doubtful attitude,
necessary and praiseworthy as it is, should not be maintained always.
We think in order to have opinions. We have opinions in order to guide
action; in order to act upon should occasion require. Herbert Spencer,
even after his remarks quoted at the beginning of this chapter, which
imply the need of extreme caution, adds, “. . . In daily life we are
constantly obliged to act out our inferences, trustless as they may
be— . . . in the house, in the office, in the street, there hourly
arise occasions on which we may not hesitate; seeing that if to act is
dangerous, never to act at all is fatal. . . .”
There are other reasons why we cannot afford to keep the doubtful
attitude. If our lives were interminable, if we had limitless time for
thinking, we could afford to remain in doubt indefinitely. But life is
fleeting. So if you have examined facts obtainable on such a question
as psychic phenomena, have kept your mind open for a certain time, and
have decided that communication with the dead is impossible, you are
justified in discontinuing to look for evidence on that question. Every
hour devoted to examining such evidence would be an hour taken away
from thought on some other subject, and the law of diminishing returns
is just as applicable in thinking as in economics.
Another trouble with the attitude of doubt is that when not properly
utilized it hinders rather than aids the acquisition of truth. This is
especially the case when it takes the form of _fear of prejudice_. If
guided by this fear, in our anxiety not to discriminate in favor of one
side of a question we are apt to discriminate in favor of the other.
In an attempt to give an opposing argument due consideration, we are
liable to give it undue consideration. Instead of removing prejudice
with reason we may be trying to balance one prejudice with a counter
prejudice. When a person disagrees with him, a very conscientious
thinker, fearing that he may be prejudiced, and in order to prove
himself broad-minded, will often say regarding an objection, “Well,
there may be something in that.” Now your only excuse for ever saying,
“There may be something in that,” will be as an attitude to assume in
experimenting or observing, or looking up material or arguments to find
whether there actually _is_ anything in it. Then, if you do not find
anything in it you are justified in saying so—and you ought to.
It is useless to stimulate doubt unless you intend, on grounds
of reason, to settle the doubt. _The doubtful attitude should be
maintained only so long as you are actively searching for evidence
bearing on a question._ Maintained at any other time or used in any
other way it means merely uncertainty, indefiniteness, vagueness, and
leads nowhere.
It is important that we be unprejudiced. It is even more important that
our views be definite. And if our definite views are wrong? . . . But
the words of Thomas Huxley on this subject cannot be improved:
“A great lawyer-statesman and philosopher of a former age—I mean
Francis Bacon—said that truth came out of error much more rapidly
than it came out of confusion. There is a wonderful truth in that
saying. Next to being right in this world, the best of all things
is to be clearly and definitely wrong, because you will come out
somewhere. If you go buzzing about between right and wrong, vibrating
and fluctuating, you come out nowhere; but if you are absolutely and
thoroughly and persistently wrong, you must, some of these days, have
the extreme good fortune of knocking your head against a fact, and that
sets you all straight again.”[13]
When you find yourself fluctuating back and forth between two opinions
you might find it helpful to hold an internal debate. State to yourself
as strongly as possible the case for the affirmative, and then put
as convincingly as possible the case for the negative, holding a
refutation if necessary. You may even elaborate this by writing the
arguments for both sides in parallel columns. Of course you should
never use an argument which you can see on its face to be fallacious,
nor a statement which represents merely a prejudice and nothing more.
You should use only such arguments as you think a sincere debater would
conscientiously employ. By thus making your reasons articulate you will
often find that there is really no tenable case at all for one side,
and you will seldom fail to reach a definite conclusion. This method of
arriving at a decision may be voted childish and even artificial, but
nothing is to be despised which can render intellectual help.
One word more on this. There is a type of individual, most often met
with among writers, who fears to make a statement of his thought
definite, because he has a faint suspicion that it may be wrong.
He wishes to allow himself plenty of loopholes to slip out of an
intellectual position in case any one should attack it. Hence he never
says outright, “Such and such is the case.” Instead, his talk or
writing is guarded on all sides by such expressions as “It is probable
that,” “it is possible that,” “the facts _seem_ to indicate that”; or
“such and such is _perhaps_ the case.” Not satisfied with this he makes
his statement less positive by preceding it with an “I believe,” or
worse yet, with an “_I am inclined_ to believe.”
This is often done under the impression that it is something noble,
that it signifies broadmindedness, lack of dogmatism, and modesty.
It may. If it does, so much the worse for broadmindedness, lack of
dogmatism, and modesty. Never yield to the temptation to word your
thoughts in this manner. If you truly and firmly believe that “such
and such is the case” _say_ “such and such is the case”; not “it is
possible that such and such is the case,” or “such and such is perhaps
the case,” or “it is my belief that such and such is the case.” People
will assume that it is your belief and not somebody else’s.
Suppose you have made a positive statement. And suppose you later find
it to be wrong? Well then, acknowledge that it is wrong. Acknowledge
that you have done something human; that you have done something
which every man before you has done; that you have made a mistake. I
realize such a confession is hard. It is the severest blow you can
deal to yourself, and few people will think the better of you for
doing it. Most of them will say, “See, he acknowledges himself that
he was wrong.” And with these people, both you and your theory will
be far more discredited than if you had clung to it until the end of
your life, no matter how obviously, how flagrantly, it opposed itself
to facts. But a few people will appreciate your sacrifice. A few
people will admire your bigness. And you will grow. You will grow as a
thinker. What is more, you will grow morally. And the time will come
when you will have fewer and fewer occasions to reverse yourself, for
you will learn to think longer before you advocate an opinion.
* * * * *
The question of the avoidance of prejudice and the necessity of
breaking off doubt, remains still unsettled. There can be no doubt
that the two desideratums conflict; that to cut off doubt, or even to
refrain from stimulating it, is to encourage by so much the dominance
of prejudice.
The answer to this question will depend entirely upon the particular
problem under consideration. No rules can be laid down. Everything will
depend upon the importance of the question, upon the possibility or
frequency of occasions when we may be called to act upon the answer,
and upon the way in which the answer will affect conduct when we do act
upon it. Where the importance of the question is trifling, it would be
foolish to sound our prejudices too deeply, or to go to any elaborate
pains to collect evidence. Where immediate, unhesitating action is
required, remaining in doubt might be fatal. Any decision would be
better than no decision. When the importance of the question is vital,
or when the possibility of having to act on the answer is distant,
we can afford to preserve our doubts, to suspend final judgment, for
years—perhaps during our entire life; and we should spare no pains to
investigate fully all that relates to the question.
Just how much trouble to take, how long to keep alive the attitude
of doubt in any particular question, will have to be decided by the
individual. His own judgment must be the sole criterion.
VI
DEBATE AND CONVERSATION
The mind engages in many activities which have power either for evil or
good. Just what influence they will exert depends on how we use them.
One of the most important of these activities is debate.
Debate brings in that unequaled form of incentive for all action which
psychologists call “social pressure” and which here means nothing more
than the desire to excel a fellow-being in some line of endeavor. When
debating we concentrate, and we do so without conscious effort. We are
too interested in defeating our opponent to wander from the subject.
We are forced to think rapidly. Not least of all, we are compelled to
think articulately.
But with all its advantages, debate is one of the most potent sources
of prejudice. In the heat of controversy, we adopt any and every
argument that comes handy. Every statement of our opponent is
considered only in the light of how it can be refuted. We are willing
to use almost any objection against him, so long as we believe he will
see no flaw in it. It is of utmost importance that we find how to avoid
these pitfalls.
The first thing we must do is to adopt a complete change of attitude
toward an opponent’s arguments. Whenever we meet with a fact which
we would not like to cite in a debate; because, to put it mildly, it
would not help our side; we should carefully investigate that fact.
We should consider whether if true it changes the aspect of things.
We should get rid of the idea that in order to vindicate our side we
must answer every contention our opponent advances. For this opponent
of ours will very likely be a man in full possession of his senses; at
least some of his arguments will be rational. When they are, we should
be willing to acknowledge it. Their truth does not necessarily make his
side right. His arguments may be irrelevant; they may be outbalanced by
some other reason or reasons. Attempts to prove too much are liable to
put us into the position of the lawyer whose client is alleged to have
been sued for putting a hole in a borrowed umbrella. The lawyer proved
first, that his client did not borrow the umbrella; second, that there
was a hole in it when he got it; third, that there was nothing the
matter with it when he returned it.
After you have had a friendly argument with an acquaintance, you
take leave either with the satisfaction that you have bested him, or
with a vague consciousness that though you were right, he was just a
trifle more skillful at bringing forward arguments. But having this
satisfaction or dissatisfaction, you seldom think any more of the
matter until the next time you meet him. Now this practice is helpful
neither to your debating nor your thinking. After you have taken
leave of your acquaintance, and are left to the quietude of your own
thoughts, you should mentally run over your controversy. You should
dispassionately consider the bearing and weight of his arguments; and
then, reviewing your own, ask yourself which were valid and relevant
and which were not. If you find you have used a sophism you should
resolve never to use it again, even though your opponent may have
been unable to answer it. The question of morals aside, this is poor
practice if you ever hope to become a thinker. In the end, it will tell
against you even as a debater.
You can use your debates for constructive material as well as for
criticism. After a controversy you can go over the arguments of your
opponent which you could not refute, or refuted but lamely, and think
of the answers you might have given. Of course you should take care
that these answers are not sophistical. The question will very likely
come up again; if not with the same friend, then with another, and when
it does you will find yourself prepared.
But the best debater, or at least he who gets the most from debating,
is the man who looks for evidence and thinks not for debate, but to
obtain a correct conclusion. After he has reached a conclusion in
this manner, he does not advance every possible reason to support it.
He does not even utilize the reasons on which others base a similar
belief, if he does not himself accept these reasons. He states merely
that evidence and those reasons which have led him to accept his
conclusion, nothing more.
While we are considering debate, I may well say a few words about
conversation in general. We do not and cannot always argue with our
friends, even though we scorn the dictums of formal etiquette. But
because we do not argue, it does not follow that we gain nothing. In
fact, ordinary conversation has advantages numerous over debate, not
the least of which is the comparative freedom it gives from prejudice.
But the value of conversation depends both on what we talk about,
and whom we talk with. Too much of our talk is on petty matters, is
uneducative. And even if we converse on worthy topics, it will profit
us little if we do not talk with worthy people. When we commune with a
dull mind, our thoughts are forced, in some degree, down to the level
of that mind. But dull people do not usually talk of weighty matters,
nor do active intellects dwell long on trifles. Therefore if we
rightly choose our companion we can conscientiously leave our path of
conversation to choose itself.
One aspect of conversation remains to be treated—its corrective
power. “There is a sort of mental exposure in talking to a companion;
we drag our thoughts out of their hiding-places, naked as it were,
and occasionally we are not a little startled at the exhibition.
Unexpressed ideas are often carefully cherished until, placed before
other eyes as well as our own, we see them as they really are.”[14]
VII
THINKING AND READING
Up to now I have dealt with thinking almost as if it could be carried
on without external aid. As with cautionary and constructive thought, I
have perhaps been led to do this because of a reaction from the usual
insistence upon reading as indispensable to mental improvement, and the
corresponding neglect of the need for independent thinking. Men thought
before there were books, and men can still think without reading, but
they cannot. . . . I was about to remark that they could not read
without thinking, but on second thought I am inclined to doubt it.
However, we have clung to the natural order, for we first considered
unaided thinking, then the help given by conversation and dispute, and
finally we are to examine the aid rendered by reading. There can be no
doubt that this order follows the development of thought both in the
individual and in the human race.
While no complaint can be made of lack of quantity in what has been
written on reading, most of it has not taken up the subject from the
proper standpoint; still less has dealt with it in the right manner.
There has been counsel galore urging people to read; and recently there
has been a great deal of advice on what to read. But comparatively very
little has been said on _how_ to read. At one time reading was regarded
an untainted virtue, later it was seen that it did us no good unless we
read good books, and now there is a dawning consciousness that even if
we read good books they will benefit us little unless we read them in
the right way.
But even where this consciousness has been felt, little attempt has
been made to solve the problem systematically. Leisurely discourses,
pretty aphorisms, and dogmatic rules have been the forms in which the
question has been dealt with. Such conflicting adages as “A good book
should be read over and over again”; and “The art of reading is the art
of skipping,” are not very serviceable. The necessity of some sort of
orderly treatment is evident.