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Crwillve evoJuHon, by
3 6105 046 747 742
1 !
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
CREATIVE
EVOLUTION
BT
HENRI BERGSON
If EMBBB OF THB IN8TITUTV
PB0rB880B AT THB COLLBGE DE FBAKOB
AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BT
ARTHUR MrrCHELL, Ph.D.
^:^m:^
^:^rz'^^
\ * * *■ * • * »••* «,•*.•. •■•*•*-, * * * »
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1918
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ComioBT» 1911,
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HENRY HOLT AND COMPANT
220510
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CAMBIOT nmMt S&-M OAK 8TKBBT, NBW Y08K
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE
I In the writing of this English translation of Professor
Ber^on's most important work, I was helped by the friendly
interest of Professor William James, to whom I owe the
Iilliunination of much that was dark to me as well as the
happy rendering of certain words and phrases for which
an English equivalent was difficult to find. His sym-
pathetic appreciation of Professor Bergson's thought ia
well known, and he has expressed his admiration for it
in one of the chapters of A Pluralistic Universe. It was
his intention, had he lived to see the completion of this
translation, himself to introduce it to English readers
f in a prefatory note.
I wish to thank my friend, Dr. George Clarke Cox, for
[ many valuable suggestions.
I have endeavored to follow the text as closely as
possible, and at the same time to preserve the living union
of diction and thought. Professor Bergson has himself
carefully revised the whole work. We both of ns wish
I to acknowledge the great assistance of Miss Millicent Murby.
I She has kindly studied the translation phrase by phrase,
weighing each word, and her revision has resulted in many
improvements.
But above all we must express our acknowledgment
I to Mr. H. Wildon Cair, the Honorary Secretary of the
vi CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Aristotelian Society of London^ and the writer of several
studies of "Evolution Creatrice."* We asked him to be
kind enough to revise the proofs of our work. He has
done much more than revise them: they have come from
his hands with his personal mark in many places. We
cannot express all that the present work owes to him.
ARTHUR MITCHELL
HlBTABD UnITBBBITT
> ProcmdvngM of the AritUMian Society, VOI0. ix. and x., and Hibberi
Journal for July, 1910.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
The Evoldtidn of Ld-e— Mechahibu a
Of duntioD in general — Unorganized bodiea and abstract time
— Orgaoizod bodiea and real duration — ^Individuality and
the process of growing old ......
Of tranBrormism and the different ways of interpreting it^— Radi-
cal mechanism and real duration: the relation of biology to
physics and chemistry — Radical fmalism and real dut
the reUtioD of biology to philosophy
The quest of a criterion — Examination of the various theortc
with r^ard to a particular example— Darwin and ii
variation^De Vriea and audden varjation — Eimer and or-
thogeneaia — Neo-Lamarckiam and the hereditability of
acquired charactera .......
RMult of the inquiry — The vital impettie ....
General idea ot the evolutionary proceaa— Growth— Divergent
and complementary tendenciea — The meaning of progresa
and of adaptation .......
The relation of the animal to the plant— General tendency of
animal life — The development of animal life .
The main directions of the evoluljoa of hfe: torpor, intelligence.
The nature of the intellect .......
The nature of instinct .......
lite and oonscioufnesa — The apparent place of man in nature
CREATIYE EVOLUTION
CHAPTER III
1
Relation of the problem o( life to the problem of knowledge —
The method of philosophy— Apparent vicious circle of the
method proposed — Real vicious circle of the opposite
method 186
Simultaneous geoeeds of matter and intelligence — Geometry ^^^|
inherent in matter-— Geometrical tendency of the intellect ^^^|
— Geometry and deduction — Geometry and induction — ^^^|
Physical kws ...... ^^^^1
Sketch of a theory of knowledge baaed on the BnalysiB of the ^^^|
idea of Disorder — Two opposed forms of order: the prob- ^^^|
lem of genera and the problem of laws — The idea of "dis- ^^^^
order" an oscillation of tbe intellect between the two kinds
of order 220
Creation and evolution — Ideal genesia of matter — The origin
and function of life — The essential and the accidental in the
vital process and in the evolutionary movement — Man-
kind— Tbe Ute of the body and the life of the spirit . . 236
CHAPTER IV
Thi Cinematcorapbical IiIechanisu of Thouobt and thb
Mechanistic Iu.vaio.v — A Glance at thb HtsroBr or
Sr STEMS— Real BEcouitfa anu Faiab Evoi-moNiBM
Sketch of a criticism of philosophical systems, based on the
analysis of the idea of Immutability and of the idea of
"Nothing" — Relation of metaphysical problems to the idea
of ' ' Nothing"— Real meaning of this idea
Form and Becoming .......
The phikisophy of Forms and its conception of Becoming-
Plato and Aristotle — The yiatural trend of the intellect
Becoming in modem science: two views of Time.
The metaphysical interpretation of modern science: Descartes,
Spinoza, Leibniz .......
The Criticism of Kant ......
The evolutionism of Spencer
I
INTRODUCTION
The metaphysical interpretation of modern science: Descartes,
Spinoza, Leibniz .......
The Criticism of Kant ......
The evolutionism of Spencer
I
INTRODUCTION
Se history of the evolution of life, incomplete as it yet
' is, already reveals to us how the intellect has been formed,
by an uninterrupted progress, along a line which ascends
through the vertebrate series up to man. It shows ua
in the faculty of understanding an appendage of the faculty
of acting, a more and more precise, more and more complex
and supple adaptation of the consciousness of living be-
ings to the conditions of existence that are made for them.
Hence should result this consequence that our intellect,
in the narrow sense of the word, is intended to secure the
perfect fitting of our body to its environment, to represent
the relations of external things among themselves — in
short, to think matter. Such will indeed be one of the
conclusions of the present essay. We shall see that the
human intellect feels at home among inanimate objects,
more especially among solids, where our action finds ita
fulcrum and our industry its tools; that our concepts
have been formed on the model of sohds; that our logic
is, pre-eminently, the logic of solids; that, consequently,
our intellect triumphs in geometry, wherein is revealed
. the Idnship of logical thought with unorganized matter,
1 where the intellect has only to follow its natural move-
ment, after the lightest possible contact with experience
I order to go from discovery to discovery, sure that ex-
rience is following behind it and will ju.stify it invariably.
But from this it must also follow that our thought,
I its purely logical form, is incapable of presenting the
ne nature of life, the full meauiag of the evolutionary
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
But from this it must also follow that our thought,
I its purely logical form, is incapable of presenting the
ne nature of life, the full meauiag of the evolutionary
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
movement. Created by life, in definite circumstances,
to act on definite things, how can it embrace life, of which
it is only an emanation or an aspect? Deposited by the
evolutionary movement in the course of its way, how can
it be applied to the evolutionary movement itself? As
well contend that the part is equal to the whole, that the
effect can reabsorb its cause, or that the pebble left on the
beach displays the form of the wave that brought it there.
In fact, we do indeed feel that not one of the categories of
our thought — unity, multiplicity, mechanical causality,
intelligent finality, etc. — applies exactly to the things of
life: who can say where individuality begins and ends,
whether the living being is one or many, whether it is
the cells which associate themselves into the organism
or the organism which dissociates itself into cells? In
vain we force the living into this or that one of our molds.
All the molds crack. They are too narrow, above all too
rigid, for what we try to put into them. Our reasoning,
so sure of itself among things inert, feels ill at ease on this
new ground. It would be difficult to cite a biological
discovery due to pure reasoning. And most often, when
experience has finally shown us how life goes to work to
obtain a certain result, we find its way of working is juat
that of which we should never have thought.
Yet evolutionist philosophy does not hesitate to extend
to the things of life the same methods of explanation which
have succeeded in the case of unorganized matter. It
begins by showing us in the intellect a local effect of evo-
lution, a flame, perhaps accidental, which lights up the
coming and going of living beings in the narrow passage
open to their action; and lo! forgetting what it has just
told us, it makes of this lantern glimmering in a tunnel a
Sun which can illuminate the world. Boldly it proceeds,
with the powers of conceptual thought alone, to the ideal
^
INTRODUCTION
forgetting what it has just
told us, it makes of this lantern glimmering in a tunnel a
Sun which can illuminate the world. Boldly it proceeds,
with the powers of conceptual thought alone, to the ideal
^
INTRODUCTION
^Beeonstniction of all things, even of life. True, it hurtles
^ in its course against such formidable difficulties, it sees
its logic end in such strange contradictions, that it very
speedily renounces its first ambition. "It is no longer
reality itself," it says, "that it will reconstruct, but only
an imitation of the real, or rather a symbolical image; the
essence of things escapes us, and will escape us always;
we move among relations; the absolute is not in our prov-
ince; we are brought to a stand before the Unknowable." —
But for the human intellect, after too much pride, this la
really an excess of humihty. If the intellectual form of
the living being has been gradually modeled on the recip-
rocal actions and reactions of certain bodies and their
I toatcrial environment, how should it not reveal to us some-
I thing of the very essence of which these bodies are made?
ition cannot move in the unreal. A mind bom to specu-
? or to dream, I admit, might remain outside reality,
night deform or transform the real, perhaps even create
it — as we create the figures of men and animals that our
imagination cuts out of the passing cloud. But an in-
tellect bent upon the act to be performed and the reaction
to follow, feeling its object so as to get its mobile impression
at every instant, is an intellect that touches something "
of the absolute. Would the idea ever have occurred to
■OB to doubt this absolute value of our knowledge if philoso-
phy had not shown us what contradictions our speculation
meets, what dead-locks it ends in? But these difhculties
and contradictions all arise from trying to apply the usual
forms of our thought to objects with which our industry
has nothing to do, and for which, therefore, our molds
are not made. Intellectual knowledge, in so far as it
relates to a certain aspect of inert matter, ought, on the
contrary, to give us a faithful imprint of it, having been
stereotyped on this particular object. It becomes relativti
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
only if it claims, such as it is, to present to us life — that is
to say, the maker of the stereotype-plate.
It becomes relativti
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
only if it claims, such as it is, to present to us life — that is
to say, the maker of the stereotype-plate.
Must we then give up fathoming the depths of life?
Must we keep to that mechanistic idea of it which the
understanding will always give us— an idea necessarily
artificial and symbohcal, since it makes the total activity
of life shrink to the form of a certain human activity which
is only a partial and local manifestation of life, a result
or by-product of the vital process? We should have to do
so, indeed, if life had employed all the psychical potential-
ities it possesses in producing pure understandings — that
is to say, in making geometricians. But the line of evo-
lution that ends in man is not the only one. On other
paths, divergent from it, other forms of consciousness have
been developed, which have not been able to free themselvefl
from external constraint;? or to regain control over them-
selves, as the human intellect has done, but which, none
the less, also express something that is immanent and
essential in the evolutionary movement, Suppose these
other forms of consciousness brought together and amalga-
mated with intellect: would not the result be a conscious-
ness as wide as life? And such a consciousness, turning
around suddenly against the push of life which it feela
behind, would have a vision of life complete — would it
not? — even though the vision were fleeting.
It will be said that, even so, we do not transcend our
intellect, for it is still with our intellect, and through our
intellect, that we see the other forms of consciousness.
And this would be right if we were pure intellects, if there
did not remain, around our conceptual and logical thought,
a vague nebulosity, made of the very substance out of
which has been formed the luminous nucleus that we call
the intellect. Therein reside certain powers that are
d
INTRODUCTION
P complementary to the understanding, powers of which
we have only an indistinct feeling when we remain shut up
in ourselves, but which will become clear and distinct
when they perceive themselves at work, so to speak, in the
evolution of nature. They will thus leam what sort of
effort they must make to be intensified and expanded in
the very direction of life.
They will thus leam what sort of
effort they must make to be intensified and expanded in
the very direction of life.
H TbJB amounts to saying that jj^tfary^o^ knowledge and
' theory of life seem to us inseparable. A theory of life that
13 not accompanied by a criticism of knowledge is obliged
to accept, as they stand, the concepts which the under-
standing puts at its disposal: it can but enclose the facts,
willing or not, in pre-existing frames which it regards as
ultimate. It thus obtains a symbolism which is convenient,
perhaps even necessary to positive science, but not a direct
vision of its object. On the other hand, a theoiy of knowl-
edge which does not replace the intellect in the general
evolution of life will teach us neither how the frames of
knowledge have been constructed nor how we can enlarge
or go beyond them. It is necessary that these two in-
quiries, theory of knowledge and theory of life, should
join each other, and, by a circular process, push each other
on unceasingly.
Together, they may solve by a method more sure, brought
nearer to experience, the great problems that philosophy
poses. For, if they should succeed in their common en-
terprise, they would show us the formation of the intellect,
and thereby the genesis of that matter of which our in-
tellect traces the general configuration. They would
dig to the very root of nature and of mind. They would
substitute for the false evolutionism of Spencer — which
consists in cutting up present reality, already evolved,
into little bits no leas evolved, and then recompoeing it
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
with these fragments, thu3 positing in advance everything
that is to be explained — a true evolutionism, in which
reality would be followed in its generation and its growth.
But a philosophy of this kind will not be made in a
day. Unlike the philosophical systems properly so called,
each of which was the individual work of a man of genius
and sprang up as a whole, to be taken or left, it will only
be built up by the collective and progressive effort of many
thinkers, of many observers also, completing, correcting
and improving one another. So the present essay does not
aim at resolving at once the greatest problems. It simply
desires to define the method and to permit a glimpse, on
some essential points, of the possibility of its application.
Its plan is traced by the subject itself. In the first
chapter, we try on the evolutionary progress the two
ready-made gannents that our understanding puts at our
disposal, mechanism and finality;' we show that they do
not fit, neither the one nor the other, but that one of them
might be recut and resewn, and in this new form fit less
badly than the other. In order to transcend the point
of view 01 ihe understaDding, we try, in our second chapter,
to reconstruct the main lines of evolution along which life
In order to transcend the point
of view 01 ihe understaDding, we try, in our second chapter,
to reconstruct the main lines of evolution along which life
' Tbe idect of regarding life as transcending teleology as well aa
mechanism is far from being a new idea. Notably in three artictea by
Ch. Donan on "Le problime de la vie" (Remte phUotophiqTtt, 1892) it
is profoundly treated. In the development of this idea, we agree with
Ch. Dunan on troro than one point. But the views we are prebenting
OD this matter, as on the questions attaching (o it, are those that we
ezpreaaed long ago in our Eeiai mr les donrUes imnUdialei de la eon-
acienee (Paris, 1889). One of the principal objects of that essay was,
in fact, ta show that the psychical life ie neither unity nor multiplicity,
Uiat it transcends both the mtchanital and the inUlUrliuit, mechanism
and finaLBmhavingmeaniagonly where there is"diBtinct multiplicity,"
"spatiftlity," and consequently assemblage of pre-ejasting parta:
"real duration" signifies both undivided continuity and creation. In
the present work we apply these same ideaa to life in general, regarded,
mofBo^-er, itself from the psychological point o£ view.
i
INTRODUCTION xv
has traveled by the side of that which has led to the human
inteUect. The intellect is thus brought back to its generat-
ing cause, which we then have to grasp in itself and follow
in its movement. It is an effort of this kind that we at-
tempt — ^incompletely indeed — in our third chapter. A
fourth and last part is meant to show how our understand-
ing itself, by submitting to a certain discipline, might
prepare a philosophy which transcends it. For that,
a glance over the history of systems became necessary,
together with an analsrsis of the two great illusions to which,
as soon as it speculates on reality in general, the human
understanding is exposed.
I
THE BVOWJTION OP LIFE — MECHANISM AND TBLEOLOOX"'.
The existetice of which we are most assured and which '
we know best is unquestionably our own, for of every
other object we have notions which may be considered
external and superficial, whereas, of ourselves, our per-
ception is internal and profound. What, then, do we
find? In this privileged case, what is the precise mean-
ing of the word "exist"? Let ua recall here briefly the
conclusions of an earlier work.
I find, first of all, that I pass from state to state. I
am warm or cold, I am merry or sad, I work or I do noth-
ing, I look at what is around me or I think of something
else. Sensations, feelings, volitions, ideas— such are the
changes into which my existence is divided and which
color it in turns. I change, then, without ceasing. But
this is not saying enough. Change is far more radical
than we are at first inclined to suppose.
For I speak of each of my states as if it formed a block
I and were a separate whole. I say indeed that I change,
I but the change seems to me to reside in the passage from
But
this is not saying enough. Change is far more radical
than we are at first inclined to suppose.
For I speak of each of my states as if it formed a block
I and were a separate whole. I say indeed that I change,
I but the change seems to me to reside in the passage from
lone state to the next; of each state, taken separately,
' I am apt to think that it remains the same during all the
time that it prevails. Nevertheless, a slight effort of
attention would reveal to me that there is no feeling, no
idea, no volition which is not undergoing change every
moment: if a mental state ceased to vary, its duratloQ
...CREATIVE EVOLUTION
would cease- .^ flow. Let us take the most stable of in-
ternal states; -the visual perception of a motionless external
object... '-Xhe object may remain the same, I may look at
it froqr\^e same side, at the same angle, in the same light;
nev^rtlieless the vision I now have of it differs from that
which I have just had, even if only because the one is an
.-.'^nfitant older than the other. My memory is there, which
.■■«5nveys something of the past into the present. My men-
'. tal state, as it advances on the road of time, is continually
swelling with the duration which it accumulates: it goes
on increasing — rolling upon itself, as a snowball on the
snow. Still more is this the case with states more deeply
internal, such as sensations, feelings, desires, etc., which
do not correspond, like a simple visual perception, to an
unvarying external object. But it is expedient to dis-
regard this uninterrupted change, and to notice it only
when it becomes sufficient to impress a new attitude on
the body, a new direction on the attention. Then, and
then only, we find that our state has changed. The
truth is that we change without ceasing, and that the
state itself is nothing but change.
This amounts to saying that there is no essential dilTer-
ence between passing from one state to another and per-
sisting in the same state. If the state which "remains
the same" is more varied than we think, on the other hand
the passing from one state to another resembles, more than
we imagine, a single state being prolonged; the transition
is continuous. But, just because we close our eyes to
the unceasing variation of every psychical state, we are
obliged, when the change has become so considerable
ae to force itself on our attention, to speak as if a new state
were placed alongside the previous one. Of this new state
we assume that it remains unvarj-ing in its turn, and so
on endlessly. The apparent discontinuity of the psychical
fl
u
DURATION
3 then due to our attention being fixed on it by a
I of separate acts: actually there is only a gentle
; but in following the broken line of our acts of at-
' tention, we think we perceive separate steps. True,
our psychic life is full of the unforeseen, A thousand
True,
our psychic life is full of the unforeseen, A thousand
incidents arise, which seem to hs cut off from those which
precede them, and to be disconnected from those which
Lfollow. Discontinuous though they appear, however,
I in point of fact they stand out against the continuity of a
' background on wiiich they are designed, and to which
indeed they owe the intervals that separate them; they
are the beats of the drum which break forth here and there
in the symphony. Our attention fixes on them because
they interest it more, but each of them is borne by the
fluid mass of our whole psychical existence. Each is only
(the best illuminated point of a moving zone wliich com-
prises all that we feel or think or will — all, in short, that
we are at any given moment. It is this entire zone which
in reality makes up our state. Now, states thus defined
cannot be regarded as distinct elements. They continue
each other in an endless flow.
But, as our attention has distinguished and separated
them artificially, it is obliged next to reunite them by
(an artificial bond. It imagines, therefore, a formless
lego, indifferent and unchangeable, on which it threads
the psychic states which it has set up as independent
entities. Instead of a flux of fleeting shades merging
into each other, it perceives distinct and, so to speak,
golid colors, set side by side like the beads of a necklace;
it must perforce then suppose a thread, also itself soUd,
to hold the beads together. But if this colorless sub-
stratum ia perpetually colored by that which covers it,
it is for us, in its indeterminateness, as if it did not exist,
Bince we only perceive what is colored, or, in other worde,
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
psychic states. As a matter of fact, this substratuin has
no reality; it is merely a symbol intended to recall un-
ceasingly to our consciousness the artificial character of
the process by which the attention places clean-cut states
side by side, where actually there is a continuity which
unfolds. If our existencs were composed of separate
states with an impassive ego to unite them, for ua there
would be no duration. For an ego which does not change
does not endure, and a psychic state which remajns the
same so long as it is not replaced by the following state
does not endure either. Vain, therefore, is the attempt
to range such states beside each other on the ego supposed
to sustain them: never can these solids strung upon a solid
make up that duration which flows. What we actually
obtain in this way is an artificial imitation of the internal
life, a static equivalent which will lend itself better to the
requirements of logic and language, just because we have
eliminated from it the element of real time. But, as regards
the psychical life unfolding beneath the symbols which
conceal it, we readily perceive that time is just the stuflE
it is made of.
But, as regards
the psychical life unfolding beneath the symbols which
conceal it, we readily perceive that time is just the stuflE
it is made of.
There is, moreover, no stuff more resistant nor more
substantial. For our duration is not merely one instant
replacing another; if it were, there would never be any-
thing but the present — no prolonging of the past into the
actual, no evolution, no concrete duration. Duration
is the continuous progress of the past which gnaws into
the future and which swells as it advances. And as the
past grows without ceasing, so also there is no limit to
its preservation. Memory, as we have tried to prove,'
is not a faculty of putting away recollections in a drawer,
or of inscribing them in a register. There is no register,
DO drawer; there is not even, properly speaking, a faculty,
iMatHre a mtmdTe, Paris, 1896, chap*, ii
J
DURATION 5
pfor a faculty works intermittently, when it will or when it
can, whilst the piling up of the past upon the past goes on
without relaxation. In reality, the past is preserved by
itself, automatically. In its entirety, probably, it follows
Ma at every instant; all that we have felt, thought and
willed from our earliest infancy is there, leaning over the ,
present which is about to join it, pressing against the portals |
of consciousness that would fain leave it outside. The
cerebral mechanism is arranged just so as to drive back into
the unconscious almost the whole of this past, and to admit
beyond the threshold only that which can cast light on
the present situation or further the action now being pre-
pared — in short, only that which can give useful work.
At the most, a few superfluous recollections may succeed
in smuggling themselves through the half-open door.
(^lese memories, messengers from the unconscious, remind
VB of what we are dragging behind us unawares. But,
even though we may have no distinct idea of it, we feel
vaguely that our past remains present to us. ^\^lat are i
we, in fact, what is our ckarader, if not the condensation
of the history that we have lived from our birth — nay, !
even before our birth, since we bring with us prenatal |
disp>ositions? Doubtless we think with only a small
part of our past, but it is with our entire past, including
the original bent of our soul, that we desire, will and act.
Our past, then, as a whole, is made manifest to us in its
impulse; it is felt in the form of tendency, although a
small part of it only is known in the form of idea.
From this survival of the past it follows that conscious- I
ness cannot go through the same state twice. The cir-
cumstances may still be the same, but they will act no
longer on the same person, since they 5nd hlra at a new j
moment of hia history. Our personality, which is being
built up each instant with its accumulated experience,
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lOBAP.
The cir-
cumstances may still be the same, but they will act no
longer on the same person, since they 5nd hlra at a new j
moment of hia history. Our personality, which is being
built up each instant with its accumulated experience,
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lOBAP.
, changes without ceasing. By changing, it prevents any
1 state, although superficially identical with another, from
ever repeating it in its very depth. That is why our
duration is irreversible. We could not live over again
a single moment, for we should have to begin by effacing
the raeniory of all that had followed. Even could we erase
this memory from our intellect, we could not from our will.
Thus our personality shoots, grows and ripens with-
out ceasing. Each of its moments is something new added
to what was before. We may go further: it is not only
something new, but something unforeseeable. Doubt-
less, my present state is explained by what was in me and
by what was acting on me a moment ago. In analyzing
it I should find no other elements. But even a superhuman
intelligence would not have been able to foresee the simple
indivisible form which gives to these purely abstract
elements their concrete organization. For to foresee con-
sists of projecting into the future what has been perceived
in the past, or of imagining for a later time a new group-
ing, in a new order, of elements already perceived. But
that which has never been perceived, and which is at the
same time simple, is necessarily unforeseeable. Now such
is the case with each of our states, regarded as a moment
in a history that is gradually unfolding: it is simple, and
it cannot have been already perceived, since it concen-
trates in its indivisibility all that has been perceived and
what the present is adding to it besides. It is an original
moment of a no less original history.
The finished portrait is explained by the features of
the model, by the nature of the artist, by the colors spread
out on the palette; but, even with the knowledge of what
explains it, no one, not even the artist, could have fore-
seen exactly what the portrait would be, for to predict
it would have been to produce it before it was produced —
U
DURATION
W
B^ftD absurd hypotbesb which is its own refutation. Even
50 with regard to the moments of our life, of which we are
the artisans. Each of them is a kind of creation. And
just as the talent of the painter is formed or defonned —
I in any case, is modified — under the very influence of the
R works he produces, so each of our states, at the moment
" of its issue, modifies our personality, being indeed the new
form that we are just assuming. It is then right to say
that what we do depends on what we are ; but it is necessary
It is then right to say
that what we do depends on what we are ; but it is necessary
»to add also that we are, to a certain extent, what we do,
and that we are creating ourselves continually. This
creation of self by self is the more complete, the more one
reasons on what one does. For reason does not proceed
in such matters as in geometry, where impersonal premisses | -(
are given once for all, and an impersonal conclusion must
perforce be drawn. Here, on the contrary, the same
reasons may dictate to different persons, or to the same
person at different moments, acts profoundly different,
although equally reasonable. The truth is that they
are not quite the same reasons, since they are not those
of the same person, nor of the same moment. That is
Lvhy we cannot deal with them in the abstract, from out-
ride, as in geometry, nor solve for another the problems
r which he is faced in life. Each must solve them from
rithin, on his own account. But we need not go mora
deeply into this. We are seeking only the precise meamng
"that our consciousness gives to this word "exist," and we
find that, for a conscious being, to exist is to change, to
change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself
^endlessly. Should the same be said of existence in general?
A material object, of whatever kind, presents opposite
iharactere to those which we have just been describing.
Sither it remains as it is, or else, if it changes under the
8
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
influence of an external force, our idea of this change is
that of a displacement of parts which themselves do not
change. If these parts took to changing, we should split
them up in their turn. We should thus descend to the
molecules of which the fragments are made, to the atoms
that make up the molecules, to the corpuscles that generate
the atoms, to the "imponderable" within which the
corpuscle is perhaps a mere vortcv. In short, we should
push the division or analysis as far as necessary. But we
should stop only before the unchangeable.
Now, we say that a composite object changes by the
displacement of its parts. But when a part has left its
position, there is nothing to prevent its return to it. A
group of elements which has gone through a state can
therefore always find its way back to that state, if not by
itself, at least by means of an external cause able to restore
everything to its place. This amounts to saying that any
state of the group may be repeated as often as desired,
I and consequently that the group does not grow old. It
has no history.
This amounts to saying that any
state of the group may be repeated as often as desired,
I and consequently that the group does not grow old. It
has no history.
Thus nothing is created therein, neither form nor matter.
What the group will be is already present in what it is,
provided "what it is" includes all the points of the iini-
verse with which it is related. A superhuman intellect
could calculate, for any moment of time, the position of
any point of the systcn:i in space. And as there is nothing
more in the form of the whole than the arrangement of
its parts, the future forms of the system are theoretically
visible in its present configuration.
All our belief in objects, all our operations on the systems
that science isolates, rest in fact on the idea that time does
not bite into them. We have touched on this question
in an earlier work, and shall return to it in the course of
the present study. For the moment, we will confine our-
d
UNORGANIZED BODIES
r
Hflelves to pointing out that the abstract time t attributed
*" by science to a material object or to an isolated system
consists only in a certain number of simultaneities or more
generally of correspondences, and that this number re-
mains the same, whatever be the nature of the intervals
between the correspondences. With these intervals we
are never concerned when dealing with inert matter; or,
I if they are considered, it is in order to count therein fresh
oorrespondences, between which again we shall not care
nrhai happens. Common sense, which ia occupied with
detached objects, and also science, which considers isolated
systems, are concerned only with the ends of the intervals
and not with the intervals themselves. Therefore the flow
of time might assume an infinite rapidity, the entire past,
present, and future of material objects or of isolated
i^stems might be spread out all at once in space, without
there being anything to change either in the formulae
of the scientist or even in the language of common sense.
The number ( would always stand for the same thing; it
would still count the same number of correspondences
between the states of the objects or systems and the points
of the line, ready drawn, which would be then the "course
of time. "
Yet succession Is an undeniable fact, even in the material
world. Though our reasoning on isolated systems may
imply that their "history, past, present, and future, might
be instantaneously unfurled hke a fan, this history, in
point of fact, unfolds itself grsidually, as if it occupied
a duration hke our own. If I want to mix a glass of sugar
and water, I must, witly nilly, wait until the sugar melts.
This little fact is big with meaning. For here the time I
have to wait is not that mathematical time wliich would
«pply equally well to the entire history of the material
'orld, even' if that liistory were spread out instantaneously
10
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(QHAF.
This little fact is big with meaning. For here the time I
have to wait is not that mathematical time wliich would
«pply equally well to the entire history of the material
'orld, even' if that liistory were spread out instantaneously
10
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(QHAF.
in space. It coincides with my impatience, that is to say,
with a certain portion of my own duration, which I cannot
protract or contract as I like. It is no longer something
thought, it is something lived. It Is no longer a relation,
it is an absolute. What else can this mean than that the
glass of water, the sugar, and the process of the sugar'3
melting in the water are abstractions, and that the Whole
within which they have been cut out by my senses and un-
derstanding progre^es, it may be in the manner of a
consciousness?
Certainly, the operation by which science isolates and
closes a system is not altogether artificial. If it had no
objective foundation, we could not explain why it is clearly
indicated in some cases and impossible in others. We
shall see that matter has a tendency to constitute isdable
systems, that can be treated geometrically. In fact, we
shall define matter by just this tendency But it is only
a tendency. Matter does not go to the end, and the
isolation is never complete. If science does go to the
end and isolate completely, it is for convenience of study;
it is understood that the so-called isolated system remains
subject to certain external influences. Science merely
leaves these alone, either because it finds them sli^t
enough to be negligible, or t>ecauae it intends to take them
into account later on. It is none the less true that these
influences are so many threads which bind up the system
to another more extensive, and to this a third which in-
cludes both, and so on to the system most objectively
isolated and most independent of all, the solar system com-
plete. But, even here, the isolation is not absolute. Our
sun radiates heat and light beyond the farthest planet.
And, on the other hand, it moves in a certain fixed direction,
drawing with it the planets and their satellites. The
thread attaching it to the rest of the universe is doubtless
J
UNORGANIZED BODIES
11
r
^Hvery tenuous. Nevertheless it is along this thread that
is transmitted down to the sniallest particle of the world
in which we live the duration immanent to the whole
of the universe.
The
thread attaching it to the rest of the universe is doubtless
J
UNORGANIZED BODIES
11
r
^Hvery tenuous. Nevertheless it is along this thread that
is transmitted down to the sniallest particle of the world
in which we live the duration immanent to the whole
of the universe.
The universe endures. The more we study the nature
of time, the more we shall comprehend that duration means
invention, the creation of forms, the continual elaboration
of the absolutely new. The systems marked off by scieoce
endure only because they are bound up inseparably with
the rest of the universe. It is true that in the universe
itself two opposite movements are to be disttDguisbed,
as we shall see later on, "descent" and "ascent." The
first only unwinds a roll ready prepared. In principle,
it might be accomplished almost instantaneously, like
releasing a spring. But the ascending movement, which
corresponds to an inner work of ripening or creating,
endures essentially, and imposes its rhythm on the first,
which is inseparable from it.
There is no reason, therefore, why a duration, and so a
fonn of existence like our own, should not be attributed
to the systems that science isolates, provided such sys-
tems are reintegrated into the Whole. But they must
be 80 reintegrated. The same is even more obviously
_ true of the objects cut out by our perception. The dis-
^■tinct outlines which we see in an object, and which ^ve
Bit its individuality, are only the design of a certain kind
of injluence that we might exert on a certain point of space:
it is the plan of our eventual actions that is sent back to
our eyes, as though by a mirror, when we see the surfaces
and edges of things. Suppress this action, and with it
consequently those main directions which by perception
are traced out for it in the entanglement of the real, and
the individuality of the body is re-absorbed in the universal
interaction which, without doubt, is reality itself.
12
CREATIVE EVOLXmON
Now, we have considered material objects generally.
Are there not some objects privileged? The bodies we
perceive are, so to speak, cut out of the stuff of nature
by our perceplion, and the scissors follow, in some way,
the marking of lines along which action might be taken.
But the body which is to perform this action, the body
which marks out upon matter the design of its eventual
actions even before they are actual, the body that has
only to point its sensory organs on the flow of the real
in order to make that flow crystallize into definite forms
and thus to create all the other bodies — in short, the living
body — is this a body as others are?
Doubtless it, also, consists in a portion of extension
bound up with the rest of extension, an intimate part of
the Whole, subject to the same physical and chemical
laws that govern any and every portion of matter. But,
while the subdivision of matter into separate bodies is
relative to our perception, while the building up of closed-
off systems of material points is relative to our science,
the living body has been separated and closed off by nature
herself. It is composed of unlike parts that complete
each other. It performs diverse functions that involve
each other. It is an individual, and of no other object,
not even of the crystal, can this be said, for a crystal has
neither difference of parts nor diversity of functions.
No doubt, it is hard to decide, even in the organized world,
what is individual and what is not. The difficulty is
great, even in the animal kingdom; with plants it is almost
insurmountable. This difficulty is, moreover, due to
profound causes, on which we shall dwell later. We shall
see that individuality admits of any number of degrees,
and that it is not fully realized anj-where, even in man.
But that is no reason for thinking it is not a character-
istic property of life. The biologist who proceeds as a
^
ORGANIZED BODIES
13
I
F
Jgeometridan is too ready to take advantage here of our
"inability to give a precise and general definition of in-
dividuality. A perfect definition applies only to a com-
pleted reality; now, vital properties are never entirely
t realized, though always on the way to become so; they
are not so much stales as tendencies. And a tendency
achieves all that it aims at only if it is not thwarted by
another tendency. How, then, could this occur in the
domain of life, where, as we shall show, the interaction
of antagonistic tendencies is always implied? In particu-
lar, it may be said of individuality that, while the ten-
dency to individuate is everywhere present in the organized
world, it is everywhere opposed by the tendency towards
reproduction. For the individuality to be perfect, it
would be necessary that no detached part of the organism
In particu-
lar, it may be said of individuality that, while the ten-
dency to individuate is everywhere present in the organized
world, it is everywhere opposed by the tendency towards
reproduction. For the individuality to be perfect, it
would be necessary that no detached part of the organism
(could live separately. But then reproduction would be
impossible. For what is reproduction, but the building
up of a new organism with a detached fragment of the old?
Individuality therefore harbors its enemy at home. Its
very need of perpetuating itself in time condemns it never
to be complete in space. The biologist must take due
account of both tendenciee in every instance, and it is
therefore useless to ask him for a definition of individuality
that shaU fit all cases and work automatically,
& But too often one reasons about the things of life in
Htbe same way as about the conditions of crude matter.
" Nowhere is the confusion so evident as in discussions about
individuality. We are shown the stumps of a Lum-
briculus, each regenerating its head and living thence-
forward as an independent individual; a hydra whoee
pieces become so many fresh hydras; a searurchin's egg
whose fragments develop complete embryos: where then,
are asked, was the individuality of the egg, the hydra,
worm?— But, because there are several individuals
14 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
now, it does not follow that there was not a single in-
dividual just before. No doubt, when I have seen several
drawers fall from a chest, I have no longer the right to
say that the article was all of one piece. But the fact is
that there can be nothing more in the present of the chest
of drawers than there was in its past, and if it is made up
of several different pieces now, it was so from the date of
its manufacture. Generally speaking, unorganized bodies,
which are what we have need of in order that we may act,
and on which we have modelled our fashion of thinking,
are regulated by this simple law: the present contains noth-
ing more than the past, and what is found in the effect vxia
already in the cause. But suppose that the distinctive
feature of the organized body is that it grows and changes
without ceasing, as indeed the most superficial observation
testifies, there would be nothing astonishing in the fact
that it was one in the first instance, and afterwards many.
The reproduction of unicellular organisms consists in
just this — the hving being divides into two halves, of which
each is a complete individual. True, in the more complex
animals, nature localizes in the almost independent sexual
cells the power of producing the whole anew. But some-
thing of this power may remain diffused in the rest of the
organism, as the facts of regeneration prove, and it is
concMvable that in certain privileged cases the faculty
may persist integrally in a latent condition and manifest
itself on the first opportunity. In truth, that I may have
the right to speak of individuality, it is not necessary that
the organism should be without the power to divide into
fragments that are able to live. It is sufficient that it
shoiUd have presented a certain systematization of parts
before the di%'i5ion, and that the same systematization
tend to be reproduced in each separate portion afterwards.
Now, that is precisely what we observe in the organic
M
E ORGANIZED BODIES 15
may conclude, then, that individuality is
never penect, and that it is often difficult, sometimes
impossible, to tell what is an individual, and what is not,
but that life nevertheless manifests a search for indi-
viduality, as if it strove to constitute systems naturally
isolated, naturaUy closed.
By this is a living being distinguished from all that
our perception or our science isolates or closes artifici-
ally. It would therefore be wrong to compare it to an
object. Should we wish to find a term of comparison in
the inorganic world, it is not to a determinate material
object, but much rather to the totality of the material
universe that we ought to compare the living organism.
It is true that the comparison would not be worth much,
for a living being is observable, whilst the whole of the
universe is constructed or reconstructed by thought. But
at least our attention would thus have been called to the
essential character of organization. Like the universe as a
whole, hke each conscious being taken separately, the
organism which lives is a thing that endures. Its past.
Id its entirety, is prolonged into its present, and abides
litbere, actual and acting. How otherwise could we under-
stand that it passes through distinct and well-marked
phases, that it changes its age — in short, that it has a
history? If I consider my body in particular, I find that,
Uke my consciousneas, it matures little by little from infancy
to old age; like myself, it grows old. Indeed, maturity
and old age are, properly speaking, attributes only of my
body ; it is only metaphorically that I apply the same names
to the corresponding changes of my conscious self. Now,
if I pass from the top to the bottom of the scale of fiving
beings, from one of the most to one of the least differentisr
ted, from the multicellular organism of man to the unicellu-
I
CREATIVE EVOLUTION ichap.
Now,
if I pass from the top to the bottom of the scale of fiving
beings, from one of the most to one of the least differentisr
ted, from the multicellular organism of man to the unicellu-
I
CREATIVE EVOLUTION ichap.
lar organism of the Infusorian, I find, even in this simple
cell, the same process of growing old. The Infusorian
ia exhausted at the end of a certain number of divisionB,
and though it may be possible, by modifying the environ-
ment, to put off the moment when a rejuvenation by con-
jugation becomes necessary, this cannot be indefinitely
postponed.' It is true that between these two extreme
cases, in which the organism is completely individualized,
there might be found a multitude of others in which the
individuality is less well marked, and in which, although
there is doubtless an ageing somewhere, one cannot say
exactly what it is that grows old. Once more, there is no
universal biological law which applies precisely and auto-
matically to every living thing. There are only direcHona
in which life throws out species in general. Each particular
species, in the very act by which it is constituted, affirms
its independence, follows its caprice, deviates more or
less from the straight line, sometimes even remounts the
slope and seems to turn its back on its original direction.
It is easy enough to argue that a tree never grows old,
since the tips of its branches are always equally young,
always equally capable of engendering new trees by budding.
But in such an organism^which is, after all, a society
rather than an individual — soTuetking ages, if only the
leaves and the interior of the trunk. And each cell, con-
sidered separately, evolves in a specific way. Wherever
anythijig lives, there is, open somewhere, a register in which
tiine is being inscribed.
This, it will be said, is only a metaphor. — It is of tic
very essence of mechanism, in fact, to consider as meta-
phorical every expression which attributes to time an
effective action and a reality of its own. In vain docs
' Calkina, Studiet on the lAfe Hiatory of Prolozoa (Archiv ). Entmck-
lungutuOamk, voL xv., 1»03, pp. 13Q-1SG].
mmviDUALiTy and age
17
In vain docs
' Calkina, Studiet on the lAfe Hiatory of Prolozoa (Archiv ). Entmck-
lungutuOamk, voL xv., 1»03, pp. 13Q-1SG].
mmviDUALiTy and age
17
mediate experience show us that the very basis of our
" conscious existence is meraorj-, that is to say, the pro-
longation of the past into the present, or, in a word, dura-
tion, acting and irreversible. In vain docs reason prove
to us that the more we get away from the objects cut out
and the systems isolated by common sense and by science
and the deeper we dig beneath tliera, the more we have
to do with a reality which changes as a whole in its in-
most states, as if an accumulative memory of the past
made it impossible to go back again. The mechanistic
instinct of the mind is stronger than reason, stronger than
immediate experience. The metaphysician that we each
carry unconsciously within us, and the presence of which
is explained, as we shall sec later on, by the very place that
man occupies amongst the living beings, has its fixed re-
quirements, its ready-made explanations, its irreducible
propositions: all unite in denying concrete duration.
Change must be reducible to an arrangement or rearrange-
ment of parts; the irreversibility of time must be an ap-
pearance relative to our ignorance ; the impossibility of
turning back must be only the inability of man to put
things in place again. So growing old can be nothing more
than the gradual gain or loss of certain substances, per-
haps both together. Time is assumed to have just as
much reality for a living being as for an hour-glass, in
which the top part empties while the lower fills, and all goes
where it was before when you turn the glass upside down.
True, biologists are not agreed on what is gained and
what is lost between the day of birth and the day of death.
I There are those who hold to the continual growth in the
I volume of protoplasm from the birth of the cell right on
to its death." More probable and more profound is the
' Sedgwick Minot, On Certain Fhenomena oj Growing Old (Proe. Amer,
Anoe. for tJit Advaruxment o/ Science, 39th: Meeting, SoJem, 1891, pp.
271-288).
18
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Amer,
Anoe. for tJit Advaruxment o/ Science, 39th: Meeting, SoJem, 1891, pp.
271-288).
18
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
theory according to which the diminution beara on the
quantity of nutritive substance contained in that "inner
environment" in which the organism is being renewed,
and the increase on the quantity of unexcreted residual
substances which, accumulating in the body, finally "crust
it over."' Must we however — with an eminent bacteri-
ologist — declare any explanation of growing old insufficient
that does not take account of phagocytosis?' We do not
feel quahfied to settle the question. But the fact that the
two theories agree in afRnning the constant accumulation
or loss of a certain kind of matter, even though they have
little in common as to what is gained and lost, shows pretty
well that the frame of the explanation has been furnished
a priori. We shall see this more and more as we proceed
with our study: it is not easy, in thinldng of time, to escape
the image of the hour-glass.
The cause of growing old must lie deeper. We hold
that there is unbroken continuity between the evolution
of the embryo and that of the complete organism. The
impetus which causes a living being to grow larger, to
develop and to age, is the same that has caused it to pass
through the phases of the embryonic life. The develop-
ment of the embryo is a perpetual change of form. Any
one who attempts to note all its successive aspects becomea
lost in an infinity, as is inevitable in dealing with a con-
tinuum. Life does but prolong this prenatal evolution.
The proof of this is that it is often impossible for us to say
whether we are dealing with an organism growing old or
with an embryo continuing to evolve; such is the case,
' Le Danlec, L'IndividuatiU el I'erreuT indirHdualiste, Paris, 1905,
pp. 84 ff.
MetchnikoS, La Dtgtniretcenet iinile {Annie biolagique, ii
pp. 249 3.). Cf. by the same author, La Nature humaine, Paris, 1003,
pp. 312 S.
IKDIVIDUALITY AND AGE 19
84 ff.
MetchnikoS, La Dtgtniretcenet iinile {Annie biolagique, ii
pp. 249 3.). Cf. by the same author, La Nature humaine, Paris, 1003,
pp. 312 S.
IKDIVIDUALITY AND AGE 19
P for example, with the larvae of insects and Crustacea.
On the other hand, in an organism such as our own, crises
like puberty or the menopause, in which the individual
is completely transformed, are quite comparable to changes
in the course of larval or embryonic Ufe— yet they are part
and parcel of the process of our aging. Although they occur
at a definite age and within a time that may be quite short,
L no one would maintain that they appear then ex abrupto,
I from without, simply because a certain age is reached, just
i , as a legal right is granted to us on our one-and-twentieth
birt-hday. It is evident that a change lilce that of puberty
is in course of preparation at every instant from birth,
and even before birth, and that the aging up to that crisis
consists, in part at least, of this gradual preparation.
In short, what is properly vital in growing old is the in-
sensible, infinitely graduated, continuance of the change
of form. Now, this change is undoubtedly accompanied
by phenomena of organic destruction: to these, and to
these alone, will a mechanistic explanation of aging be
confined. It will note the facts of sclerosis, the gradual
accumulation of residual substances, the growing hyper-
trophy of the protoplasm of the cell. But under these
visible effects an inner cause lies hidden. The evolutioa
of the living being, like that of the embryo, implies a con-
tinual recording of duration, a persistence of the past in^"
the present, and so an appearance, at least, of organic
memory.
The present state of an imorganized body depends ex-
clusively on what happened at the previous instant; and
likewise the position of the material points of a system
defined and isolated by sciejice is determined by the po-
sition of these same points at the moment immediately
before. In other words, the laws that govern unorganized
matter are expressible, in principle, by differential equations
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[oau.
In other words, the laws that govern unorganized
matter are expressible, in principle, by differential equations
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[oau.
in which time (in the sense in which the mathematiciao
takes this word) would play the rale of independent variable.
Is it ao with the laws of Hfe? Does the state of a living
body find its complete explanation in the state inunediately
before? Yes, if it is agreed a priori to liken the living body
to other bodies, and to identify it, for the sake of the argu-
ment, with the artificial systems on which the chemist,
physicist, and astronomer operate. But in astronomy,
physics, and chemistry the proposition haa a perfectly
definite meaning: it signifies that certain aspects of the
present, important for science, are calculable as functions
of the immediate past. Nothing of the sort in the domain
of life. Here calculation touches, at most, certam phe-
nomena of organic destruction. Organic creation, on the
contrary, the evolutionary phenomena which properly]
constitute life, we cannot in any way subject to a mathe- 1
matical treatment. It will be said that this impotence'
is due only to our ignorance. But it may equally well
express the fact that the present moment of a living body
does not find its explanation in the moment immediately
before, that all the past of the organism must be added to
that moment, its heredity — in fact, the whole of a very
long history. In the second of these two hypotheses,
not in the first, is really expressed the present state of
the biological sciences, as well as their direction. As for
the idea that the Uving body might be treated by some
BUperhuman calculator in the same mathematical way aa
our solar system, this has gradually arisen from a meta-
physic which has taken a more precise form since the
physical discoveries of Galileo, but which, as we shall
show, was always the natural metaphysic of the human
mind. Its apparent clearness, our impatient desire to
find it true, the enthusiasm with wnich so many ejccellent
minds accept it without proof — all the seductions, in short,
;irions, in snori, j
INDIVIDUALrFY AOT> AGE 21
that it exercises on our thought, should put us on our
guard against it. The attraction it has for us proves well
enough that it gives satisfaction to an innate inclination.
But, as will be seen further on, the intellectual tendencies
innate to-day, which life must have created in the courae
of its evolution, are not at all meant to supply us with
an explanation of Me: they have something else to do.
But, as will be seen further on, the intellectual tendencies
innate to-day, which life must have created in the courae
of its evolution, are not at all meant to supply us with
an explanation of Me: they have something else to do.
Any attempt to distinguish between an artificial and a
natural system, between the dead and the living, runs
counter to this tendency at once. Thus it happens that
we find it equally difficult to imagine that the organized
has duration and that the unorganized has not. WheD
we say that the state of an artificial system depends ex-
clusively on its state at the moment before, does it not
seem as if we were bringing time in, as if the system had
something to do with real duration? And, on the other
hand, though the whole of the past goes into the making
of the living being's present moment, does not organic
memory press it into the moment immediately before the
present, so that the moment immediately before becomes
the sole cause of the present one? — To speak thus is to
ignore the cardinal difference between concrete time, along
which a real system develops, and that abstract time which
enters into our speculations on artificial systems. What
does it mean, to say that the state of an artificial system
depends on what it was at the moment immediately before?
There is no instant immediately before another instant;
:ere could not be, any more than there could be one
mathematical point touching another. The instant "im-
lediately before" is, in reality, that which is connected
ith the present instant by the interval (U. All that you
lean to say, therefore, is that the present state of the
ityatem is defined by equations into which differential
Seoefficients enter, such as ds\iU, dv\dt, that is to say, at
22 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
All that you
lean to say, therefore, is that the present state of the
ityatem is defined by equations into which differential
Seoefficients enter, such as ds\iU, dv\dt, that is to say, at
22 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
■bottom, present velocities and preserU accelerations. You
are therefore really speaking only of the present — a present,
it is true, considered along with its tendency. The systems
science works with are, in fact, in an instantaneous present
that is always being renewed; such systems are never in
that real, concrete duration in which the past remains
bound up with the present. When the mathematician
calculates the future state of a system at the end of a time
(, there is nothing to prevent him from supposing that the
universe vanishes from this moment till that, and suddenly
reappears. It is the i-th moment only that counts —
and that will be a mere instant. What wUI flow on in
the interval — that is to say, real time — does not count,
and cannot enter into the calculation. If the mathe-
matician says that he puts himself inside this interval,
he means that he is placing himself at a certain point,
at a particular moment, therefore at the extremity again
of a certain time f; with the interval up to 7" he is not
concerned. If he divides the interval into infinitely smidl
parts by considering the differential dl, he thereby expresses
merely the fact that he will consider accelerations and
velocities — that is to say, numbers which denote ten-
dencies and enable him to calculate the state of the system
at a given moment. But he is always speaking of a given
moment — a static moment, that is — ^and not of flowing
time. In short, the world the mathematician deals with ix
a world that dies and is reborn al every instant — the world
which Descartes was thinking of when he spoke of continued
creation. But, in tin.e thus conceived, how could evolution,
which is the very essence of life, ever take place? Evo-
lution implies a real persistence of the past in the present,
a duration which is, as it were, a hyphen, a connecting
link. In other words, to know a liv-ing being or ruitural
sy^em is to get at the very inter\'al of duration,
luration, while J
K.1 INDIVIDUALITY AND AGE
V>lhe knowledge of an artificial or mathematical system applies,
only to the extremity.
Continuity of change, preservation of the past in the
present, real duration — the living being seems, then, to
share these attributes with consciousness. Can we go
further and say that life, like conscious activity, is in-
vention, is unceasing creation?
Continuity of change, preservation of the past in the
present, real duration — the living being seems, then, to
share these attributes with consciousness. Can we go
further and say that life, like conscious activity, is in-
vention, is unceasing creation?
It does not enter into our plan to set down here the
ifs of transformism. We wish only to explain in a
word or two why we shall accept it, in the present work,
a sufficiently exact and precise expression of the facts
actually known. The idea of transformism is already
in germ in the natural classification of organized beings.
The naturalist, in fact, brings together the organisms that
are like each other, then divides the group into sub-groups
within which the likeness is still greater, and so on: all
through the operation, the characters of the group appear
aa general themes on which each of the sub-groups per-
forms its particular variation. Now, such is just the re-
lation we find, in the animal and in the vegetable world
between the generator and the generated: on the canvas
which the ancestor passes on, and which his descendants
possess in common, each puts his own original embroidery.
True, the differences between the descendant and the
ancestor are slight, and it may be asked whether the same
living matter presents enough plasticity to take in turn
such different forms as those of a fish, a reptile and a bird.
But, to this question, observation gives a peremptory
answer. It shows that up to a certain period in its de-
velopment the embryo of the bird is hardly distinguishable
from that of the reptile, and that the individual develops,
throughout the embryonic life in general, a series of trans-'.,
formations comparable to those through which, according '
I
24
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
to the theory of evolution, one species passes into another.
A single cell, the result of the combination of two cells,
male and female, accomplishes this work by dividing.
Every day, before our eyes, the highest forms of life are
springing from a very elementary form. Experience,
then, shows that the most complex has been able to issue
from the most simple by way of evolution. Now, has it
arisen so, as a matter of fact? Paleontology, in spite
of the insufficiency of its evidence, invites us to believe
it has; for, where it makes out the order of succession of
species with any precision, this order is just what con-
siderations drawn from embryogeny and comparative
anatomy would lead any one to suppose, and each new
paleontological discovery brings transformism a new
confirmation. Thus, the proof drawn from mere ob-
servation is ever being strengthened, while, on the other
hand, experiment is removing the objections one by one.
The recent experiments of H. de Vries, for instance, by
showing that important variations can be produced sud-
denly and transmitted regularly, have overthrown some of
the greatest difficulties raised by the theory. They have
enabled us greatly to shorten the time biological evolution
seems to demand. They also render us less exacting
toward paleontology. So that, all things considered, the
transformist hypothesis looks more and more like a close
approximation to the truth. It is not rigorously de-
monstrable; but, failing the certainty of theoretical or
experimental demonstration, there is a probabihty which
is continually growing, due to evidence which, while com-
ing short of direct proof, seems to point persistently in its
direction : such is the kind of probability that the theory
of transformism offers.
Let us admit, however, that transformism may be
wrong. Let us suppose that species are proved, by in-
M
TRANSFORMISM
25
r
Let us admit, however, that transformism may be
wrong. Let us suppose that species are proved, by in-
M
TRANSFORMISM
25
r
ference or by experiment, to have arisen by a discontinuous
" process, of which to-day we have no idea. Would the
doctrine be affected in so far as it has a special interest
or importance for us7 Classification would probably
remain, in its broad lines. The actual data of embryology
would also remain. The correspondence between com-
parative embryogeny and comparative anatomy would
remain too. Therefore biology could and would continue
to estabhsh between living forms the same relations and
the same kinship as transformism supposes to-day. It
would be, it is true, an ideal kinship, and no longer a
viaterial aflBhation, But, as the actual data of paleontology
would also remain, we should still have to admit that it is
successively, not simultaneously, that the forms between
which we find an ideal kinship have appeared. Now, the
evolutionist theory, so far as it has any importance for
philosophy, requires no more. It consists above all in
establishing relations of ideal kinship, and in maintaining
that wherever there is this relation of, so to speak, logical
affiliation between forms, there is also a relation of chrono-
logical succession between the species in which these forma
are materialized. Both arguments would hold in any
case. And hence, an evolution somewhere would still
have to be supposed, whether in a creative Thought in
which the ideas of the different species are generated by
each other exactly as transformism holds that species them-
selves are generated on the earth ; or in a plan of vital organi-
zation immanent in nature, which gradually works itself out,
in which the relations of logical and chronological affiliation
between pure forms are just those which transformism
presents as relations of real affiliation between living
individuals; or. finally, in some unknown cause of life,
which develops its effects as if they generated one another.
Evolution would then simply have been transposed, made
26 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
to pass from the visible to the invisible. Almost all that
transformism tells us to-day would be preserved, open to
interpretation in another way. Will it not, therefore,
be better to stick to the letter of transformism as almost
all scientists profess it? Apart from the question to what
extent the theory of evolution describes the facts and to
what extent it symbolizes them, there is nothing in it
that is irreconcilable with the doctrines it has claimed to
replace, even with that of special creations, to which it is
usually opposed. For tliis reason we think the language
of transformism forces itself now upon all philosophy, as
the dogmatic affirmation of transformism forces itself upon
science.
For tliis reason we think the language
of transformism forces itself now upon all philosophy, as
the dogmatic affirmation of transformism forces itself upon
science.
But then, we must no longer speak of life in general
as an abstraction, or as a mere heading under which all
living beings are inscribed. At a certain moment, in
certain points of space, a visible current has taken rise;
this current of life, traversing the bodies it has organized
one after another, passing from generation to generation,
has become divided amongst species and distributed
amongst individuals without losing anything of its force,
rather intensifying in proportion to its advance. It is
well known that, on the theory of the "continuity of the
genn-plasm," maintained by Weismann, the sexual ele-
ments of the generating organism pass on their properties
directly to the sexual elements of the organism engendered.
In this extreme form, the theory has seemed debatable,
for it is only in exceptional cases that there are any signs
of sexual glands at the time of segmentation of the ferti-
lized egg. But, though the cells that engender the sexual
elements do not generally appear at the beginning of the
embryonic hfe, it is none the less true that they are always
formed out of those tissues of the embryo which have not
undergone any particular functional differentiation, and
A
TRANSFORMISM
2!
I
F
I
F
B whose cells are made of unmodified protoplasm.' In othCT
words, the genetic power of the fertilized ovum weakens,
the more it ia spread over the growing mass of the tissues
of the embryo; but, while it is being thus diluted, it is
concentrating anew something of itself on a certain special
point, to wit, the cells, from which the ova or spermatozoa
will develop. It might therefore be said that, though
the germ-plasm is not continuous, there is at least con-
tinuity of genetic energy, this energy being expended only
at certain instants, for just enough time to give the requisite
impulsion to the embryonic life, and being recouped as
Boon as possible in new sexual elements, in which, again,
it bides its time. Regarded from this point of view, life
it like a current passing from germ to germ through
medium of a developed organism. It is as if the organism
itself were only an excrescence, a bud caused to sprout by
the former germ endeavoring to continue itself in a newgerm.
The essential thing is the continuous progress indefinitely
pursued, an invisible progress, on wiiich each visible organ-
ism rides during the short interval of time given it to live.
tNow, the more we fix our attention on this continuity
of life, the more we see that organic evolution resembles
the evolution of a consciousness, in which the past presses
against the present and causes the upspringing of a new
form of consciousness, incommensurable with its ante-
cedents. That the 'appearance of a vegetable or animal
species is due to specific causes, nobody will gainsay. But
this can only mean that if, after the fact, we could know
these causes in detail, we could explain by them the form
that has been produced; foreseeing the form is out of the
question,' It may perhaps be said that the form could
' Roule, L'EmbryotogU gfnirate. Paris, 1893, p, 319.
'The irrevermbility of the eeries of living beings has been well set
forth by Baldwin {Dev^pment and Evolution, New York, 1902; ia
puticulAT p. 327).
Lm,
life r-
Ihe
sm I-
lOHAF.
Paris, 1893, p, 319.
'The irrevermbility of the eeries of living beings has been well set
forth by Baldwin {Dev^pment and Evolution, New York, 1902; ia
puticulAT p. 327).
Lm,
life r-
Ihe
sm I-
lOHAF.
be foreseen if we could know, in all their details, the con-
ditions under which it will be produced. But these con-
ditions are built up into it and are part and parcel of its
being; they are peculiar to that phase of its history in
which Ufe finds itself at the moment of producing the form;
how could we know beforehand a situation that is unique
of its kind, that has never yet occurred and will never occur
again? Of the future, only that is foreseen which is like
the past or can be made up again with elements like those
of the past, Such is the case with astronomical, physical
and chemical facts, with all facts which form part of a
system in which elements supposed to be unchanging are
merely put together, in which the only changes are changes
of position, hi which there is no theoretical absurdity in
ima^ning that thuigs are restored to their place; in which,
consequently, the same total phenomenon, or at least the
same elementary phenomena, can be repeated. But an
original situation, which imparts something of its own
ori^nality to its elements, that is to say, to the partial
views that are taken of it, how can such a situation be
pictured as ^ven before it is actually produced?' All that
can be swd is that, once produced, it will be explained by
the elements that analysis will then carve out of it. Now,
what is true of the production of a new species is also true
of the production of a new individual, and, more generally,
of any moment of any living form. For, though the
variation must reach a certain importance and a certain
generality in order to give rise to a new species, it is being
produced every moment, continuously and insensibly,
in every living being. And it is evident that even the sudden
"mutations" which we now hear of are possible only if
a process of incubation, or rather of maturing, is going
We have dwelt on this point and tried to make it clear i
mr U> do7tn£es imntiiOates de la conscience, pp. 140-151.
I the btsat
And it is evident that even the sudden
"mutations" which we now hear of are possible only if
a process of incubation, or rather of maturing, is going
We have dwelt on this point and tried to make it clear i
mr U> do7tn£es imntiiOates de la conscience, pp. 140-151.
I the btsat
I 1.1 BIOLOGY, PHYSICS AND CHEMISTRY 29
an throughout a series of generations that do not aeem to
change. In this sense it might be said of life, as of con-
sciousness, that at every moment it is creating something.'
But against this idea of the absolute originality and un-
foreseeability of forms our whole intellect rises in revolt.
The essential function of our intellect, as the evolution
of hfe has fashioned it, is to be a light for our conduct,
to make ready for our action on things, to foresee, for
a given situation, the events, favorable or unfavorable,
which may follow thereupon. Intellect therefore in-
stinctively selects in a given situation whatever is Uke
something already known; it seeks this out, in order
_ that it may apply its principle that " like produces like. "
■. In just this docs the prevision of the future by common
H sense consist. Science carries this faculty to the highest
possible degree of exactitude and precision, but does not
alter its essential character. Like ordinary knowledge,
in dealing with things science is concerned only with the
aspect of repetition. Though the whole be original, science
will always manage to analyze it into elements or aspecta
which are approximately a reproduction of the past.
Science can work only on what is supposed to repeat it-
self — that is to say, on what is withdrawn, by hypothesis,
from the action of real time. Anything that is irreducible
' In his fine work on Genius in Art (Le Gdnie dans I'art), M. S^illes
develops this twofold thesis, that art is a continuation of nature and
th»t life is cieation. We should willingly accept the second formula;
but hy creation must we uuderEitand. as the author does, a synfhem of
elementaT Where the elements pre-exist, the synthesis that will b*
tiude is virtuallj givea, being only one of the possible arrangements.
This arrangement a superhuman intellect oonld have perceived in ad-
vance among all the possible ones that suiround it. We bold, on the
eontrary, that in the domain of life the elcn^enta have no real and sepa-
nte enstenM. They are manifold mentnl views of an indivisible
process. And for that reason there is radical contingency in progress,
incommensurability between what goes before and what follows — in
abort, duration.
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
and irreversible in the successive moments of a history
eludes science. To get a notion of this irreducibility and
irreversibility, we must break with scientific habits which
are adapted to the fundamental requirements of thought,
we must do violence to the mind, go counter to the natural
bent of the intellect. But that is just the function of
To get a notion of this irreducibility and
irreversibility, we must break with scientific habits which
are adapted to the fundamental requirements of thought,
we must do violence to the mind, go counter to the natural
bent of the intellect. But that is just the function of
In vain, therefore, does Ufe evolve before our eyes as a
continuous creation of unforeseeable form : the idea always
persists that form, unforeseeability and continuity are
mere appearance — the outward reflection of our own ig-
norance. 'S\'hat is pr&sented to the senses as a continuous
history would break up, we are told, into a series of suc-
cessive states. "What gives you the impression of an
original state resolves, upon analysis, into elementary
facts, each of which is the repetition of a fact already
known. What you call an unforeseeable form is only a
new arrangement of old elements. The elementary causes,
which in their totality have detennined this arrangement,
are themselves old causes repeated in a new order. Know-
ledge of the elements and of the elementary causes would
have made it possible to foretell the hving form which is
their sum and their resultant. When we have resolved
the biological aspect of phenomena into physico-chemical
factors, we will leap, if necessary, over physics and chenus-
try themselves; we will go from masses to molecules, frcMn
molecules to atoms, from atoms to corpuscles: we must
indeed at last come to something that can be treated as a
kind of solar system, astronomically. If you deny it,
you opptose the very principle of scientific mechanism, and
you arbitrarily affirm that living matter is not made of
the same elements as other matter. " — We reply that we
do not question the fundamental identity of inert matter
and organized matter. The only question is whether the
i.l BIOLOGY, PHYSICS AND CHEMISTRY 31
" — We reply that we
do not question the fundamental identity of inert matter
and organized matter. The only question is whether the
i.l BIOLOGY, PHYSICS AND CHEMISTRY 31
natural systems which we call living beings must be as-
similated to the artificial systems that science cuts out
within inert matter, or whether they must not rather be
compared to that natural system which is the whole of
the universe. That hfe is a kind of mechanism I cordially
agree. But is it the mechanism of parts artificially isolated
within the whole of the universe, or is it the mechanism
of the real whole? The real whole might well be, we con-
ceive, an indivisible continuity. The systems we cut out ,
within it would, properly speaking, not then be parts at '
all; they would be partial views of the whole. And, with
these partial views put end to end, you will not make
even a beginning of the reconstruction of the whole, any
more than, by multiplying photographs of an object in
a thousand different aspects, you will reproduce the object
itself. So of life and of the physico-chemical phenomena
to which you endeavor to reduce it. Analysis will un-
doubtedly resolve the process of organic creation into an
e\'er-growing number of physico-chemical phenomena,
and chemists and physicists will have to do, of course,
with nothing but these. But it does not follow that
chemistry and physics will ever give us the key to life.
A very small element of a curve is very near being a
straight line. And the smaller it is, the nearer. In
the limit, it may be termed a part of the curve or a part i
of the straight line, as you please, for in each of its points '
ft curve coincides with its tangent. So likewise "vitality"
is tangent, at any and every point, to physical and chemical
forces; but such points are, as a fact, only views taken '
by a mind which imagines stops at various moments '
of the movement that generates the curve. In reality,
Bfe is no more made of physico-chemical elements than a
eurve is composed of straight lines.
In a general way, the most radical progress a science
(OHAF.
In reality,
Bfe is no more made of physico-chemical elements than a
eurve is composed of straight lines.
In a general way, the most radical progress a science
(OHAF.
can achieve is the working of the completed results into
a new scheme of the whole, by relation to which they
become instantaneous and motionless views taken at in-
tervals along the continuity of a movement. Such, for
example, is the relation of modern to ancient geometry.
The latter, purely static, worked with figures drawn once
for all; the former studies the varying of a function —
that is, the continuous movement by which the figure
is described. No doubt, for greater strictness, all con-
siderations of motion may be eliminated from mathe-
matical processes; but the introduction of motion into the
genesis of figures is nevertheless the origin of modem
mathematics. We believe that if biology could ever get
as close to its object as mathematics does to its own, it
would become, to the physics and chemistry of organized
bodies, what the mathematics of the modems has proved
to be in relation to ancient geometry. The wholly super-
ficial displacements of masses and molecules studied in
physics and chemistry would become, by relation to that
inner vital movement (which is transformation and not
translation) what the position of s. moving object is to the
movement of that object in space. And, so far as we can
see, the procedure by which we should then pass from the
definition of a certain vital action to the system of physico-
chemical facts which it implies would be like passing from
the function to its derivative, from the equation of the
curve (i.e. the law of the continuous movement by which
the curve is generated) to the equation of the tangent
giving its instantaneous direction. Such a science would
be a mechanics of transformation, of which our mechanics
of trarislation would become a particular case, a simpli-
fication, a projection on the plane of pure quantity. And
just as an infinity of functions have the same differential,
these functions differing from each other by a constant,
^
BIOLOGY, PHYSICS AND CHEMISTRY 33
perhaps the integration of the physico-chemical ele-
ments of properly vital action might detennine that action
Eonly in part— a part would be left to indcterminatioa.
KBut such an integration can be no more than dreamed of;
■We do not pretend that the dream will ever bo realized.
Ne are only trying, by carrj'ing a certain comparison as
possible, to show up to what point our theory goes
with pure mechanism, and where they part company.
Imitation of the living by the unorganized may, how-
Ne are only trying, by carrj'ing a certain comparison as
possible, to show up to what point our theory goes
with pure mechanism, and where they part company.
Imitation of the living by the unorganized may, how-
'ever, go a good way. Not only does chemistry make
organic syntheses, but we have succeeded in reproducing
artificially the external appearance of certain ftLcts of
organization, such as indirect cell-division and proto-
plasmic circulation. It is well known that the protoplasm
of the cell effects various movements within its envelope;
on the other hand, indirect cell-division is the outcome
of very complex operations, some involving the nucleus
and others the cytoplasm. These latter commence by
the doubling of the centrosome, a small spherical body
alongside the nucleus. The two centrosomes thus ob-
tained draw apart, attract the broken and doubled ends
of the filament of which the original nucleus mainly con-
^sted, and join them to form two fresh nuclei about which
the two new cells are constructed which will succeed the
first. Now, in their broad lines and in their external
appearance, some at least of these operations have been
successfully imitated. If some sugar or table salt is
pulverized and some very old oil is added, and a drop of
the mixture is observed under the microscope, a froth of
alveolar structure is seen whose configuration is like that
of protoplasm, according to certain theories, and in which
movements take place which are decidedly like those of
protoplasmic circulation.' If, in a froth of the same kind,
Biitschll, UnlersMchungen iiber raikroakoptKhe Schaunu and dot Pro-
toplatma, Leipzig, 1892, First Fort.
34
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
the air is extracted from an alveolus, a cone of attraction
is seen to fonn, like those about the ceutrosomes which
result in the division of the nucleus.* Even the external
motions of a imicellular organism — of an amoeba, at any
rate — are sometimes explained mechanically. The dis-
placements of an amoeba in a drop of water would be
comparable to the motion to and fro of a gram of dust
in a draughty room. Its mass is all the time absorbing
certain soluble mattere contained in the surrounding
water, and giving back to it certain others; these con-
tinual exchanges, like those between two vessels separated
by a porous partition, would create an everchanging
vortex around the little organism. As for the temporary
prolongations or pseudopodia which the amoeba seems
to make, they would be not so much given out by it as
attracted from it by a kind of inhalation or suction of the
surrounding medium.' In the same way we may perhaps
come to explain the more complex movements which the
Infusorian makes with its vibratory cilia, which, more-
over, are probably only fixed pseudopodia.
But scientists are far from agreed on the value of ex-
planations and schemas of this sort. Chemists have
pointed out that even in the organic^not to go so far as
the organized — science has reconstructed hitherto nothing
but waste products of vital activity; the peculiarly active
plastic substances obstinately defy synthesis. One of
the most notable naturalists of our titne has insisted on
the opposition of two orders of phenomena observed in
living tissues, anagenesis and katagenesis. The role of
the anagenetic energies is to raise the inferior energies
' Rhumbler, Vtrruch einer mechanischen Erkliimng dtr indvtkUn
Zell- und Kemiextung (Roux'a Archiv, 1896).
'Berlhold, StwOen Hber Protoplasmameckanik, LoipKJg, 1886, p. 102.
Cf. the explanation proposed by Le Dantec, Thtorie nouveUe de la vi*,
Paris, 1896, p. 60.
M
K.I BIOLOGY, PHYSICS AND CHEMISTRY 35
^Pto their own level by assimilating inorganic substances.
They construct the tissues. On the other hand, the actual
functioning of life (excepting, of course, assimilation,
growth, and reproduction) is of the katagenetic order,
exhibiting the fall, not the rise, of energy. It is only with
these facts of katagenetic order that phystco-chemistry
deals — that is, in short, with the dead and not with the
living.' The other kind of facts certainly seem to defy
phj-sico-chemical analysis, even if they are not anagenetic
in the proper sense of the word. As for the artificial
nitation of the outward appearance of protoplasm, should
I real theoretic importance be attached to this when the
B^question of the physical framework of protoplasm is not
Eyet settled? We are still further from compounding pro-
■-toplasra chemically. Finally, a physico-chemical ex- |
Iplanation of the motions of the amoeba, and a fortiori of '
Ithe behavior of the Infusoria, seems impossible to many
f of those who have closely observed these rudimentary
organisms. Even in these humblest manifestations of
life they discover traces of an effective psychological activ-
ity.* But instructive above all is the fact that the ten-
dency to explain everj-thing by physics and chemistry is
discouraged rather than strengthened by deep study of
histological phenomena. Such is the conclusion of the
truly admirable book which the histologist E. B. Wilson
' Oope, The Primary Fadora of Organic Evolviion, Chicago, 1896, pp.
475-484.
■M&upos. "Etude des infusoirea cUi^a*' (Arch, de toohgie erpiri-
mentalt, 1S83, pp. 47, 491, 518, 649. in particular). P. Vignon, Re-
dtiBrches de eytologie gintrale aur la fpUhiliitmt, PariB, 1902, p. 655. A
piotound study of the motioDB of the Infusoria and a very penetrating
ctitidnn of the idea of tropiam have been mode recently by Jennings
(/ContribiUiont to the Study of Ihe Behavior of Lower Organisms, Wash-
ington, 1904). The "type of behavior*' of theae tower organisnis, aa
Jennings defines it (pp. 237-252), ia unquestionably of (be psychological
order.
36^ ' CREATIVE EVOLUTION
The "type of behavior*' of theae tower organisnis, aa
Jennings defines it (pp. 237-252), ia unquestionably of (be psychological
order.
36^ ' CREATIVE EVOLUTION
has devoted to the development of the cell: "ITie study
of the cell has, on the whole, seemed to widen rather than
to narrow the enormous gap that separates even the lowest
forms of life from the inorganic world.'"
To sum up, those who are concerned only with the
functional activity of the living being are inclined to be-
lieve that physics and chemistry will give us the key to
biological processes." They have chiefly to do, as a fact,
with phenomena that are repeated continually in the living
being, as in a chemical retort. This explains, in some
measure, the mechanistic tendencies of physiology. On
the contrary, those whose attention is concentrated on
the minute structure of living tissues, on their genesis
and evolution, histologists and embryogenists on the one
hand, naturalists on the other, are interested in the retort
itself, not merely in its contents. They find that this
retort creates its own form through a unique series of acta
that really constitute a history. Thus, histologists, em-
bryogenists, and naturalists believe far less readily than
physiologists in the physico-chemical chaxacter of vital
actions.
The fact is, neither one nor the other of these two theories,
ndther that which affirms nor that which denies the possi-
bihty of chemically producing an elementary organism,
can claim the authority of experiment. They are both
unverifiable, the former because science has not yet ad-
vanced a step toward the chemical synthesis of a living
Hubstance, the second because there is no conceivable way
of proving expeil mentally the impossibility of a fact. But
we have set forth the theoretical reasons which prevent
us from likening the living being, a system closed off by
nature, to the systems which our science isolates. These
E. B. Wilson, The Celt in Devehpmenl and InkerHanee, 1
18«7, p. 330.
> D8«U«, LaVitetla mort, p. 43.
isolates. These |
mlanee. New Yoi^
I.I
RADICAL MECHAMSM
37
I
These
E. B. Wilson, The Celt in Devehpmenl and InkerHanee, 1
18«7, p. 330.
> D8«U«, LaVitetla mort, p. 43.
isolates. These |
mlanee. New Yoi^
I.I
RADICAL MECHAMSM
37
I
reasons have less force, we acknowledge, in the case of a
rudimentary oi^anism like the amoeba, which hardly
evolves at all. But they acquire more when we consider
a complex organism which goes through a regular cycle
of transformations. The more duration marks the living
being with its imprint, the more obviously the organism
differs from a mere mechanism, over which duration glides
without penetrating. And the demonstration has most
force when it applies to the evolution of life as a whole,
from its humblest origins to its highest forms, inasmuch as
this evolution constitutes, through the unity and con-
tinuity of the animated matter which supports it, a single
indivisible history. Thus viewed, the evolutionist hypothe-
sis does not seem so closely akin to the mechanistic con-
ception of life as it is generally supposed to be. Of this
mechanistic conception we do not claim, of course, to
furnish a mathematical and final refutation. But the
refutation which we draw from the consideration of real
time, and which is, in our opinion, the only refutation
possible, becomes the more rigorous and cogent the more
frankly the evolutionist hypothesis is assumed. We must
dwell a good deal more on this point. But let us first show
more clearly the notion of life to which we are leading up.
The mechanistic explanations, we said, hold good for 1
the systems that our thought artificially detaches from the I
whole. But of the whole itself and of the systems which,
within this whole, seem to take after it, we cannot admit
a priori that they are mechanically explicable, for then
time would be useless, and even unreal. The essence of
mechanical explanation, in fact, is to regard the future
and the past as calculable functions of the present, and thus
to claim that all is given. On this hypothesis, past,
present and future would be open at a glance to a super-
human intellect capable of making the calculation. Indeed,
On this hypothesis, past,
present and future would be open at a glance to a super-
human intellect capable of making the calculation. Indeed,
the scientists who have believed in the universality and
perfect objectivity of mechanical explanations have,
consciously or unconsciously, acted on a hypothesis of
this kind. Laplace formulated it with the greatest pre-
cision: "An intellect which at a given instant knew all
the forces with which nature is animated, and the respective
situations of the beings that compose nature — ^supposing
the said intellect were vast enough to subject these data
to analysis — would embrace in the same formula the motions
of the greatest bodies in the universe and those of the
slightest atom: nothing would be uncertain for it, and
the future, like the past, would be present to its eyes."'
And Du Bois-Reymond : "We can imagine the knowledge
of nature arrived at a point where the universal process
of the world might be represented by a single mathematical
fonnula, by one immense system of simultaneous differ-
ential equations, from which could be deduced, for each
moment, the position, direction, and velocity of every
atom of the world. "' Huxley has expressed the same idea
in a more concrete fomi: "If the fundamental proposition
of evolution is true, that the entire world, living and not
living, is the result of the mutual interaction, according
to definite laws, of the forces possessed by the molecules
of which the primitive nebulosity of the universe was
composed, it is no less certain that the existing world
lay, potentially, in the cosmic vapor, and that a sufficient
intellect could, from a knowledge of the properties of the
molecules of that vapor, have predicted, say the state of
the Fauna of Great Britain in 1869, with as much cer-
tainty as one can say what will happen to the vapor of
the breath in a cold winter's day." In such a doctrine,
Laplace, Inirodaction h la ih4orie ajialytiqtie des probabiiiUa ((Euvm
compRUa, vol. vii., Paris, 1886, p, vj.).
Du Bois-Rej'mond, Vber die Grenten des Naturerkenntna, I,«ipzig,
vii., Paris, 1886, p, vj.).
Du Bois-Rej'mond, Vber die Grenten des Naturerkenntna, I,«ipzig,
time is still spoken of: one pronounces the word, but one
does not think of the thing. For time is here deprived
of efficacy, and if it does nothing, it is nothing. Radical
mechanism implies a metaphysic in which the totality ,
of the real is postulated complete in eternity, and in which '
the apparent duration of things expresses merely the in-
firmity of a mind that cannot know everything at once.
But duration is something very different from this for
our consciousness, that is to say, for that which is most
indisputable in our experience. We perceive duration
B8 a stream against which we cannot go. It is the foundar
tion of our being, and, as we feet, the very substance of
the world in which we live. It is of no use to hold up
before our eyes the dazzling prospect of a universal mathe-
matic; we cannot sacrifice experience to the requirementa
of a system. That is why we reject radical mechanism. -
But radical finalism is quite as unacceptable, and for
the same reason. The doctrine of teleology, in its extreme
form, as we find it in Leibniz for example, implies that
things and beings merely realize a programme previously,
uranged. But if there is nothing unforeseen, no invention j
or creation in the universe, time is useless again. As in the-'
mechanistic hypothesis, here again it is supposed that
o// is ffiven. Finalism thus understood is only inverted
mechanism. It springs from the same postulate, with
this sole difference, that in the movement of our finite
intellects along successive things, whose successiveness
is reduced to a mere appearance, it holds in front of us the
light with which it claims to guide us, instead of putting
it behind. It substitutes the attraction of the future for
tthe impulsion of the past. But succession remains none
le less a mere appearance, as indeed does movement
In the doctrine of Leibniz, time is reduced to a
[OH^^^
40 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
confused perception, relative to the human standpoint,
a perception which would vanish, hke a rising mist, for a
mind seated at the centre of things.
Yet finalism is not, liiie mechanism, a doctrine with
fixed rigid outhnes. It admits of as many inflectiona
as we like. The mechanistic philosophy is to be taken
or left: it must be left if the least grain of dust, by straying
from the path foreseea by mechanics, should show the
slightest trace of spontaneity. The doctrine of final causes,
on the contrary, will never be definitively refuted. If
one form of it be put aside, it will take another. Its
principle, which is essentially psychological, is very fiexible.
It is so extensible, and thereby ao comprehensive, that one
accepts something of it as soon as one rejects pure mech-
anism. The theory we shall put forward in this book will
therefore necessarily partake of finalism to a certain ex-
tent. For that reason it is important to intimate exactly
what we are going to take of it, and what we mean to leave.
Let us say at once that to thin out the Leibnizian finalism
by breaking it into an infinite number of pieces seems to
us a step in the wrong direction. This is, however, the
tendency of the doctrine of finality. It fully realizes that
if the universe as a whole is the carrying out of a plan,
this cannot be demonstrated empirically, and that even
of the organized world alone it is hardly easier to prove
all harmonious: facts would equally well testify to the
contrary. Nature sets living beings at discord with one
another. She everywhere presents disorder alongside
of order, retrogression alongside of progress. But, though
finality cannot be affirmed either of the whole of matter or
of the whole of life, might it not yet be true, says the
finalist, of each organism taken separately? Is there
not a wonderful division of labor, a marvellous solidarity
among the parts of an organism, perfect order in infinite
RADICAL FINALISM
41
w
Veomplexity? Does not each living being thus reahze.
a plan inimaneat in its substance? — This theory con-
Eists, at bottom, in breaking up the original notion of
finality into bits. It does not accept, indeed it ridicules,
the idea of an extemoL finality, according to which living
beings are ordered with regard to each other: to suppose
the grass made for the cow, the lamb for the wolf — that is
all acknowledged to be absurd. But there is, we are told,
an internal finality: each being is made for itself, all its
parts conspire for the greatest good of the whole and are
intelligently organized in view of that end, Such is the
notion of finafity which has long been classic. Finalism
»has shrunk to the point of never embracing more than one
living being at a time. By making itself smaller, it probably
thought it would offer less surface for blows.
The truth is, it lay open to them a great deal more.
Radical as our on-n theory may appear, finality is external
or it is nothing at all.
Consider the most complex and the most harmonious
organism. All the elements, we are told, conspire for
the greatest good of the whole. Very well, but let us
The truth is, it lay open to them a great deal more.
Radical as our on-n theory may appear, finality is external
or it is nothing at all.
Consider the most complex and the most harmonious
organism. All the elements, we are told, conspire for
the greatest good of the whole. Very well, but let us
tnot foi^et that each of these elements may itself be an
organism in certain cases, and that in subordinating the
existence of this small organism to the life of the great',
one we accept the principle of an eternal finality. The
idea of a finality that is always internal is therefore a self-
destructive notion. An organism is composed of tissues.
Beach of which lives for itself. The cells of which the tissues
rare made have also a certain independence. Strictly speak-
ing, if the subordination of all the elements of the individ-
ual to the individual itself were complete, we might contend
that they are not organisms, reserve the name organism for
the individual, and recognize only internal finality. But
every one knows that these elements may possess a true au-
42
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
tonomy. To say nothing of phagocj-tes, which push inde-
pendence to the point of attacking the organism that
nourishes them, or of germinal cells, which have their own
life alongside the somatic cells — the facts of regeneration
are enough: here an element or a group of elements sud-
denly reveals that, however limited its normal space and
function, it can transcend them occasionally; it may even,
in certain cases, be regarded as the equivalent of the
whole.
There lies the stumbling-block of the vitalistic theories.
We shall not reproach them, as is ordinarily done, with
replying to the question by the question itself: the "vital
principle" may indeed not explain much, but it is at least
a sort of label affixed to our ignorance, so as to remind
us of this occasionally,' while mechanism invites us to
ignore that ignorance. But the position of vitalism is
rendered very difficult by the fact that, in nature, there is
neither purely internal finality nor absolutely distinct
individuality. The organized dements composing the
individual have themselves a certain individuality, and
each will claim its vital principle if the individual pre-
tends to have its own. But, on the other hand, the in-
dividual itself is not sufficiently independent, not sufficiently
cut off from other things, for us to allow it a " vital princi-
But, on the other hand, the in-
dividual itself is not sufficiently independent, not sufficiently
cut off from other things, for us to allow it a " vital princi-
There are really two lines to follow in contemporary neo-vitalisn:
OD the one hand, the assertion that pure mechanism is inaufGcient,
which Bfisumes great authority when mode hy such scientists as Driescb
or Reinke, for example; and, on the other hand, the hj'potheses which
this vitalism superposes on mechanism (the "entelechiea" of Driesch,
and the"dominants'' of Reinke, etc.). Of these two parts, the fonner
is perhaps the more interesting. See the admirable studies of Driesch —
Die LokaliscUion morphogenetiaeher Vorgange, Leipzig, 1S09; Die oryon-
uchen Ae^uioltonen, Leipzig, 1901; Naturbegriffc and NaiuTuHeilc^heip-
■ig, 1904; Der VHalismug aU GeschichU und all Z^hre. Leipzig, 1905;
and of Reinke— i>M WtU aU Tat, Berlin, 1899; Binleilung in di«
Iftwretitche Biologie, Berlin, 1001; PhUotophie der Botanih, Leipzig,
A
I
»
RADICAL FINALISM
pie" of its own. An orgaaisra such as a higher vertebrate
is the most individuated of all organisms; yet, if we take
into account that it is only the development of an ovum
forming part of the body of its mother and of a spermato-
zoon belonging to the body of its father, that the egg
(i.e. the ovum fertihzed) is a connecting link between the
two progenitora since it is common to their two sub-
Btances, we shall reaUze that every individual organism,
;«ven that of a man, is merely a bud that has sprouted on
the combined body of both its parents. Where, then,
does the vital principle of the individual begin or end?
Gradually we shall be carried further and further back,
up to the individual's remotest ancestors: we shall find
him solidary with each of them, solidary with that little
mass of protoplasmic jelly which is probably at the root
of the genealogical tree of life. Being, to a certain extent,
one with this primitive ancestor, he is also solidary with
all that descends from the ancestor in divergent directions.
In this sense each individual may be said to remain united
with the totality of living beings by invisible bonds. So
it is of no use to try to restrict finality to the individuality
of the hving being. If there is finality in the world of life, it
includes the whole of life in a single indivisible embrace.
This life common to ail the living undoubtedly presents
many gaps and incoherences, and again it is not so mathe-
matically one that it cannot allow each being to become
individuahzed to a certain degree. But it forms a single
whole, none the less; and we have to choose between the
out-and-out negation of finality and the hypothesis which
co-ordinates not only the parts of an organism with the
iitirganism itself, but also each Hving being with the col-
rtive whole of all others.
FinaUty will not go down any easier for bemg taken
a powder. Either the hypothesis of a finality im-
"-U CREATIVE EVOLUTION
FinaUty will not go down any easier for bemg taken
a powder. Either the hypothesis of a finality im-
"-U CREATIVE EVOLUTION
manent in life should be rejected aa a whole, or it must
undergo a treatment very different from pulverization.
The error of radical finalism, as also that of radical
mechanism, is to extend too far the application of certain
concepts that are natural to our intellect. Originally,
we thinli only in order to act. Our intellect has been
cast in the mold of action. Speculation is a luxury, while
action is a necessity. Now, in order to act, we begin by
proposing an end; we make a plan, then we go on to the
detail of the mechanism which will bring it to pass. This
latter operation is possible only if wc know what we can
reckon on. We must therefore have managed to extract
resemblances from nature, which enable us to anticipate
the future. Thus we must, consciously or unconsciously,
have made use of the law of causality. Moreover, the
more sharply the idea of efficient causality is defined in
our mind, the more it takes the form of a meckanieal
causality. And this scheme, in its turn, is the more
mathematical according as it expresses a more rigorous
necessity. That is why we have only to follow the bent
of our mind to become mathematicians. But, on the
other band, this natural mathematics is only the rigid
unconscious skeleton beneath our conscious supple habit
of linking the same causes to the same effects ; and the usual
object of this habit is to guide actions inspired by in-
tentions, or, what comes to the same, to direct movements
combined with a view to reproducing a pattern. We are
bom artisans as we are bom geometricians, and indeed
we are geometricians only because we are artisans. Thus
the human intellect, inasmuch as it is fashioned for the
needs of human action, is an intellect which proceeds at
the same time by intention and by calculation, by adapt-
ing means to ends and by thinking out mechanisms of
Bit)
OSOPHY
45
more and more geometrical form. Whether nature be
conceived as an immense machine regulated by mathe-
matical laws, or as the realization of a plan, these two ways
of regarding it are only the consummation of two tendencies
Lof mind which are complementary to each other, and which
lave their origin in the same vital necessities.
For that reason, radical finalism is very near radical
mechanism on many points. Both doctrines are reluc-
kOt to see in the course of things generally, or even simply
1 the development of life, an unforeseeable creation of
porm. In considering reality, mechanism regards only
For that reason, radical finalism is very near radical
mechanism on many points. Both doctrines are reluc-
kOt to see in the course of things generally, or even simply
1 the development of life, an unforeseeable creation of
porm. In considering reality, mechanism regards only
he aspect of similarity or repetition. It is therefore
dominated by this law, that in nature there is only like
reproducing like. The more the geometry in mechanism
Is emphasized, the less can mechanism admit that any-
thing is ever created, even pure form. In so far as we are
geometricians, then, we reject the unforeseeable. We
might accept it, assuredly, in so far as we are artists, for
art lives on creation and implies a, latent belief in the
spontandty of nature. But disinterested art is a luxury,
like pure speculation. Long before being artists, we are
artisans; and all fabrication, however rudimentary, hves
on likeness and repetition, like the natural geometry which
serves as its fulcrum. Fabrication works on models
which it sets out to reproduce; and even when it invents,
it proceeds, or imagines itself to proceed, by a new ar-
rangement of elements already known. Its principle
is that "we must have like to produce like." In short,
the strict application of the principle of finality, like that
of the principle of mechanical causality, leads to the con-
clusion that "all is given." Both principles say the same
tting in their respective languages, because they respond
D the same need.
Hiat is why agun they agree in doing away with time.
46
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Real duration is that duration which gnaws on things,
and leaves on them the mark of its tooth. If everything
is in time, everj-thing changes inwardly, and the same
concrete reality never recurs. Repetition is therefore
possible only in the abstract: what is repeated is some
aspect that our senses, and especially our intellect, have
singled out from reality, just because our action, upon
which all the effort of our intellect is directed, can move
i only among repetitions. Thus, concentrated on that
which repeats, solely preoccupied in welding the same
to the same, intellect turns away from the vision of time.
It dislikes what is fluid, and solidifies everything it touches.
We do not think real time. But we live it, because life
transcends intellect. The feeling we have of our evolution
and of the evolution of all things in pure duration is there,
forming around the intellectual concept properly so-called
an indistinct fringe that fades off into darkness. Mechan-
ism and finalism agree in taking account only of the bright
nucleus shining in the centre. They forget that this
nucleus has been formed out of the rest by condensation,
and that the whole must be used, the fluid as well as and
more than the condensed, in order to grasp the inner move-
ment of hfe.
They forget that this
nucleus has been formed out of the rest by condensation,
and that the whole must be used, the fluid as well as and
more than the condensed, in order to grasp the inner move-
ment of hfe.
Indeed, if the fringe exists, however dehcate and in-
distinct, it should have more importance for philosophy
than the bright nucleus it surrounds. For it is its presence
that enables us to afRrm that the nucleus is a nucleus, that
pure intellect is a contraction, by condensation, of a more
extensive power. And, just because this vague intiution
is of no help in directing our action on things, which action
takes place exclusively on the surface of reality, we may
presume that it is to be exercised not merely on the aui^
face, but below.
As soon as we go out of the encasing in which radical
BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY
47
F
mechauism and radical finallsm confine our thought, reahty
H . appears as a ceaseless upspringing of something new, which
H has no sooner arisen to make the present than it has al-
W ready fallen back into the past; at this exact moment it
falls under the glance of the intellect, whose eyes are ever
turned to the rear. This is already the case with our
inner life. For each of our acts we shall easily find ante-
cedents of which it may in some sort be said to be the
mechanical resultant. And it may equally well be said
that each action is the realization of an intention. In
this sense mechanism is everywhere, and finality every-
where, in the evolution of our conduct. But if our action
be one that involves the whole of our person and is truly
ours, it could not have been foreseen, even though its
antecedents explain it when once it has been accomplished,
And though it be the realizing of an intention, it differs,
as a present and new reality, from the intention, which
can never aim at anything but recommencing or rear-
ranging the past. Mechanism and finalism are there-
fore, here, only external views of our conduct. They
extract its intellectuality. But our conduct slips between
them and extends much further. Once again, this does
not mean that free action is capricious, unreasonable
action. To behave according to caprice is to oscillate
mechanically between two or more ready-made alternatives
and at length to settle on one of them ; it is no real matur-
ing of an internal state, no real evolution; it is merely —
however paradoxical the assertion may seem — bending
the will to imitate the mechanism of the intellect. A
conduct that is truly our own, on the contrary, is that of a
will which does not try to counterfeit intellect, and which,
remaining itself — ^that is to say, evolving — ripens gradually
into acts which the intellect will be able to resolve in-
definitely into intelligible elements without ever reaching
48
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lORAP.
its goal. The free act is incommensurable with the idea,
and its "rationality" must be defined by this very in-
commensurability, which admits the discovery of as much
intelligibibty within it as we will. Such is the character
of our own evolution; and such also, without doubt, that
of the evolution of life.
Our reason, incorrigibly presumptuous, imagines itself
possessed, by right of birth or by right of conquest, innate
or acquired, of all the essential elements of the knowledge
of truth. Even where it confesses that it dora not know
the object presented to it, it beheves that its ignorance
consists only in not knowing which one of its time-honored
categories suits the new object. In what drtfwer, ready
to open, shall we put it? In what garment, already cut
out, shall we clothe it? Is it this, or that, or the other
thing? And "this," and "that," and "the other thing"
are always something already conceived, already known.
The idea that for a new object we might have to create a
new concept, perhaps a new method of thinking, is deeply
repugnant to us. The history of philosophy is there, how-
ever, and shows us the eternal conflict of systems, the im-
possibility of satisfactorily getting the real into the ready-
made garments of our ready-made concepts, the necessity
of making to measure. But, rather than go to this ex-
tremity, our reason prefers to announce once for all, with
a proud modesty, that it has to do only with the relative,
and that the absolute is not in its province. This pre-
liminary declaration enables it to apply its habitual method
of thought without any scruple, and thus, under pretense
that it does not touch the absolute, to make absolute
judgments upon everything. Plato was the first to set up
the theory that to know the real consists in finding it3
Idea, that is to say, in forcing it into a pre-existing frame
already at our disposal — ^as if we implicitly possessed urn-
I-I
BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY
versal knowledge. But this belief is natural to the human
intellect, always engaged as it is in determining under what
former heading it shall catalogue any new object : and it
may be said that, in a certain sense, we are all bora
Platonista.
But this belief is natural to the human
intellect, always engaged as it is in determining under what
former heading it shall catalogue any new object : and it
may be said that, in a certain sense, we are all bora
Platonista.
Nowhere is the inadequacy of this method so obvious
as in theories of life. If, in evolving in the direction of
the vertebrates in general, of man and intellect in par-
ticular, life has had to abandon by the way many elements
incompatible with this particular mode of organization
and consign them, as we shall show, to other lines of
development, it is the totality of these elements that we
must find again and rejoin to the intellect proper, in
order to grasp the true nature of vital activity. And we
shall probably be aided in this by the fringe of vague in-
tuition that surrounds our distinct — that is, mtellectual
— representation. For what can this useless fringe be,
if not that part of the evolving principle which has not
shrunk to the peculiar form of our organization, but has
settled around it unasked for, unwanted? It is there,
accordingly, that we must look for hints to expand the
intellectual form of our thought ; from there shall we derive
the impetus necessary to lift us above ourselves. To
form an idea of the whole of life cannot consist in combin-
ing simple ideas that have been left behind in us by life
itself in the course of its evolution. How could the part
be equivalent to the whole, the content to the container,
a by-product of the vital operation to the operation itself?
Such, however, is our illusion when we define the evolution
of life as a "passage from the homogeneous to the hetero-
geneous," or by any other concept obtained by putting
fragments of intellect side by side. We place ourselves
in one of the points where evolution comes to a head —
the principal one, no doubt, but not the only one; and
50 CREATIVE EVOLUTION K
there we do not even take all we find, for of the intellect
we keep only one or two of the concepts by which it ex-
presses itself; and it is this part of a part that we declare
representative of the whole, of something indeed which
goes beyond the concrete whole, I mean of the evolution
movement of which this "whole" is only the present stagel
The truth is, that to represent this the entire intellect
would not be too much — nay, it would not be enough.
It would be necessary to add to it what we find in every
other terminal point of evolution. And these diverse
and divergent elements must be considered as so many
extracts which are, or at least which were, in their humblest
form, mutually complementary. Only then might we
have an inkling of the real nature of the evolution move-
ment; and even then we should fail to grasp it completely,
for we should still be dealing only with the evolved, which
is a result, and not with evolution itself, which is the act
by which the result is obtained.
Only then might we
have an inkling of the real nature of the evolution move-
ment; and even then we should fail to grasp it completely,
for we should still be dealing only with the evolved, which
is a result, and not with evolution itself, which is the act
by which the result is obtained.
Such is the philosophy of life to which we are leading
up. It claims to transcend both mechanism and finalism;
but, as we announced at the beginning, it is nearer the
second doctrine than the first. It will not be amiss to
dwell on this point, and show more precisely how far this
philosophy of life resembles Qnaiism and wherein it is
different. -~
Like radical finalism, although in a vaguer form, our
philosophy represents the organized world as a harmonious
whole. But this harmony is far from being as perfect
as it has been claimed to be. It admits of much discord,
because each species, each individual even, retains only
a certain impetus from the universal vital impulaon and
tends to use this energy in its own interest. In this con-
sists adaptation. The species and the individual thus
think only of themselves — whence arises a possible conflict
Ill
BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY
SI
I
In this con-
sists adaptation. The species and the individual thus
think only of themselves — whence arises a possible conflict
Ill
BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY
SI
I
with other forms of life. Harmony, therefore, does not
exist in fact; it exists rather in principle; I mean that
the original impetus is a common impetus, and the higher
we ascend the stream of life the more do diverse tendencies
appear complementary to each other. Thus the wind
at a street-corner divides into diverging currents which J
are all one and the same gust. Harmony, or rather "com- \
plementarity, " is revealed only in the mass, in tendencies
rather than in states. Especially {and this is the point
on which finaliam has been most seriously mistaken)
harmony is rather beliind us than before. It is due to an-'
identity of impulsion and not to a common aspiration.
It would be futile to try to assign to life an end, in the
human sense of the word. To speak of an end is to think
of a pre-existing model which has only to be realized. It
is to suppose, therefore, that al! is given, and that the future
can be read in the present. It is to believe that hfe, in its
movement and in its entirety, goes to work like our in-
tellect, which is only a motionless and fragmentary view
of life, and which naturally takes its stand outside of time.
Life, on the contrary, progresses and endures in time. Of
course, when once the road has been traveled, we can
glance over it, mark its direction, note this in psychological
terms and speak as if there had been pursuit of an end.
Thus shall we speak ourselves. But, of the road which
was going to be traveled, the human mind could have
nothing to say, for the road has been created pari passu
with the act of traveling over it, being nothing but the
direction of this act itself. At every instant, then, evo-
lution must admit of a psychological interpretation which
is, from our point of view, the best interpretation; but
this explanation has neither value nor even significance
except retrospectively. Never could the linalistic inter-
pretation, such as we shall propose it, be taken for an
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(ohS^^
Never could the linalistic inter-
pretation, such as we shall propose it, be taken for an
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(ohS^^
anticipation of the future. It ia a particular mode of
viewing the past in the light of the present. In short,
the classic conception of finality postulates at once too
much and too little: it is both too wide and too narrow.
In explaining life by intellect, it limits too much the mean-
ing of life: intellect, such at least as we find it in ourselves,
has been fashioned by evolution during the course of
progress; it is cut out of something larger, or, rather,
it is only the projection, necessarily on a plane, of a reality
that possesses both relief and depth. It is this more com-
prehensive reality that true finalism ought to reconstruct,
or, rather, if possible, embrace in one view. But, on the
other hand, just because it goes beyond intellect — the
faculty of connecting the same with the same, of per-
CKving and also of producing repetitions — this reality is
undoubtedly creative, i. e. productive of effects in which
it expands and transcends its own being. These effects
were therefore not given in it in advance, and so it could
not take them for ends, although, when once produced,
they admit of a rational interpretation, like that of the
manufactured article that has reproduced a model. In
short, the theory of final causes does not go far enough when
it confines itself to ascribing some intelligence to nature,
and it goes too far when it supposes a prc-existence of
the future in the present in the form of idea. And the
second theory, which sins by excess, ia the outcome of
the first, which sins by defect. In place of intellect proper
must be substituted the more comprehensive reality of
which intellect is only the contraction. The future then
appears as expanding the present: it was not, therefore,
contained in the present in the form of a represented end.
And yet, once realized, it will explain the present as much
as the present explains it, and even more; it must be viewed
as an end as much as, and more than, a result. Our in-
t.1
BIOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY
teUect has a right to consider the future abstractly from
Hs habitual point of view, being itself an abstract view'
of the cause of its own being.
It is true that the cause may then seem beyond our
grasp. Already the finalist theory of life eludes all pre-
cise verification, 'What if we go beyond it in one of its
directions? Here, in fact, after a necessary digression,
we are back at the question which we regard as essential:
can the insufficiency of mechanism be proved by facts?
We said that if this demonstration js possible, it is on con-
dition of frankly accepting the evolutionist hypothesis,
We must now show that if mechanism is insufficient to
account for evolution, the way of proving this insufficiency
is not to stop at the classic conception of finality, still
less to contract or attenuate it, but, on the contrary, to
go further.
Let us indicate at once the principle of our demonstration.
We said of life that, from its origin, it is the continuation
of one and the same impetus, divided into divergent lines
of evolution. Something has grown, something has de-
veloped by a series of additions which have been so many
creations. This very development has brought about a
dissociation of tendencies which were unable to grow be-
yond a certain point without becoming mutually incom-
patible. Strictly speaking, there is nothing to prevent
our imagining that the evolution of life might have taken
place in one single individual by means of a series of trans-
formations spread over thousands of ages. Or, instead
of a single individual, any number might be supposed,
succeeding each other in a unilinear series. In both cases
evolution would have had, so to speak, one dimension only.
But evolution has actually taken place through millions
of individuals, on divergent lines, each ending at a crossing
from which new paths radiate, and so on indefinitely. If
54
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
KJhS^j
In both cases
evolution would have had, so to speak, one dimension only.
But evolution has actually taken place through millions
of individuals, on divergent lines, each ending at a crossing
from which new paths radiate, and so on indefinitely. If
54
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
KJhS^j
our hypothesis is justified, if the essential causes working
along these diverse roads are of psychological nature, they
must keep something in common in spite of the divergence
of their effects, as school-fellows long separated keep the
same memories of boyhood. Roads may fork or by-waya
be opened along which dissociated elements may evolve
in an independent manner, but nevertheless it is in virtue
of the primitive impetus of the whole that the movement of
the parts continues. Something of the whole, therefore,
must abide in the parts; and this common element will
be evident to us in some way, perhaps by the presence of
identical organs in very different organisms. Suppose,
for an instant, that the mechanistic explanation is the true
one: evolution must then have occurred through a series
of accidents added to one another, each new accident
being preserved by selection if it is advantageous to that
sum of former advantageous accidents which the present
form of the living being represents. What likelihood is
there that, by two entirely different scries of accidents
being added together, two entirely different evolutions
will arrive at similar results? The more two lines of evo-
lution diverge, the less probability is there that accidental
outer influences or accidental inner variations bring about
the construction of the same apparatus upon them, es-
pecially if there, was no trace of this apparatus at the
moment of divergence. But such similarity of the two
products would be natural, on the contrary, on a hypothecs
like ours: even in the latest channel there would be some-
thing of the impulsion received at the source. Pure
mechanism, then, would be Tefittable, aiid finalily, in the
special sense in which we understand it, would be demon-
strable in a certain aspect, if it could be proved that life may
manufacture the like apparatus, by unlike means, on di-
vergent lines of evolution; and the strength of the proof
Ill THE QUEST OF A CRITERION 55
toould be proportional both to the divergency between the
lines of evolution thus chosen and to the complexUy of the
similar structures found in tliem.
It will be said that resemblance of structure is due to
Bamenesa of the general conditions in which Hfe has evolved,
and that these permanent outer conditions may have
imposed the same direction on the forces constructing
1 this or that apparatus, in spite of the diversity of transient
I outer influences and accidental inner changes. We are
not, of course, blind to the role which the concept of
adaptation plays in the science of to-day. Biologists cer-
tainly do not all make the same use of it. Some think
^the outer conditions capable of causing change in organ-
jsms in a direct manner, in a definite direction, through
physico-chemical alterations induced by them in the liv-
ing substance ; such is the hypothesis of Eimer, for example.
Others, more faithful to the spirit of Darwinism, believe
the influence of conditions works i-ndirectly only, through
t favoring, in the struggle for life, those representatives of a
epecies which the chance of birth has best adapted to the
envirormient. In other words, some attribute a positive
influence to outer conditions, and say that they actually
give rise to variations, while the others say these conditions
have only a negative influence and merely eliminate varia-
tions. But, in both cases, the outer conditions are sup-
posed to bring about a precise adjustment of the organism
kto its circumstances. Both parties, then, will attempt
to explain mechanically, by adaptation to similar condi-
tions, the similarities of structure which wc think are the
strongest argument against mechanism. So we must at
once indicate in a general way, before passing to the detail,
_ why explanations from "adaptation" seem to us insufficient.
Let us first remark that, of the two hypotheses just
l^escribed, the latter is the only one which is not equivocal.
56 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
So we must at
once indicate in a general way, before passing to the detail,
_ why explanations from "adaptation" seem to us insufficient.
Let us first remark that, of the two hypotheses just
l^escribed, the latter is the only one which is not equivocal.
56 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
The Darwinmn idea of adaptation by automatic eUroioa-
tion of the unadapted is a simple and clear idea. But,
just because it attributes to the outer cause which con-
trols evolution a merely negative influence, it has great
difficulty in accounting for the progressive and, so to say,
rectilinear development of complex apparatus such as we
are about to examine. How much greater will this diffi-
culty be in the case of the similar structure of two extremely
complex organs on two entirely different lines of evolution!
An accidental variation, however minute, implies the
working of a great number of small physical and chemical
causes. An accumulation of accidental variations, such
as would be necessary to produce a complex structure,
requires therefore the concurrence of an almost mfinite
number of infinitesimal causes. Why should these causes,
entirely accidental, recur the same, and in the same order,
at different points of space and time? No one will hold
that this is the case, and the Darwinian himself will probably
merely maintain that identical effects may arise from
different causes, that more than one road leads to the same
spot. But let us not be fooled by a metaphor. The place
reached does not give the form of the road that leads there;
while an organic structure is just the accumulation of
those small differences which evolution has had to go
through in order to achieve it. The struggle for life and
natural selection can be of no use to us in solving this
part of the problem, for we are not concerned here with
what has perished, we have to do only with what has
survived. Now, we see that identical structures have
been formed on independent lines of evolution by a gradual
accumulation of effects. How can accidental causes,
occurring in an accidental order, be supposed to have
repeatedly come to the same result, the causes being i
finitely numerous and the effect infinitely complicated?
THE QUEST OF A CRITERION
57
I
H The principle of mechanism is that "the same causes
produce the same effects." This principle, of course, does
not always imp)y that the same effects must have the same
causes; but it does involve this consequence in the particu-
lar case in which the causes remain visible in the effect
that they produce and are indeed its constitutive elements.
That two walkers starting from different points and wan-
dering at random should finally meet, is no great wonder.
But that, throughout their walk, they should describe
That two walkers starting from different points and wan-
dering at random should finally meet, is no great wonder.
But that, throughout their walk, they should describe
I two identical curves exactly superposable on each other,
is altogether unlikely. The improbability will be the
greater, the more complicated the routes; and it will
become impossibility, if the zigzags are infinitely com-
plicated. Now, what is this complexity of zigzags as
compared with that of an organ in which thousands of
different cells, each being itself a kind of organism, are
arranged in a definite order?
Let us turn, then, to the other hypothesis, and see how
tit would solve the problem. Adaptation, it says, is not
merely elimination of the unadapted; it is due to the posi-
tive influence of outer conditions that have molded the
organism on their own form. This time, similarity of
effects will be explained by similarity of cause. We shall
remain, apparently, in pure mechanism. But if we look
closely, we shall see that the explanation is merely verbal,
that we are again the dupes of words, and that the trick
of the solution consists in taking the term "adaptation"
in two entirely different senses at the same time.
If I pour into the same glass, by turns, water and wine,
the two hqutds will take the same form, and the sameness
in form will be due to the sameness In adaptation of content
to container. Adaptation, here, really means mechanical
adjustment. The reason is that the form to which the
matter has adapted itself was there, ready-made, and
58
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Adaptation, here, really means mechanical
adjustment. The reason is that the form to which the
matter has adapted itself was there, ready-made, and
58
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
has forced its own ghape on the matter. But, in the
adaptation of an organism to the circumstances it has to
five in, where is the pre-existing form awaiting its matter?
The circumstances are not a mold into which life is inserted
and whose form life adopts: this is indeed to be fooled by
a metaphor. There is no form yet, and the life must
create a form for itself, suited to the circumstances which
are made for it. It will have to make the best of these
circumstances, neutralize their inconveniences and utilize
their advantages^in short, respond to outer actions by
building up a machine which has no resemblance to them.
Such adapting is not repeating, but replying, — an entirely
different thing. If there is still adaptation, it will be in
the sense in which one may say of the solution of a problem
of geometry, for example, that it ia adapted to the con-
ditions. I grant indeed that adaptation so understood
explains why different evolutionary processes result in
similar forms: the same problem, of course, calls for the
same solution. But it is necessary then to introduce,
as for the solution of a problem of geometry, an intelligent
activity, or at least a cause which behaves in the same way.
This is to bring in finality again, and a finality this time
more than ever charged with anthropomorphic elements.
In a word, if the adaptation is passive, if it is mere repetition
in the relief of what the conditions give in the mold, it
will build up nothing that one tries to make it build ; and
if it is active, capable of responding by a calculated solu-
tion to the problem which is set out in the conditions,
that is going further than we do — too far, indeed, in our
opinion— in the direction we indicated in the beginning.
But the truth is that there is a surreptitious passing from
one of these two meanings to the other, a flight for refuge
to the first whenever one is about to be caught injlagranie
delicto of finaUsm by employing the second. It is really
THE QUEST OF A CRITERION
the second which serves the usual practice of science, but
it is the first that generally provides its philosophy. In
any particular case one talks as if the process of adaptation
were an effort of the organism to build up a machine
capable of turning external circumstances to the best
possible account: then one speaks of adaptation in general
as if it were the very impress of circumstances, passively
received by an indifferent matter.
But let us come to the examples. It would be interest-
ing first to institute here a general comparison between
plants and animals. One cannot fail to be struck with the
parallel progress which has been accomplished, on both
sides, in the direction of sexuality. Not only is fecunda-
tion itself the same in higher plants and in animals, since
it consists, in both, in the union of two nuclei that differ
in their properties and structure before their union and
immediately after become equivalent to each other; but
the preparation of sexual elements goes on in both under
like conditions : it consists essentially in the reduction of the
number of chromosomes and the rejection of a certain
quantity of chromatic substance.' Yet vegetables and
animals have evolved on independent lines, favored by
unlike circumstances, opposed by unlike obstacles. Here
are two great scries which have gone on diverging. On
either line, thousands and thousands of causes have com-
bined to determine the morphological and functional
evolution. Yet these infinitely complicated causes have
been consummated, in each series, in the same effect. And
this effect could hardly be called a phenomenon of "adapt-
I ation": where is the adaptation, where is the pressure
' of external circumstances? There is no striking utility
P. Gufrin. Let Connaissancea aetveUes «ur U
jihmiTogames, Paris, 1904, pp. 144-148. Cf.
2ad edition, 1903, pp. 140 fT.
jiamdation ehtt Um
Dolage. L'HirtdiU,
60 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohap."
There is no striking utility
P. Gufrin. Let Connaissancea aetveUes «ur U
jihmiTogames, Paris, 1904, pp. 144-148. Cf.
2ad edition, 1903, pp. 140 fT.
jiamdation ehtt Um
Dolage. L'HirtdiU,
60 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohap."
in sexual generation; it haa been interpreted in the most
diverse ways; and some very acute enquirers evan regard
the sexuality of tlie plant, at least, as a luxury which nature
might have dispensed with.' But we do not wish to dwell
on facts so disputed. The ambiguity of the teim " adapta-
tion," and the necessity of transcending both the point
of view of mechanical causality and that of anthropomor-
phic finality, will staad out more clearly with simpler
examples. At all times the doctrine of finality has laid
much stress on the marvellous structure of the sense-
organs, in order to liken the work of nature to that of an
intelligent workman. Now, since these organs are found,
in a rudimentary state, in the lower animals, and since
nature offers us many intermediaries between the pig-
ment-spot of the simplest organisms and the infinitely
complex eye of the vertebrates, it may just as well be
alleged that the result has been brought about by natural
selection perfecting the organ automatically. In short,
if there is a case in which it seems justifiable to invoke
adaptation, it is this particular one. For there may be
di8cus.sion about the function and meaning of such a thing
as sexual generation, in so far as it is related to the con-
ditions in which it occurs; but the relation of the eye to
light is obvious, and when we call this relation an adapta-
tion, we must know what we mean. If, then, we can show,
in this privileged case, the insufficiency of the principles
invoked on both sides, our demonstration will at once
have reached a high degree of generality.
Let us consider the example on which the advocates
of finality have always insisted: the structure of such
an organ as the human eye. They have had no diffi-
' Hcbius, fleifrcwje zur Lehrt von der Fortpfianrung der GeuUch**,
Jena, t8&7, pp. 203-20Giii piirticuUr. Cf. HBjtog,"Sur les phinomenea
de leproductioD" (Annie biologique, 1895, pp. 707-709).
THE CHOICE OF AN EXAMPLE
61
They have had no diffi-
' Hcbius, fleifrcwje zur Lehrt von der Fortpfianrung der GeuUch**,
Jena, t8&7, pp. 203-20Giii piirticuUr. Cf. HBjtog,"Sur les phinomenea
de leproductioD" (Annie biologique, 1895, pp. 707-709).
THE CHOICE OF AN EXAMPLE
61
culty in showing that in this extremely complicated ap-
paratus all the elements are marvelously co-ordinated.
In order that vision shall operate, says the author of a well-
known book on Final Causes, "the sclerotic membrane
must become transparent in one point of its surface, so
3 to enable luminous rays to pierce it . . . ; the cornea
must correspond exactly with the opening of the socket
behind this transparent opening there must be
I refracting media . . .; there must be a retina' at the
extremity of the dark chamber . . .; perpendicular to
the retina there must be an innumerable quantity of trans-
parent cones permitting only the light directed in the hne
of their axes to reach the nervous membrane,"' etc. etc. In
reply, the advocate of final causes has been invited to
assume the evolutionist hypothesis. E\'erytliing is mar-
velous, indeed, if one consider an eye like ours, in which
thousands of elements are coordinated in a single function.
But take the function at its origin, in the Infusorian, where
I it is reduced to the mere impressionability (almost purely
I chemical) of a pigment-spot to light: this function, pos-
sibly only an accidental fact in the beginning, may have
brought about a slight complication of the organ, which
again induced an improvement of the function. It may
have done this either directly, through some unknown
mechanism, or indirectly, merely through the effect of
the advantages it brought to the living being and the hold
it thus offered to natural selection. Thus the progressive
formation of an eye as well contrived as ours would be
explained by an almost infinite number of actions and re-
actions between the function and the organ, without the
intervention of other than mechanical causes.
The question ia hard to decide, indeed, when put di-
I FauI Jaoet, Let Cautea finales, Paris, L876, p. 83.
• Ibid. p. 80.
62
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[OHAf.'
rectly between the function and the organ, as is done in
the doctrine of finality, as also mechanism itself does. For
organ and function are terms of different nature, and each
conditions the other so closely that it is impossible to say
a priori whether in expressing their relation we should
l>egin with the first, as does mechanism, or with the second,
as finalism requires. But the discussion would take an
entirely different turn, we thinit, if we began by comparing
together two terms of the same nature, an organ with
an organ, instead of an organ with its function. In this
case, it would be possible to proceed little by little to a
solution more and more plausible, and there would be
the more chance of a successful issue the more resolutely
we assumed the evolutionist hypothesis.
In this
case, it would be possible to proceed little by little to a
solution more and more plausible, and there would be
the more chance of a successful issue the more resolutely
we assumed the evolutionist hypothesis.
Let us place side by side the eye of a vertebrate and
that of a mollusc such as the common Pecten. We find
the same essential parts in each, composed of analogous
elements. The eye of the Pecten presents a retina, a
cornea, a lens of cellular structure like our own. There
is even that peculiar inversion of retinal elements which
is not met with, in general, in the retina of the inverte-
brates. Now, the origin of molluscs may be a debated
question, but, whatever opinion we hold, all are agreed
that molluscs and vertebrates separated from their common
parent-stem long before the appearance of an eye so com-
plex as that of the Pecten. Whence, then, the structural
analogy?
Let us question on this point the two opposed systems
of evolutionist explanation in turn — the hypothesis of
purely accidental vanations, and that of a variation di-
rected in a definite way under the influence of external
conditions.
The first, as is well known, is presented to-day in two
quite different forms. Darwin spoke of very slight van-
I-l
THE CHOICE OF AN EXAMPLE
63
ationa being accumulated by natural selection. He waa
not ignorant of the facts of sudden variation ; but he thought
these "sports," as he called thenn, were only monstrosities
incapable of perpetuating themselves; and he accounted
for the genesis of species by an accumulation of insensible
variations.' Such is still the opinion of many naturaUsts.
It is tending, however, to give way to the opposite idea
that a new species comes into being all at once by the
simultaneous appearance of several new characters, all
somewhat different from the previous ones. This latter
hypothesis, already proposed by various authors, notably
by Bateson in a remarkable book," has become deeply
Bignificant and acquired great force since the striking ex-
periments of Hugo de Vries. This botanist, working on
the (Enotkera Lamarckiana, obtained at the end of a few
generations a certain number of new species. The theory
he deduces from his experiments is of the highest interest.
Species pass through alternate periods of stability and
transformation. When the period of "mutabihty" occurs,
unexpected forms spring forth in a great number of diflfer-
ent directions." — We will not attempt to take sides be-
tween this hypothesis and that of insensible variations.
Indeed, perhaps both are partly true. We wish merely
to point out that if the variations invoked are accidental,
they do not, whether small or great, account for a similar-
ity of structure such as we have cited.
Let us assume, to begin with, the Darwinian theory of
insensible variations, and suppose the occurrence of small
differences due to chance, and continually accumulating.
Darwin, Origin of Speciea, chap. ii.
Let us assume, to begin with, the Darwinian theory of
insensible variations, and suppose the occurrence of small
differences due to chance, and continually accumulating.
Darwin, Origin of Speciea, chap. ii.
• Baleaon, MatmaU for the Study oj Variation, Loodoii, 1894, e»-
peciaUy pp. 567 ff. Cf. Scott, "Variationfl and Mutatjons" (.4tnertaui
Journal of Scie7ice,Jio\. 1894).
* De Vries, Die Mvtatiojtttkeorvr, Leipzig, 1001-1903. Of., by the
Mine author, Spedet and Variefiea, Clucago, 1905.
t
64 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
It must not be forgotten that all the parts of an organism
are necessarily coordinated. Whether the function be
the effect of the organ or its cause, it mattere little; one
point is certain — the organ will be of no use and will not
give selection a hold unless it functions. However the
minute structure of the retina may develop, and however
complicated it may become, such progress, instead of
favoring vision, will probably hinder it if the visual centres
do not develop at the same time, as well as several parts of
the visual organ itself. If the variations are accidental,
how can they ever agree to arise in every part of the organ
at the same time, in such way that the organ will con-
tinue to perform its function? Darwin quite understood
this; it is one of the reasons why he regarded variation
as insensible.' For a difference which arises accidentally
at one point of the visual apparatus, if it be very slight,
will not hinder the functioning of the organ; and hence
this first accidental variation can, in a sense, watt for comple-
mentary variations to accumulate and raise vision to a
higher degree of perfection. Granted; but while the
insensible variation does not hinder the functioning of
the eye, neither does it help it, so long as the variations
that are complementary do not occur. How, in that case,
can the variation be retained by natural selection? Un-
wittingly one will reason as if the slight variation were a
toothing stone set up by the organism and reserved for a
later construction. This hypothesis, so little conformable
to the Darwinian principle, is difficult enough to avoid
even in the case of an organ which has been developed along
one single main line of evolution, e.g. the vertebrate eye.
But it is absolutely forced upon us when we observe the
likeness of structure of the vertebrate eye and that of the
molluscs. How could the same small variations, incal-
I Darwin, Origin o/ Spteia, chap. *
I-I
INSENSIBLE VARIATION
65
culable in number, have ever occurred in the same order
on two independent Unes of evolution, if they were purely
accidental? And how could they have been preserved
by selection and accumulated in both cases, the same in
the same order, when each of them, taken separately,
was of no use?
And how could they have been preserved
by selection and accumulated in both cases, the same in
the same order, when each of them, taken separately,
was of no use?
Let us turn, then, to the hypothesis of sudden varia-
tions, and see whether it will solve the problem. It cer-
tainty lessens the difficulty on one point, but it makes it
much worse on another. If the eye of the mollusc and
that of the vertebrate have both been raised to their
present form by a relatively small number of sudden
leaps, I have less difficulty in understanding the resemblance
of the two organs than if this resemblance were due to
an incalculable number of infinitesimal resemblances
acquired successively: in both cases it is chance that
operates, but in the second case chance is not required
to work the miracle it would have to perform in the first.
Not only is the number of resemblances to be added some-
what reduced, but I can ako understand better how each
could be preserved and added to the others; for the ele-
mentary variation is now considerable enough to be an
advantage to the living being, and so to lend itself to
the play of selection. But here there arises another
problem, no leas formidable, viz., how do all the parts
of the visual apparatus, suddenly changed, remain so
well coordinated that the eye continues to exercise its
function? For the change of one part alone will make
vision impossible, unless this change is absolutely infinitesi-
mal. The parts must then all change at once, each con-
sulting the others. I agree that a great number of un-
coordinated variations may indeed have arisen in less
fortunate individuals, that natural selection may have
eliminated these, and that only the combination fit to
endure, capable of preserving and improving vision, has
eiirvived. Still, this combination had to be produced.
And, supposing chance to have granted this favor once,
can we admit that it repeats the self-same favor in the
course of the history of a species, so as to give rise, every
time, all at once, to new complications marvelously regu-
lated with reference to each other, and so related to former
complications as tu go further on in the same direction?
How, especially, can we suppose that by a series of mere
"accidents" these sudden variations occur, the same,
in the same order, — involving in each case a perfect har-
mony of elements more and more numerous and complex —
iilong two independent lines of evolution?
How, especially, can we suppose that by a series of mere
"accidents" these sudden variations occur, the same,
in the same order, — involving in each case a perfect har-
mony of elements more and more numerous and complex —
iilong two independent lines of evolution?
The law of correlation will be invoked, of course; Dar-
win himself appealed to it." It will be alleged that a
change is not localized in a single point of the organism,
but has its necessary recoil on other points. The ex-
amples cited by Darwin remain classic: white cats with
blue eyes are genei-ally deaf; hairless dogs have imperfect
dt^ntition, etc. — Granted; but let us not play now on the
word " correlation. " A collective whole of solidary changes
is one thing, a system of complemeniary changes — clianges
so coordinated as to keep up and even improve the function-
ing of an organ under more complicated conditions — is
another. That an anomaly of the pilous system should
be accompanied by an anomaly of dentition is quite
conceivable without our having to call for a special princi-
ple of explanation; for hair and teeth are similar forma-
tions,' and the same chemical change of the germ that
hinders the formation of hair would probably obstruct
' Darwin, Origin of Sptcies, chap. i.
On thia homology of hair and teeth, sec Brandt, "tfber . . . eine
mutnuMslicho Homologie der Honre und Zahne'' {Biol. CerUralbiatl,
vol. xviii., ISOS, especiaUy pp. 262 S.).
I-I
SUDDEN VARIATION
that of teeth: it may be for the 6
3 sort of r
67
1 that
i
same s
i.
On thia homology of hair and teeth, sec Brandt, "tfber . . . eine
mutnuMslicho Homologie der Honre und Zahne'' {Biol. CerUralbiatl,
vol. xviii., ISOS, especiaUy pp. 262 S.).
I-I
SUDDEN VARIATION
that of teeth: it may be for the 6
3 sort of r
67
1 that
i
same s
white cats with blue eyes are deaf. In these different
examples the "correlative" changes are only solidary
changes (not to mention the fact that they are really
lesions, namely, diminutions or suppressions, and not
additions, which makes a great difference). But when we
Bpeak of "correlative" changes occurring suddenly in
the different parts of the eye, we use the word in an entirely
new sense: this time there is a whole set of changes not
only simultaneous, not only bound together by community
of origin, but so coordinated that the organ kee]«i on per-
forming the same simple function, and even performs it
better. That a change in the germ, which influences the
formation of the retina, may affect at the same time also
the formation of the cornea, the iris, the lens, the visual
centres, etc., I admit, if necessary, although they are forma-
tions that differ much more from one another in their
original nature than do probably hair and teeth. But
that all these simultaneous changes should occur in such
a way as to improve or even merely maintain vision, this
is what, in the hypothesis of sudden variation, I cannot
admit, unless a mysterious principle is to come in, whose
duty it is to watch over the interest of the function. But
this would be to give up the idea of "accidental" variation.
In reality, these two senses of the word "correlation" are
often interchanged in the mind of the biologist, just like
the two senses of the word "adaptation." And the con-
fusion is almost legitimate in botany, that science in which
the theory of the formation of species by sudden vaiiation
rests on the firmest experimental basis. In vegetables,
function is far less narrowly bound to form than in animals.
Even profound morphological differences, such as a change
in the form of leaves, have no appreciable influence on
the exercise of function, and so do not require a whole
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[OHAP.
In vegetables,
function is far less narrowly bound to form than in animals.
Even profound morphological differences, such as a change
in the form of leaves, have no appreciable influence on
the exercise of function, and so do not require a whole
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[OHAP.
system of complementary changes for the plant to remain
fit to survive. But it is not so in the animal, especially
in the case of an organ like the eye, a very complex struc-
ture and very delicate function. Here it is impossible
to identify changes that are simply solidary with changes
which are also complementary. The two senses of the
word "correlation" must be carefully distinguished; it
would be a downright paralogism to adopt one of them
in the premisses of the reasoning, and the other in the con-
elusion. And this is just what is done when the principle
of correlation is invoked in explanations of detail in order
to account for complementary variations, and then cor-
relation in general is spoken of as if it were any group of
variations provoked by any variation of the germ. Thus,
the notion of correlation is first used in current science
as it might be used by an advocate of finality; it is under-
stood that this is only a convenient way of expressing one-
self, that one will correct it and fall back on pure mechan-
ism when explaining the nature of the principles and turn-
ing from science to philosophy. And one does then come
back to pure mechanism, but only by giving a new meaning
to the word "correlation" — a meaning which would now
make correlation inapplicable to the detail it is called
upon to explain.
To sum up, if the accidental variations that bring about
evolution are insensible variations, some good genius must
be appealed to — the genius of the future species — in order
to preserve and accumulate these variations, for selection
will not look after this. If, on the other hand, the acci-
dental variations are sudden, then, for the previous function
to go on or for a new function to take its place, all the
changes that have happened together must be comple-
mentary. So we have to fall back on the good genius
again, this time to obtain the convergence of simultaneo^is
I!
ORTHOGENESIS
69
changes, as before to be assured of the continuity of di-
rection of successive variations. But in neither case can
parallel development of the same complex structures on
independent lines of evolution be due to a mere accu-
mulation of accidental variations. So we come to the
second of the two great hypotheses we have to examine.
Suppose the variations are due, not to accidental and inner
causes, but to the direct influence of outer circumstances.
Let us see what line we should have to take, on this hypothe-
sis, to account for the resemblance of eye-structure in
two series that are independent of each other from the
phylogenetic point of view,
Let us see what line we should have to take, on this hypothe-
sis, to account for the resemblance of eye-structure in
two series that are independent of each other from the
phylogenetic point of view,
Though molluscs and vertebrates have evolved separately,
both have remained exposed to the influence of light. And
light is a physical cause bringing forth certain definite effects.
Acting in a continuous way, it has been able to produce
a continuous variation in a constant direction. Of course
it is unlikely that the eye of the vertebrate and that of the
mollusc have been built up by a aeries of variations due to
simple chance. Admitting even that light enters into
the case as an instrument of selection, in order to allow
only useful variations to persist, there is no possibility
that the play of chance, even thus supervised from with-
out, should bring about in both cases the same juxta-
position of elements coordinated in the same way. But it
would be different supposing that light acted directly on the
organized matter so as to change its structure and some-
how adapt this structure to its own form. The resemblance
of the two effects would then be explained by the identity
of the cause. The more and more complex eye would be
something hke the deeper and deeper imprint of light on a
matter which, being organized, possesses a special aptitude
for receiving it.
But can an organic structure be likened to ac imprint?
70
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[OH&P.
The more and more complex eye would be
something hke the deeper and deeper imprint of light on a
matter which, being organized, possesses a special aptitude
for receiving it.
But can an organic structure be likened to ac imprint?
70
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[OH&P.
We have already called attention to the ambiguity of
the term "adaptation." The gradual complication of a
form which ia being better and better adapted to the mold
of outward circumstances is one thing, the increasingly
complex structure of an instrument which derives more and
more advantage from these circumstances is another. In
the former case, the matter merely receives an imprint;
in the second, it reacts positively, it solves a problem. Ob-
viously it is this second sense of the word "adapt" that
is used when one says that the eye has become better and
better adapted to the influence of light. But one passes
more or less unconsciously from this sense to the other, and
a purely mechanistic biology will strive to make the passive
adaptation of an inert matter, which submits to the in-
fluence of its environment, mean the same as the active
adaptation of an organism which derives from this in-
fluence an advantage it can appropriate. It must be
owned, indeed, that Nature herself appears to invite our
mind to confuse these two kinds of adaptation, for she
usually begins by a pas.'iive adaptation where, later on,
she will build up a mechanism for active response. Thus,
in the case before us, it is unquestionable that the first
rudiment of the eye is found in the pigment-spot of the
lower organisms; this spot may indeed have been pro-
duced physically, by the mere action of light, and there are
a great number of intermediaries between the simple spot
of pigment and a com|}licatcd eye like that of the verte-
brates. — But, from the fact that we pass from one thing
to another by degrees, it does not foUow that the two
things are of the same nature. From the fact that an
orator falls in, at first, with the passions of his audience
in order to make himself master of them, it will not be
concluded that to follow ia the same as to lead. Now, liv-
ing matter seems to have no other means of turning cir-
1.1
71
cumstaaces to good account than by adapting itself to
them passively at the outset. Where it has to direct a
movement, it begins by adopting it. Life proceeds by
insinuation. The intermediate degrees between a pig-
ment-spot and an eye are nothing to the point: however
numerous the degrees, there will still be the same interval
between the pigment-spot and the eye as between a photo-
graph and a photographic apparatus. Certainly the photo-
graph has been gradually turned into a photographic
apparatus; but could light alone, a physical force, ever
have provoked this change, and converted an impression
left by it into a machine capable of using it?
Certainly the photo-
graph has been gradually turned into a photographic
apparatus; but could light alone, a physical force, ever
have provoked this change, and converted an impression
left by it into a machine capable of using it?
It may be claimed that considerations of utility are
out of place here; that the eye is not made to sec, but that
we see because we have eyes; that the organ is what it is,
and " utility^' is a word by which we designate the functional
effects of the structure. But when I say that the eye
"makes use of" light, I do not merely mean that the eye
is capable of seeing; I allude to the very precise relations
that exist between this organ and the apparatus of lo-
comotion. The retina of vertebrates is prolonged in an
optic nerve, which, again, is continued by cerebral centres
connected with motor mechanisms. Our eye makes use
of light in that it enables us to utilize, by movements of
reaction, the objects that we see to be advantageous, and
to avoid those which we see to be injurious. Now, of
course, as bght may have produced a pigment-spot by
physical means, so it can physially determine the move-
ments of certain organisms; ciliated Infusoria, for in-
stance, react to light. But no one would hold that the
influence of light has physically caused the formation of
a nervous system, of a muscular system, of an osseous
eystem, all things which are continuous with the apparatus
of vision in vertebrate animals. The truth is, when one
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
nd, still more^^^l
epeaks of the gradual formation of the eye, and, i
when one takes into account all that is inseparably con-
nected tt-ith it, one brings in something entirely different
from the direct action of light. One implicitly attributes
to organized matter a certain capacity sui generis, the
mysterious power of building up very complicated machines
to utilize the simple excitation that it undergoes.
One implicitly attributes
to organized matter a certain capacity sui generis, the
mysterious power of building up very complicated machines
to utilize the simple excitation that it undergoes.
But this is just what is claimed to be unnecessary.
Physics and chemistry are said to give us the key to every-
thing. Eimer's great work is instructive in this respect.
It is well known what persevering effort this biologist
has devoted to demonstrating that transformation is
brought about by the inSuence of the external on the in-
ternal, continuously exerted in the same direction, and
not, as Darwin held, by accidental variations. His theory
rests on observations of the highe.st interest, qf which the
starting-point was the study of the course followed by
the color variation of the skin in certain Uzards. Before
this, the already old experiments of Dorfmeister had
shown that the same chrysalis, according as it was sub-
mitted to cold or heat, gave rise to very different butter-
flies, which had long been regarded as independent species,
Vanessa levana and Vanessa prorsa: an intermediate tem-
perature produces an intermediate form. We might class
with these facts the important transformations observed
in a little crustacean, Artemia sa/ina, when the salt of
the water it lives in is increased or diminished,' In these
various experiments the external agent seems to act as a
cause of transformation. But what does the word "cause"
It seems, from later observations, that the tmiiaFormatioD of
Artemia is a more complex phenomenon than was first BUpposcd.
See on this eubject Sunter ami Heymons, " Die Variatjon bei Artemia
Salina" (Anhang tti den Abhandlungen der k. preuttUchen Akad. dtr
tfuvffnMAn/Iffn, 1902).
ORTHOGENESIS
I
See on this eubject Sunter ami Heymons, " Die Variatjon bei Artemia
Salina" (Anhang tti den Abhandlungen der k. preuttUchen Akad. dtr
tfuvffnMAn/Iffn, 1902).
ORTHOGENESIS
I
mean here? Without undertaking an exhaustive analysis
of the idea of causality, we will merely remark that three
very different meanings of this term are commonly con-
fused. A cause may act by im-peUiTig, releasing, or un-
winding. The billiard-ball, that strikes another, deter-
mines its movement by impelling. The spark that explodes
the powder acts by releasing. The gradual relaxing of
the spring, that makes the phonograph turn, unwinds the
melody inscribed on the cylinder: if the melody which is
played be the effect, and the relaxing of the spring the
cause, we must say that the cause acts by unwinding.
What distinguishes these three cases from each other is
the greater or less solidarity between the cause and the effect.
In the first, the quantity and quality of the effect vary
with the quantity and quality of the cause. In the second,
neither quality nor quantity of the effect varies with quality
and quantity of the cause: the effect is invariable. In
the third, the quantity of the effect depends on the quantity
of the cause, but the cause does not influence the quality of
the effect: the longer the cylinder turns by the action
of the spring, the more of the melody I shall hear, but the
nature of the melody, or of the part heard, does not depend
on the action of the spring. Only in the firat case, really,
does cause explain effect ; in the others the effect is more
or less given in advance, and the antecedent invoked is —
in different degrees, of course — its occasion rather than
its cause. Now, in saying that the saltness of the water
ia the cause of the transformations of Artemia, or that the
degree of temperature determines the color and marks
of the wings which a certain chrysalis will assume on be-
coming a butterfly, ia the word "cause" used in the first
sense? Obviously not : causality has here an intermediary
sense between those of unwinding and releasing. Such,
indeed, seems to be Elmer's own meaning when he speaks
74 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohap;
Obviously not : causality has here an intermediary
sense between those of unwinding and releasing. Such,
indeed, seems to be Elmer's own meaning when he speaks
74 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohap;
of the "kaleidoscopic" character of the variation,' or
when he says that the variation of organized matter works
in a definite way, just as inorganic matter crj-stalhzes in
definite directions.' And it may be granted, perhaps,
that the process is a merely physical and chemical one in
the case of the color-changes of the skin. But if this sort
of explanation ia extended to the case of the gradual forma-
tion of the eye of the vertebrate, for instance, it must be
supposed that the phyaico-chemistry of living bodies is
such that the influence of Ught has caused the organism
to construct a progressive series of visual apparatus, all
extremely complex, yet all capable of seeing, and of seeing
better and better." What more could the most confirmed
finalist say, in order to mark out so exceptional a physico
chemistry? And will not the position of a mchanistic
philosophy become still more difficult, when it is pointed
out to it that the egg of a mollusc cannot have the same
chemical composition as that of a vertebrate, that the
organic substance which evolved toward the first of these
two forms could not have been chemically identical with
that of the substance which went in the other direction,
and that, nevertheless, under the influence of light, the
same organ has been constructed in the one case as in
the other?
The more we reflect upon it, the more we shall see that
this production of the same effect by two different ac-
cumulations of an enormous number of small causes is
contrary to the principles of mechanistic philosophy.
We have concentrated the full force of our discussion upon
an example drawn from phylogenesis. But ontogenesis
would have furnished us with facts no less cogent. Every
' Eime-, Orikoijenesw der Schmaterlinge, Leipiig, 1897, p. 24. Ct
Die BrUttehuny der Arlen, p. 63.
r, I>i4 EttUUKung der Arlen, Jena, 1888, p. 25,
• Ibid. pp. IQS ff.
ORTHOGENESIS
75
But ontogenesis
would have furnished us with facts no less cogent. Every
' Eime-, Orikoijenesw der Schmaterlinge, Leipiig, 1897, p. 24. Ct
Die BrUttehuny der Arlen, p. 63.
r, I>i4 EttUUKung der Arlen, Jena, 1888, p. 25,
• Ibid. pp. IQS ff.
ORTHOGENESIS
75
moment, right before our eyes, nature arrives at identical
results, in sometimes neighboring species, by entirely
different embryogenic processes. Observations of "heter-
oblastia" have multiplied in late years,' and it has been
necessary to reject the almost classical theory of the
epecificity of embryonic gills. Still keeping to our compari-
6on between the eye of vertebrates and that of molluscs,
we may point out that the retina of the vertebrate is
produced by an expansion in the rudimentary brain of
the young embryo. It is a regular nervous centre which
has moved toward the periphery. In the mollusc, on the
contrary, the retina is derived from the ectoderm directly,
and not indirectly by means of the embryonic encephalon.
Quite different, therefore, are the evolutionary processes
which lead, in man and in the Pecten, to the development
of a like retina. But. without going so far as to compare
two organisms so distant from each other, we might reach
the same conclusion simply by looking at certain very
curious facts of regL-neration in one and the same organism.
If the crj'stalline lens of a Triton be removed, it is re-
generated by the iris." Now, the original lens was built
out of the ectoderm, while the iris is of mesodermic ori^n.
What is more, in the SalamandTa macutata, if the lens be
removed and the iris left, the regeneration of the lens takes
place at the upper part of the iris; but if this upper part
of the iris itself be taken away, the regeneration takes
place in the inner or retinal layer of the remaining region.'
' Sftlensky, 'Heteroblastie" (Proc. of the Fourth Intematiorud Con-
gntt a/ Zoology, London, 1899, pp. 111-118). Salensky ha.s coined
this word to designate the canes in which organa that are equivalent,
but of different embryological origin, are formed at the same points
ID aolmata relalixl to each other.
' Wolff, "Die Regeneration der Urodelenlinse " {Arch. /. Entwick-
^migmechanik. i., 1895, pp. 380 St.).
* Fischel, "Ulxr die Regeneration der Linse" (Ana/. Ameiger, xiv,,
1898, pp. 373-380).
76 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Thus, parts differently situated, differently constituted,
meant normally for different functions, are capable of
performing the same duties and even of manufacturing,
when necessary, the same pieces of the machine. Here
we have, indeed, the same effect obtained by different
combinations of causes.
Here
we have, indeed, the same effect obtained by different
combinations of causes.
Whether we will or no, we must appeal to some inner
directing principle in order to account for this convergence
of effects. Such convergence does not appear possible
in the Darwinian, and especially the neo-DarwinJan, theory
of insensible accidental variations, nor in the hypothesis
of sudden accidental variations, nor even in the theory
that assigns definite directions to the evolution of the
various organs by a kind of mechanical composition of
the external with the internal forces. So we come to
the only one of the present forms of evolution which re-
mains for us to mention, viz., neo-Lamarckism.
It is well known that Lamarck attributed to the living
being the power of varying by use or disuse of its oi'gans,
and also of passing on the variation so acquired to its
descendants. A certain number of biologists hold a
doctrine of this kind to-day. The variation that results
in a new species is not, they believe, merely an accidental
variation inherent in the germ itself, nor is it governed by a
determinism sui generis which develops definite characters
in a definite direction, apart from every consideration of
utility. It springs from the very effort o^the living being
to adapt itself to the circumstances of its existence. The
effort may indeed be only the mechanical exercise of cer-
tun organs, mechanically elicited by the pressure of ex-
ternal circumstances. But it may also imply consciousness
and will, and it is in this sense that it appears to be under-
stood by one of the most eminent representatives of the
VARIATION AND HEREDITY
77
I
I
I
doctrine, the American naturalist Cope.' Neo-Laraarcldsm
is therefore, of all the later forms of evolutionism, the only
one capable of admitting an internal and psychological
principle of development, although it is not bound to do
go. And it ia also the only evolutionism that seems to
us to account for the building up of identical complex
organs on independent lines of development. For it is
quite conceivable that the same effort to turn the same
circumstances to good account might have the same result,
especially if the problem put by the circumstances is such
as to admit of only one solution. But the question re-
mains, whether the term "effort" must not then be taken
iu a deeper sense, a sense even more psychological than
any neo-Lamarckian supposes.
But the question re-
mains, whether the term "effort" must not then be taken
iu a deeper sense, a sense even more psychological than
any neo-Lamarckian supposes.
For a mere variation of size is one thing, and a change
of form is another. That an organ can be strengthened
and grow by exercise, nobody will deny. But it is a loag
way from that to the progressive development of an eye
hke that of the molluscs and of the vertebrates. If this
development be ascribed to the influence of light, long
continued but passively received, we fall back on the theory
we have just criticized. If, on the other hand, an internal
activity ia appealed to, then it naust be something quite
different from what we usually call an effort, for never
has an effort been known to produce the slightest com-
pUcation of an organ, and yet an enormous number of
complications, all admirably coordinated, have been
necessary to pass from the pigment-spot of the Infusorian
to the eye of the vertebrate. But, even if we accept this
notion of the evolutionary process in the case of animals,
how can we apply it to plants? Here, variations of form
do not seem to imply, nor always to lead to, functional
', we believe, if we wish to
get at a cause of regular hereditary variations. We are
not going to enter here into the controversies over the
transmissibility of acquired characters; still less do we
wish to take too definite a side on thiB question, which is
not within our province. But we cannot remain com-
pletely indifferent to it. Nowhere is it clearer that phi-
losophers can not to-day content themeelvcs with vague
generalities, but nmst follow the scientists in experimental
detail and discuss the results with them. If Spencer had
begun by putting to himself the question of the heredita-
bility of acquired characters, his evolutionism would no
doubt have taken an altogether different form. If (as
seems probable to us) a habit contracted by the individual
were transmitted to its descendants only in very exceptional
cases, all the Spencerian psychology would need re-:iiaking,
and a large part of Spencer's philosophy would fall to
pieces. Let us say, then, how the problem seems to us to
present itself, and in what direction an attempt might be
made to solve it.
After having been affirmed as a dc^ma, the trans-
missibility of acquired characters has been no less dog-
matically denied, for reasons drawn a priori from the
supposed nature of germinal cells. It is well known how
Weismann was led, by his hypothesis of the continuity
of the gcrni-plasm, to regard the germinal cells — ova and
spermatozoa^as almost independent of the somatic cells.
Starting from this, it has been claimed, and is still claimed
by many, that the hereditary transmission of an acquired
I-l
EDITY
79
Starting from this, it has been claimed, and is still claimed
by many, that the hereditary transmission of an acquired
I-l
EDITY
79
character is inconceivable. But if, perchance, experiment
should show that acquired character are transmissible,
it would prove thereby that the germ-plasm is not so
independent of the somatic envelope as has been contended,
and the transmissibility of acquired characters would
become ipso facto conceivable; which amounts to saying
that coneeivability and inconceivability have nothing
to do with the case, and that experience alone must settle
the matter. But it is just here that the difficulty begins.
The acquired characters we are speaking of are generally
habits or the effects of habit, and at the root of most habits
there is a natural disposition. So that one can always
ask whether it is really the habit acquired by the soma of
the individual that is tran'^mitted, or whether it is not
rather a natural aptitude, which existed prior to the habit.
This aptitude would have remained inherent in the germ-
plasm which the individual bears within him, as it was
in the individual himself and consequently in the germ
whence he sprang. Thus, for instance, there is no proof
that the mole has become blind because it has formed the
habit of living underground; it is perhaps because its
eyes were becoming atrophied that it condemned itself
to a life underground.! If this is the case, the tendency to
lose the power of vision has been transmitted from germ
to germ without anything being acquired or lost by the
soma of the mole itself. From tbe fact that the son of a
fencing-master has become a good fencer much more quickly
than his father, we cannot infer that the habit of the parent
has been transmitted to the child; for certain natural
dispositions in course of growth may have passed from the
plasma engendering the father to the plasma engendering
1 Cu^mt, "La Nouvelle ThSorie transform iete" ^Revue gtnfrale des
teieneet, 1894). Cf. dbrgail. Evolution and Adaplatunt, London, 1003,
p. 367.
80 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Cf. dbrgail. Evolution and Adaplatunt, London, 1003,
p. 367.
80 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
the son, may have grown on the way by the effect of the
primitive impetus, and thus assured to the son a greater
suppleness than the father had, without troubling, so to
speak, about what the father did. So of many examples
drawn from the progressive domestication of animals:
it is hard to say whether it is the acquired habit that is
transmitted or only a certain natural tendency — that,
indeed, which has caused such and such a particular
species or certain of its representatives to be specially
chosen for domestication. The truth is, when every
doubtful case, every fact open to more than one inter-
pretation, has been eliminated, there remains hardly a
single unquestionable example of acquired and trans-
mitted peculiarities, beyond the famous experiments
of Brown-S^uard, repeated and confirmed by other
physiologists." By cutting the spinal cord or the sciatic
nerve of guinea-pigs, Brown-S^uard brought about an
epileptic state which was transmitted to the descendants.
Lesions of the same sciatic nerve, of the restiform body, etc.,
provoked various troubles in the guinea-pig which its
progeny inherited sometimes in a quite different form:
exophthalmia, loss of toes, etc. But it is not demonstrated
that in these different cases of hereditary transmission
there had been a real influence of the soma of the animal
on itfl germ-plasm. Weismann at once objected that the
operations of Brown-S6quard might have introduced cer-
tain special microbes into the body of the guinea-pig,
which had found their means of nutrition in the nervous
tissues and transmitted the malady by penetrating into
the sexual elements.' This objection has been answered
' Brown-S&iuanl, ' ' Nouvelles recherches sur I'^piiepeie due k certainea
IMons de la moelle £pini£ero et des nerfa rachidiens'' (Areh. de phyti-
olagie, vol. ii-, 1866, pp. 211, 422. and 497).
' WdBmuiin, Aufsalze Hiier VrrerbuT^g. Jena, 1892, pp. 378-378, and
also VortTiige librr DeKxndenztkeorie, Jena, 100? voL ii., p. 76.
[1.1
VARIATION AND HEREDITY
81
[
^B by Brown-Sequard himself;' but a more plausible one
^P cught be raised. Some experiments of Voisin and Peron
^B have shown that fits of epilepsy are followed by the elimi-
^B nation of a toxic body which, when injected into animals,'
^P is capable of producing convulsive symptoms. Perhaps
^P the trophic disorders following the nerve lesions made by
^P Brown-S^quard correspond to the formation of precisely
this con\'ulsion-causing poison. If so, the toxin passed
from the guinea-pig to its spermatozoon or ovum, and
caused in the development of the embryo a general dis-
turbance, which, however, had no \'isible effects except
at one point or another of the organism when developed.
If so, the toxin passed
from the guinea-pig to its spermatozoon or ovum, and
caused in the development of the embryo a general dis-
turbance, which, however, had no \'isible effects except
at one point or another of the organism when developed.
I In that case, what occurred would have been somewhat
tht same as in the experiments of Chanin, Delamare,
and Moussu, where guinea-pigs in gestation, whose liver
or kidney was injured, transmitted the lesion to their
progeny, simply because the injury to the mother's organ
had given rise to specific "cytotoxins" which acted on
the corresponding organ of the foetus.* It is true that, in
these experiments, as in a former observation of the same
physiologists,' it was the already formed foetus that was
inSuenced by the toxins. But other researches of Charrin
have resulted in showing that the same effect may be pro-
duced, by an analogous process, on the spermatozoa and
the ova.' To conclude, then: the inheritance of an ac-
Brown-SA^uard, "H^rSdiW d'une affection due i une cause acd-
denlelle" {Arch, de phyaiologie, 1892, pp. 686 ff.).
>* Voiain and Peron, "Recherchea sur la toxicity urinaire chOE lea
^fnleotiques" (Arch, de neurologie, vol. udv., 1892, and xxv., 1893.
Cf. the work ot Voisin, L'tpUepde, Paris, 1897, pp. 125-133).
• Chamn, Delamare and Housau. " TranamiBirion expfrimentale auit
deMeadantadelteionsd^velopp^chezlea aacendants" {C.R. del' Acad.
de* Kienca, vol. cxxxv., 1902, p. 191). Cf. Morgan, Evolution and
Adapbaion, p. 257, and E)eluge. L'HiridiU, 2nd edition, p. 38S.
' Charrin and Delamare, "H£rMit£ ceUulaire" (C. R. de I'Aead. da
teienett, vol. OTXxiii., 1901, pp. 69-71).
• Charrin, "L'H^rfidiuS pathologique" {Revue ginirale de» tcUncet,
82 CREATIVE EVOLUTION ichap.
quired peculiarity in the experiments of Brown-S^quard
can be explained by the effect of a toxin on the germ. The
lesion, however well localized it seems, is transmitted by
the same process as, for instance, the taint of alcoholism.
But may it not be the same in the case of every acquired
peculiarity that has become hereditary?
The
lesion, however well localized it seems, is transmitted by
the same process as, for instance, the taint of alcoholism.
But may it not be the same in the case of every acquired
peculiarity that has become hereditary?
There is, indeed, one point on which both those who
affirm and those who deny the transmissibility of acquired
characters are agreed, namely, that certain influences,
such as that of alcohol, can affect at the same time both
the living being and the germ-plasm it contains. In such
ease, there is inheritance of a defect, and the result is
OS if the soma of the parent had acted on the germ-plasm,
although in reality soma and plasma have simply both
suffered the action of the same cause. Now, suppose
that the soma can influence the germ-plasm, as those
believe who hold that acquired characters are trans-
missible. Is not the most natural hypothesis to suppose
that things happen in this second case as in the first, and
that the direct effect of the influence of the soma is a
general alteration of the germ-plasm? If this is the cast;,
it is by exception, and in some sort by accident, that the
modification of the descendant is the same as that of the
parent. It is like the hereditability of the alcoholic taint:
it passes from father to children, but it may take a different
form in each child, and in none of them be like what it
was in the father. Let the letter C represent the change
in the plasm, C being either positive or negative, that is to
say, showing either the gain or loss of certain substances.
The effect will not be an exact reproduction of the cause,
nor will the change in the germ-plasm, provoked by a cer-
tain modification of a certain part of the soma, deterraiDC
a similar modification of the corresponding part of the
new oi^anism in process of formation, unless all the other
M
VARIATION AND HEREDITY
nascent parts of this organism enjoy a kind of immunity
as regards C: the same part will then undergo alteration
in the new organism, because it happens that the develop-
ment of this part is alone subject to the new influence.
And, even then, the part might be altered in an entirely
different way from that in wMch the corresponding part-
was altered in the generating organism.
And, even then, the part might be altered in an entirely
different way from that in wMch the corresponding part-
was altered in the generating organism.
We should propose, then, to introduce a distinction
between the hereditability of deination and that of ckar-
adfr. An individual which acquires a new character
thereby demotes from the form it previously had, which
form the germs, or oftener the half-germs, it contains
would have reproduced in their development. If this
modification does not involve the production of sub-
stances capable of changing the germ-plasm, or does not
so affect nutrition as to deprive the germ-plasm of certain
of its clement^;, it will have no effect on the offspring of
the individual. This is probably the case as a rule. If,
on the contrary, it has some effect, this is likely to be due
to a chemical change which it has induced in the germ-
plasm. This chemical change might, by exception, bring
about the original modification again in the organism which
the germ is about to develop, but there are as many and
more chances that it will do something else. In this
latter case, the generated organism will perhaps deviate
from the normr-J type as much as the generating organism,
but it will do so differently. It will have inherited deviation
and not character. In general, therefore, the habits
formed by an individual have probably no echo in its
offspring; and when they have, the modification in the
descendants may have no visible hkeness to the original
one. Such, at least, is the hypothesis which seems to
us most likely, In any case, in default of proof to the con-
trary, and so long as the decisive experiments called for
84
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(OHAP.
by an eminent biologist' have not been made, we must
keep to the actual results of observation. Now, even if
we take the most favorable view of the theory of the trana-
missibility of acquired characters, and assume that the
ostensible acquired character is not, in moat cases, the
more or less tardy development of an innate character,
facts show us that hereditary transmission is the excep-
tion and not the rule. How, then, shall we expect it
to develop an organ such as the eye? When we think
of the enormous number of variations, all in the same
direction, that we must suppose to be accumulated before
the passage from the pigment-spot of the Infusorian
to the eye of the mollusc and of the vertebrate is possible,
we do not see how heredity, as we observe it, could ever
have determined this piling-up of differences, even sup-
posing that individual efforts could have produced each
of them singly. That is to say that neo-Lamarckism is
no more able than any other form of evolutionism to
solve the problem.
That is to say that neo-Lamarckism is
no more able than any other form of evolutionism to
solve the problem.
In thus submitting the various present forms of evo-
lutionism to a common test, in showing that they all
strike against the same insurmountable difficulty, we
have in no wise the intention of rejecting them altogether.
On the contrary, each of them, being supported by a
considerable number of facts, must be true in its way.
Each of them must correspond to a certain aspect of the
process of evolution. Perhaps even it is necessary that
a theory should restrict itself exclusively to a particular
point of view, in order to remain scientific, i.e. to give a
precise direction to researches into detail. But the reality
of which each of these theories takes a partial view must
transcend them all. And this reality is the special object
of philosophy, which is not constrained to scientific pre-
' Giard, Controixraa Iraru/omufsi, Parui, 1904, p. 147.
M RESULT OF THE DISCUSSION 85
But the reality
of which each of these theories takes a partial view must
transcend them all. And this reality is the special object
of philosophy, which is not constrained to scientific pre-
' Giard, Controixraa Iraru/omufsi, Parui, 1904, p. 147.
M RESULT OF THE DISCUSSION 85
cisioa because it contemplates no practical application.
Let us therefore indicate in a word or two the positive
coatribution that each of the three present forraa of evo-
lutionism seems to us to make toward the solution of the
problem, what each of them leaves out, and on what point
this threefold effort should, in our opinion, converge in
order to obtain a more comprehensive, although thereby
of necessity a less definite, idea of the evolutionary process.
The neo-Darwinians are probably right, we beheve,
when they teach that the essential causes of variation
are the differences inherent in the germ borne by the
individual, and not the experiences or behavior of the
individual in the course of his career. NVhere we fail to
follow these biologists, is in regarding the differences
inherent in the germ as purely ticcideatal and individual.
We cannot help believing that these differences are the
development of an impulsion which passes from germ to
germ across the individuEils, that they are therefore not
pure accidents, and that they might well appear at the
same time, in the same form, in all the representatives of
the same species, or at least in a certain number of them.
Already, in fact, the theory of mutations is modifying Dar-
winism profoundly on this point. It asserts that at a
given moment, after a long period, the entire species is
beset with a tendency to change. The tendency to change,
therefore, is not accidental. True, the change itself would
be accidental, since the mutation works, according to
De Vries, in different directions in the different representa-
tives of the species. But, first we must see if the theory
is confirmed by many other vegetable species (De Vries
has verified it only by the (Enotkera Lamarckiana),' and
'Some analogous facU, however, have been noted, all in the vegetable
vorld. See Blaringhem, ''La NotioD d'espice et la th&irie de la mu-
tation'' {Annie psychologique, vol. sij., 190G, pp. 9fi IT.), and De Vries,
Spteiu and VarUliea, p. GS5.
86 CREATIVE EVOLUTION [OHAP.
then there is the possibility, as we shall explain further
on, that the part played by chance is much greater in the
variation of plants than in that of animals, because, in
the vegetable world, function does not depend so strictly
on form. Be that as it may, the neo-Darwinians are
inclined to admit that the periods of mutation are deter-
minate. The direction of the mutation may therefore
be so as well, at least in animals, and to the extent we shall
have to indicate.
Be that as it may, the neo-Darwinians are
inclined to admit that the periods of mutation are deter-
minate. The direction of the mutation may therefore
be so as well, at least in animals, and to the extent we shall
have to indicate.
We thus arrive at a hypothesis like Eimer'e, according
to which the variations of differGnt characters continue
from generation to generation in definite directions. This
hypothesis seems plausible to us, within the limits in which
Eimer himself retains it. Of course, the evolution of the
organic world cannot be predetermined as a whole. We
claim, on the contrary, that the spontaneity of life is mani-
fested by a continual creation of new forms succeeding
others. But this indetermination cannot be complete; it
must leave a certain part to determination. An organ like
the eye, for example, must have been formed by just a
continual changing in a definite direction. Indeed, we
do not see how otherwise to explain the likeness of structure
of the eye in 8i)ecie8 that have not the same history. Where
we differ from Eimer is in his claim that combinations
of physical and chemical causes are enough to secure the
result. We have tried to prove, on the contrary, by the
example of the eye, that if there is "orthogenesis" here,
a psychological cause intervenes.
Certain nco-Lamarckians do indeed resort to a cause
of a psychological nature. There, to our thinking, is
one of the most solid positions of neo-Lamarckism. But
if this cause is nothing but the conscious effort of the in-
dividual, it cannot operate in more than a restricted num-
ber of cases — at most in the animal world, and not at all
RESULT OF THE DISCUSSION 87
in the v^etable kingdom. Even in animals, it will act
only on points which are under the direct or indirect con-
trol of the will. And even where it does act, it is not clear
how it could compass a change so profound as an increase
of complexity: at most this would be conceivable if the
acquired characters were regularly transmitted so as to
be added together; but this transmission seems to be
the exception rather than the rule. A hereditary change
in a definite direction, which coutinuea to accumulate
and add to itself so as to build up a more and more complex
machine, must certainly be related to some sort of effort,
but to an effort of far greater depth than the individual
effort, far more indepeodent of circumstances, an effort
common to most representatives of the same species,
inherent in the germs they bear rather than in their sub-
stance alone, an effort thereby assured of being passed on
to their descendants.
So we come back, by a somewhat roundabout way,
to the idea we started from, that of an original impetus
of life, passing from one generation of germs to the fol-
lowing generation of germs through the developed organ-
isms which bridge the inter\-al between the generations.
This impetus, sastained right along the lines of evolution
among which it gets divided, is the fundamental cause
of variations, at least of those that are regularly passed
on, that accumulate and create new species. In general,
when species have begun to diverge from a common stock,
they accentuate their divergence as they progress in their
evolution. Yet, in certain definite points, they may evolve
identically; in fact, they must do so if the hypothesis of a
common impetus be accepted. This is just what we shall
have to show now in a more precise way, by the same
example we have chosen, the fonnation of the eye in
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
molluscs and vertebrates. The idea of an "original
impetus," moreover, will thus be made clearer.
Two points are equally striking in an organ like the
eye: the complexity of its structure and the simplicity
of its function. The eye is composed of distinct parts,
such as the sclerotic, the cornea, the retina, the crystalline
lens, etc. In each of these parts the detail is infinite. The
retina alone comprises three layers of nervous elements —
multipolar cells, bipolar cells, visual cells — each of which
has its individuality and is undoubtedly a very compli-
cated organism: so complicated, indeed, is the retinal
membrane in its intimate structure, that no simple de-
scription can give an adequate idea of it. The mechanism
of the eye is, in short, composed of an infinity of mechan-
isms, all of extreme complexity. Yet vision is on- simple
fact. As soon as the eye opens, the visual act is effected.
Just because the act is simple, the slightest negligence
on the part of nature in the building of the infinitely com-
plex machine would have made vision impossible. This
contrast between the complexity of the organ and the
unity of the function is what gives us pause.
A mechanistic theory is one which means to show us
the gradual building-up of the machine under the influence
of external circumstances intervening either directly by
action on the tissues or indirectly by the selection of better-
adapted ones. But, whatever form this theory may take,
supposing it avails at all to explain the detail of the parts,
it throws no light on their correlation.
Then comes the doctrine of finality, which says that
the parts have been brought together on a preconceived
plan with a view to a certain end. In this it likens the
labor of nature to that of the workman, who also pro-
ceeds by the assemblage of parts with a view to the real-
ization of an idea or the imitation of a model. Mechanism,
I.l
THE VITAL IMPETUS
In this it likens the
labor of nature to that of the workman, who also pro-
ceeds by the assemblage of parts with a view to the real-
ization of an idea or the imitation of a model. Mechanism,
I.l
THE VITAL IMPETUS
here, reproaches finalism with its anthropomorphic charac-
ter, and rightly. But it fails to see that itself proceeds
accordiiig to this method — somewhat mutilated! True,
it has got rid of the end pursued or the ide^l model. But
it also holds that nature has worked like a human being
by bringing parts together, while a mere glance at the
development of an embrj-o shows that hfe goes to work
in a very different way. Life does not proceed by the as-
sodalion and addition of elements, biU by dissociation and
division.
We must get beyond both points of view, both mechanism
and finalism being, at bottom, only standpoints to which
the human mind has been led by considering the work of
man. But in what direction can we go beyond them?
We have said that in analyzing the structure of an organ,
we can go on decomposing for ever, although the function
of the whole is a simple thing. This contrast between
the infinite complexity of the organ and the extreme
simplicity of the function is what should open our eyes.
In general, when the same object appears in one aspect
as simple and in another as infinitely complex, the two as-
pects have by no means the same importance, or rather tlio
same degree of reality. In such cases, the simplicity be-
longs to the object itself, and the infinite complexity to the
views we take in turning around if, to the symbols by which
our senses or intellect represent it to us, or, more generally,
to elements of a different order, with which we try to imitate
it artificially, but with which it remains incommensurable,
being of a different nature. An artist of genius has painted
s figure on his canvas. We can imitate his picture with
many-colored squares of mosaic. And we shall reproduce
the curves and shades of the model so much the better
as our squares are smaller, more numerous and more varied
in tone. But an infinity of elements infinitely small,
90
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
We can imitate his picture with
many-colored squares of mosaic. And we shall reproduce
the curves and shades of the model so much the better
as our squares are smaller, more numerous and more varied
in tone. But an infinity of elements infinitely small,
90
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
presenting an infinity of shades, would be necessary to
obtain the exact equivalent of the figure that the artist
has conceived ss a simple thing, which he has wished to
transport as a whole to tlie canvas, and which is the more
complete the more it strikes us as the projection of an
indivisible intuition. Now, suppose our eyes so made
that they cannot help seeing in the work of the master
a mosaic effect. Or suppose our intellect so made that it
cannot explain the appearance of the figure on the canvas
except as a work of mosaic. We should then be able to
speak simply of a collection of little squares, and we should
be under the mechanistic hypothesis. We might add
that, beside the materiality of the collection, there must
be a plan on which the artist worked ; and then we should
be expressing ourselves as finalists. But in neither case
should we have got at the real process, for there are no
squares brought together. It is the picture, i.e. the simple
act, projected on the canvas, which, by the mere fact of
entering into our perception, is decomposed before our
eyes into thousands and thousands of little squares which
present, as recomposed, a wonderful arrangement. So
the eye, with its marvelous complexity of structure, may be
only the simple act of vision, divided for us into a mosaic
of cells, whose order seems marvelous to us because we
have conceived the whok as an assemblage.
If I raise my hand from A to B, this movement appears
to me under two aspects at once. Felt from within, it is a
simple, indivisible act. Perceived from without, it is the
course of a certain curve, AB. In this curve I can dis-
tinguish as many positions as I please, and the line it-
self might be ilelincd as a certain mutual coordination of
these positions. But the [wsitions, infinite in number,
and the order in which they are connected, have sprung
automatically from the indivisible act by which my hand
THE VITAL IMPETUS
91
But the [wsitions, infinite in number,
and the order in which they are connected, have sprung
automatically from the indivisible act by which my hand
THE VITAL IMPETUS
91
has gone from A to B. Mechanism, here, would consist
in seeing only the positions. Finalisra would take their
order into account. But both mechanism and finalism
would leave on one side the movement, which is reality
itself. In one sense, the movement is more than the
positions and than their order; for it is sufficient to make
it in its indivisible simplicity to secure that the infinity
of the successive positions as also their order be given at
once — with something else which is neither order nor
position but which is essential, the mobility, But, in
another sense, the movement is leas than the series of
positions and their connecting order; for, to arrange
points in a certain order, it is necessary first to conceive
the order and then to realize it with points, there must
be the work of assemblage and there must be intelligence,
whereas the simple movement of the hand contains noth-
ing of either. It is not intelligent, in the human sense
of the word, and it is not an assemblage, for it is not made
up of elements. Just so with the relation of the eye to
vision. There is in vision more than the component cells
of the eye and their mutual coordination: in this sense,
neither mechanism nor finalism go far enough. But, in
another sense, mechanism and finalism both go too far,
for they attribute to Nature the most formidable of the
labors of Hercules in holding that she has exalted to the
simple act of vision an infinity of infinitely complex ele-
ments, whereas Nature has had no more trouble in making
an eye than I have in lifting my hand. Nature's simple
act has divided itself automatically into an infinity of
elements which are then found to be coordinated to one
idea, just as the movement of my hand has dropped an
infinity of points which are then found to satisfy one
equation.
We find it very hard to see things in that light, because
92
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[CRAP.
We find it very hard to see things in that light, because
92
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[CRAP.
we cannot help conceiving organization as manufacturing.
But it is one thing to manufacture, and quite another to
organize. Manufacturing is pecuhar to man. It consists
in assembling parts of matter which we have cut out in
such manner that we can fit them together and obt^n
from them a common action. The parts are arranged, so
to speak, around the action as an ideal centre. To manu-
facture, therefore, is to work from the periphery to the
centre, or, as the philosophers say, from the many to the
one. Organization, on the contrary, works from the centre
to the periphery. It begins in a point that is ahnost a
mathematical point, and spreads around this point by
concentric waves which go on enlarging. The work of
manufacturing is the more effective, the greater the quant-
ity of matter dealt with. It proceeds by concentration
and compression. The organizing act, on the contrary,
has something explosive about it: it needs at the begin-
ning the smallest possible place, a minimum of matter,
as if the organizing forces only entered space reluctantly.
The spermatozoon, which sets in motion the evolutionary
process of the embryonic life, is one of the smallest cells
of the organism ; and it is only a small part of the spenna-
tozoon which really takes part in the operation.
But these are only superficial differences. Digging
beneath them, we think, a deeper difference would be found.
A manufactured thing delineates exactly the form of
the work of manufacturing it. I mean that the manu-
facturer finds in his product exactly what he has put
into it. If he is going to make a machine, he cuts out
its pieces one by one and then puts them together: the
machine, when made, will show both the pieces and their
assemblage. The whole of the result represents the whole
of the work; and to each part of the work corresponds
a part of the result.
M THE VITAL IMPETUS 93
Now I recognize that positive science can and should
proceed as if organization was like making a machine.
Only so will it have any hold on organized bodies. For
its object is not to show us the essence of things, but to
furnish us with the best means of acting on them. Physics
and chemistry are well advanced sciences, and living matter
lends itself to our action only so far as we can treat it by the
processes of our physics and chemistry. Organization
can therefore only be studied scientifically if the organized
body has first been likened to a machine. The cells will
be the pieces of the machine, the organism their assemblage,
and the elementary labors which have organized the parts
will be regarded as the real elements of the labor which has
oi^anized the whole. This is the standpoint of science.
Quite different, in our opinion, is that of philosophy.
This is the standpoint of science.
Quite different, in our opinion, is that of philosophy.
For us, the whole of an organized machine may, strictly
speaking, represent the whole of the organizing work
(this is, however, only approximately true), yet the parts
of the machine do not correspond to parts of the work,
because the materialily of this machine does not represent
a sum of means employed, but a sum of obstacles avoided: it
is a negation rather than a positive reality. So, as we have
shown in a former study, vision is a power which should
attain by right an infinity of thinp inaccessible to our eyes.
But such a vision would not be continued into action; it
might suit a phantom, but not a living being. The vision
of a living being is an effective vision, limited to objects on
which the being can act: it is a vision that is canalized,
and the visual apparatus simply symbolizes the work of
canalizing. Therefore the creation of the visual apparatus
is no more explained by the assembling of its anatomic
elements than the digging of a canal could be expl^aed
by the heaping-up of the earth which miglit have formed its
banks. A mechanistic theory would maintain that the
94
CREATIVE EVO]
earth had been brought cart-load by cart-load; finalisin
would add that it had not been dumped down at random,
that the carters had followed a plan. But both theories
would be mistaken, for the canal has been made in another
way.
A mechanistic theory would maintain that the
94
CREATIVE EVO]
earth had been brought cart-load by cart-load; finalisin
would add that it had not been dumped down at random,
that the carters had followed a plan. But both theories
would be mistaken, for the canal has been made in another
way.
With greater precision, we may compare the process
by which nature constructs an eye to the simple act by
which we raise the hand. But we supposed at first that
the hand met with no resistance. Let us now imagine
that, instead of moving in air, the hand has to pass through
iron filings which are compressed and offer resistance
to it in proportion as it goes forward. At a certain moment
the hand will have exhausted its effort, and, at this very
moment, the filings will be massed and coordinated in a
certain definite form, to wit, that of the hand that is stopped
and of a part of the arm. Now, suppose that the hand and
arm are invisible. Lookers-on will seek the reason of the
arrangement in the filings themselves and in forces within
the mass. Some will account for the position of each filing
by the action exerted upon it by the neighboring filings:
these are the mechanists. Others vrill prefer to think that
a plan of the whole has presided over the detail of these
elementary actions, they are the finalists. But the truth
is that there has been merely one indivisible act, that of
the hand passing through the filings: the inexhaustible
detail of the movement of the grains, as well as the order
of their final arrangement, expresses negatively, in a way,
this undivided movement, being the unitarj" form of a
resistance, and not a synthesis of positive elementary
actions. For this reason, if the arrangement of the grains
is termed an "effect" and the movement of the hand a
"cause," it may indeed be said that the whole of the effect
is explained by the whole of the cause, but to parts of the
cause parts of the effect will in no wise correspond. In
THE VITAL IllPETUS
95
other words, neither mechanism nor finalism will here be in
place, and we must resort to an explanation of a different
kind. Now, in the hypothesis we propose, the relation
of vision to the visual apparatus would be very nearly
that of the hand to the iron filings that follow, canalize
and limit its motion.
Now, in the hypothesis we propose, the relation
of vision to the visual apparatus would be very nearly
that of the hand to the iron filings that follow, canalize
and limit its motion.
The greater the effort of the hand, the farther it will
go into the filings. But at whatever point it stops, in-
stantaneously and automatically the filings coordinate
and find their equilibrium. So with vision and its organ.
According as the undivided act constituting vision ad-
vances more or less, the materiality of the organ is made
of a more or less considerable number of mutually co-
ordinated elements, but the order is necessarily complete
and perfect. It could not be partial, because, once agaia
the real process which ^ves rise to it has no parts. That
is what neither mechanism nor finalism takes into account,
and it is what we also fail to consider when we wonder
at the marvelous structure of an instrument such as the
eye. At the bottom of our wondering is always this idea,
that it would have been possible for o part ordy of tlus
coordination to have been realized, that the complete
realization is a kind of special favor. This favor the
finalists consider as dispensed to them all at once, by the
final cause; the mechanists claim to obtain it little by
little, by the effect of natural selection; but both see
something positive in this coordination, and consequently
something fractionable in its cause, — something which
admits of every possible degree of achievement. In
reality, the cause, though more or less intense, cannot
produce its effect except in one piece, and completely
finished. According as it goes further and further in
the direction of vision, it gives the simple pigmentary
masses of a lower organism, or the rudimentary eye of
96 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
a Serpula, or the slightly differentiated eye of the Alciope,
or the marvelously perfected eye of the bird; but all these
organs, unequal as is their complexity, necessarily present
an equal coordination. For this reason, no matter how
distant two animal species may be from each other, if the
progress toward vision has gone equally far in both, there
is the same visual organ in each case, for the form of the
organ only expresses the degree in which the exercise of
the function has been obtained.
For this reason, no matter how
distant two animal species may be from each other, if the
progress toward vision has gone equally far in both, there
is the same visual organ in each case, for the form of the
organ only expresses the degree in which the exercise of
the function has been obtained.
But, in sjjeaking of a progress toward vision, are we
not coming back to the old notion of finality? It would
be 80, undoubtedly, if this progress required the conscious
or unconscious idea of an end to be attained. But it ia
really effected in virtue of the original Impetus of life;
it is implied in this movement itself, and that is just why
it is found in independent lines of evolution. If now we
are asked why and how it is implied therein, we reply
that life is, more than anything else, a tendency to act on
inert matter. The direction of this action is not prede-
termined; hence the unforeseeable variety of forms which
life, in evolving, sows along its path. But this action
always presents, to some extent, the character of con-
tingency; it implies at least a rudiment of choice. Now
a choice involves the anticipatory idea of several possible
actions. Possibilities of action must therefore be marked
out for the living being before the action itself. Visual
perception is nothing else:' the visible outlines of bodies
are the design of our eventual action on them. Vision
will be found, therefore, in different degrees in the most
diverse animals, and it will appear in the same complexity
of structure wherever it has reached the same degree of
intensity.
We have dwelt on these resemblances of structure
> See, on Uiia subject, AfoMre el mimoire, dmp. i.
i.l THE VITAL IMPETUS 97
in general, and on the example of the eye in particular,
because we had to define our attitude toward mechanism
on the one hand and finalism on the other. It remains
for us to describe it more precisely in itself. This we
shall now do by showing the divergent results of evolution
not as presenting analogies, but as themselves mutually
complementary.
THE DIVERGENT DIRECTIONS OF THE EVOLUTION OF UFE.
TORPOR, INTELLIGENCE, INSTINCT
The evolution movement would be a simple one, and
we should soon have been able to determine its direc-
tion, if life had described a single course, like that of a
solid ball shot from a cannon. But it proceeds rather
like a shell, which suddenly bursts into fragments, which
fragments, being themselves shells, burst in their turn
into fragments destined to burst again, and so on for a
time incommensurably long. We perceive only what is
nearest to us, namely, the scattered movements of the
pulverized explosions. From them we have to go back,
Btage by stage, to the original movement.
We perceive only what is
nearest to us, namely, the scattered movements of the
pulverized explosions. From them we have to go back,
Btage by stage, to the original movement.
When a shell bursts, the particular way it breaks is
explained both by the explosive force of the powder it
contains and by the resistance of the metal. So of the
way life breaks into individuals and species. It depends,
we think, on two series of causes: the resistance life meets
from inert matter, and the explosive force — due to an
unstable balance of tendencies — which life bears within
itself.
The reedstance of inert matter was the obstacle that
had first to be overcome. Life seeras to have succeeded
in this by dint of humility, by making itself very small
and very insinuating, bending to physical and chemical
forces, consenting even to go a part of the way with them,
like the switch that adopts for a while the direction of
DIVERGENT TENDENCIES
r
H|be r&il it is endeavoring to leave. Of phenomena in
^Hhe simplest forms of life, it is hard to say whether they are
still physical and chemical or whether they are already
vital. Life had to enter thus into the habits of inert matter,
in order to draw it little by little, magnetized, as it were,
to another track. The animate forms that first appeared
were therefore of extreme simplicity. Tliey were probably
tiny masses of scarcely differentiated jirotoplaam, out-
wardly resembling the amoeba observable to-day, but
possessed of the tremendous internal push that was to
rwse them even to the highest forms of life. That in
virtue of this push the first organisms sought to grow as
HiDuch as possible, seems hkely. But organized matter
■Qias a limit of expansion that is very quickly reached;
^pbeyond a certain point it divides instead of growing.
Ages of effort, and prodigies of subtlety were probably
necessary for life to get past this new obstacle. It suc-
ceeded in inducing an increasing number of elements,
ready to divide, to remain united. By the division of
labor it knotted between them an indissoluble bond. The
complex and quasi-discontinuous organism is thus made
to function as would a continuous living mass which
had simply grown bigger.
But the real and profound causes of division were those
which life bore within its bosom. For hfe is tendency,
and the essence of a tendency is to develop in the form of a
Bheaf, creating, by its very growth, divergent directions
among which its impetus is divided. This we observe in
ourselves, in the evolution of that special tendency which we
call our character. Each of us, glancing back over his
history, will find that his child-p«rsonality, though in-
divisible, united in itself divers persona, which could re-
main blended just because they were in their nascent state:
this indecision, so charged with promise, is one of the
100
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Each of us, glancing back over his
history, will find that his child-p«rsonality, though in-
divisible, united in itself divers persona, which could re-
main blended just because they were in their nascent state:
this indecision, so charged with promise, is one of the
100
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
greatest charms of childhood. But these interwoven
personalities become incompatible in course of growth,
and, as each of us can live but one life, a choice must
perforce be made. We choose in reality without ceasing;
without ceasing, also, we abandon many things. The
route we pursue in time is strewn with the remains of all
that we began to be, of all that we might have become.
But nature, which has at command an incalculable number
of lives, is in no wise bound to make such sacrifices. She
preserves the different tendencies that have bifurcated
with their growth. She creates with them diverging
series of species that will evolve separately.
These series may, moreover, be of unequal imports
ance. The author who begins a novel puts into his hero
many things which he is obliged to discard as he goes on.
Perhaps he will take them up later in other books, and make
new characters with them, who will seem Uke extracts from,
or rather like complements of, the first; but they will al-
most always appear somewhat poor and limited in compari-
son with the original character. So with regard to the
evolution of life. The bifurcations on the way have been
numerous, but there have been many blind alleys beside
the two or three highways; and of these highways them-
selves, only one, that which leads through the vertebrates
up to man, has been wide enough to allow free passage
to the full breath of life. We get this impression when
we compare the societies of bees and ants, for instance,
with human societies. The former are admirably ordered
and united, but stereotyped ; the latter are open to every
sort of progress, but divided, and incessantly at strife
with themselves. The ideal would be a society always in
progress and always in equilibrium, but this ideal is perhaps
unrealizable: the two characteristics that would fain com-
plete each other, which do complete each other in their
I
I
I
The ideal would be a society always in
progress and always in equilibrium, but this ideal is perhaps
unrealizable: the two characteristics that would fain com-
plete each other, which do complete each other in their
I
I
I
embryonic state, can no longer abide together Jprftcn they
grow Btronger. If one could speak, otherwise than-toeta-
phorically, of an impulse toward social life, it might "be-^aid
tiiat the brunt of the impulse was borne along the lifte'of
evolution ending at man, and that the rest of it was col- .
lected on the road leading to the hymenoptera: the 80=^,
cieties of ants and bees would thus present the aspect
complementary to ours. But this would be only a manner
of expression. There has been no particular impulse
towards social hfe; there is simply the general movement
of life, which on divergent hnes is creating forms ever new.
If societies should appear on two of these lines, they ought
to show divergence of paths at the same time as community
of impetus. They will thus develop two classes of char-
acteristics which we shall find vaguely complementary
of each other.
So our study of the evolution movement will have to
unravel a certain number of divergent directions, and to
appreciate the importance of what has happened along
each of them — in a word, to determine the nature of the
dissociated tendencies and estimate their relative pro-
portion. Combining these tendencies, then, we shall get
an approximation, or rather an imitation, of the indivisible
motor principle whence their impetus proceeds. Evo-
lution will thus prove to be something entirely different
from a series of adaptations to circumstances, as mechan-
ism claims; entirely different also from the realization of a
plan of the whole, as maintained by the doctrine of finality.
That adaptation to environment is the necessary con-
dition of evolution we do not question for a moment.
It is quite evident that a species would disappear, should
it fwl to bend to the conditions of existence which are im-
posed on it. But it is one thing to recognize that outer
102 . '•:;.- CREATIVE EVOLUTION ichap"
circumstalitcee are forces evolution roust reckon with,
another to claim that they are the directing causes of
evqjHilon. This latter theory is that of mechanism. It
es;eli[des absolutely the hypothesis of an original impetus,
. I mean an internal push that has carried life, by more and
more complex forms, to higher and higher destinies. Yet
this impetus is evident, and a mere glance at fossil species
shows us that life need not have evolved at all, or might
have evolved only in very restricted limits, if it had chosen
the alternative, much more convenient to itself, of be-
coming anchylosed in its primitive forms. Certain Fora-
minifera have not varied since the Silurian epoch. Un-
moved witnesses of the innumerable revolutions that have
upheaved our planet, the Lingulae are to-day what they
were at the remotest times of the paleozoic era.
Certain Fora-
minifera have not varied since the Silurian epoch. Un-
moved witnesses of the innumerable revolutions that have
upheaved our planet, the Lingulae are to-day what they
were at the remotest times of the paleozoic era.
The truth is that adaptation explains the sinuosities of
the movement of evolution, but not its general directions,
still less the movement itself.' The road that leads to
the town is obliged to follow the tips and downs of the hills;
it adapts itself to the accidents of the ground ; but the
accidents of the ground are not the cause of the road, nor
have they given it its direction. At every moment they
furnish it with what is indispensable, namely, the soil on
which it lies; but if we consider the whole of the road, in-
stead of each of its parts, the accidents of the ground appear
only as impediments or causes of delay, for the road aims
simply at the town and would fain be a straight line. Just
BO as regartls the evolution of life and the circimistances
through which it passes — with this difference, that evo-
lution does not mark out a solitary route, that it takes
directions without aiming at ends, and that it remains
inventive even in its adaptations.
This view of adaptAlion has been DOted by M. F. M&rin in & re-
nurkable article on the origin of spectes, "L'Origine dea espAoea"
ilievut tdtntifiqut, Nov. ISOl, p. 580).
I
.1 ADAPTATION AND PROGRESS 103
But, if the evolution of life is something other than
a series of adaptations to accidental circumstances, so
also it is not the realization of a plan. A plan is given
in advance. It is represented, or at least representable,
before its realization. The complete axecution of it
may be put off to a distant future, or even indefinitely;
but the idea is none the less formulable at the present
time, in terms actually given. If, on the contrary, evo-
lution is a creation unceasingly renewed, it creates, as
it goes on, not only the forms of life, but the ideas that
will enable the intellect to understand it, the terras which
will serve to express it. That is to say that its future
overflows its present, and can not be sketched out therein
in an idea.
There is the first error of finatism. It involves another,
yet more serious.
That is to say that its future
overflows its present, and can not be sketched out therein
in an idea.
There is the first error of finatism. It involves another,
yet more serious.
If life realizes a plan, it ought to manifest a greater
harmony the further it advances, just as the house shows
better and better the idea of the architect as stone is set
upon stone. If, on the contrary, the unity of life is to be
found solely in the impetus that pushes it along the road
of time, the harmony is not in front, but behind. The unity
is derived from a vis a lergo: it is given at the start, as an
impulsion, not placed at the end as an attraction. In
communicating itself, the impetus splits up more and more.
Life, in proportion to its progress, is scattered in mani
Testations which undoubtedly owe to their coramon origi
the fact that they are complementary to each other
certain aspects, but which are none the less mutually
incompatible and antagonistic. So the discord between
species will go on increasing. Indeed, we have as yet
only indicated the essential cause of it. We have sui>-
posed, for the sake of simplicity, that each species received
on to others, and that,
104 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
So the discord between
species will go on increasing. Indeed, we have as yet
only indicated the essential cause of it. We have sui>-
posed, for the sake of simplicity, that each species received
on to others, and that,
104 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
in every direction in which bfe evolves, the propagation
is in a straight line. But, as a matter of fact, there are
species which are arrested; there are some that retrogress.
Evolution is not only a movement forward; in many cases
we observe a marking-time, and still more often a deviation
or turning back. It must be so, as we shall show further
on, and the same causes that divide the evolution move-
ment often cause life to be diverted from itself, hypnotized
by the form it has just brought forth. Thence results an
increasing disorder. No doubt there is progress, if pro-
gress mean a continual advance in the general direction
determined by a first impulsion; but this progress is ac-
complished only on the two or three great lines of evolution
on which forms ever more and more complex, ever more
and more high, appear; between these Unes run a crowd
of minor paths in which, on the contrary, deviations,
arrests, and set-backs, are multiplied. The philosopher,
who begins by laying down as a principle that each detail
is connected with some general plan of the whole, goes from
one disappointment to another as s?on as he comes to
examine the facts; and, as he had put everything in the
same rank, he finds that, as the result of not allowing for
accident, he must regard everything as accidental. For
accident, then, an allowance must first be made, and a
very liberal allowance. We must recognize that all is
not coherent in nature. By so doing, we shall be led to
ascertain the centres around which the incoherence crystal-
lizes. This crystallization itself will clarify the rest;
the main directions will appear, in which life is moving
whilst developing the original impulse. True, we shall not
r/itness the detailed accomplishment of a plan. Nature
is more and better than a plan in course of realization.
A plan is a term assigned to a labor: it closes the future
whoee form it indicates. Before the evolution of life, on
r
n.i
THE PLANT ;
105
I
the contrary, the portals of the future remain wide open.
It is a creation that goes on for ever in virtue of an initial
movement. This movement constitutes the unity of
the organized world — a prolific unity, of an infinite rich-
ness, superior to any that the intellect could dream of,
for the intellect is only one of its aspects or products.
It is a creation that goes on for ever in virtue of an initial
movement. This movement constitutes the unity of
the organized world — a prolific unity, of an infinite rich-
ness, superior to any that the intellect could dream of,
for the intellect is only one of its aspects or products.
But it is easier to define the method than to apply it.
The complete interpretation of the evolution movement
in the past, as we conceive it, would be possible only if
the history of the deveJopment of the organized world
were entirely known. Such is far from being the case.
The genealogies proposed for the different species are
generally questionable. They varj- with their authors,
with the theoretic views inspiring them, and raise dis-
cussions to which the present state of science does not
admit of a final settlement. But a comparison of the
different solutions shows that the controversy bears less
on the main lines of the movement than on matters of detail ;
and so, by following the main lines as closely as possible,
we shall be sm-e of not going astray. Moreover, they alone
arc important to us; for we do not aim, like the naturaUst,
at finding the order of succession of different species, but
only at defining the principal directions of their evolution.
And not all of these directions have the same interest for
ub; what concerns us particularly is the path that leads
to man. We shall therefore not lose sight of the fact,
in following one direction and another, that our main
business is to determine the relation of man to the animal
kingdom, and the place of the animal kingdom itself in the
organized world as a whole.
To begin with the second point, let us say that no definite
characteristic distinguishes the plant from the animal.
Attempts to define the two kingdoms strictly have always
106 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
To begin with the second point, let us say that no definite
characteristic distinguishes the plant from the animal.
Attempts to define the two kingdoms strictly have always
106 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
come to naught. There is not a single property of vege-
table life that is not found, in some degree, in certain ani-
mals; not a single characteristic feature of the animal
that has not been seen in certain species or at certain
moments in the vegetable world. Naturally, therefore,
biologists enamored of clean-cut concepts have regarded
the distinction between the two kingdoms as artificial.
They would be right, if definition in this case must be made,
as in the mathematical and physical sciences, according
to certain statical attributes which belong to the object
defined and are not found in any other. Very different, in
our opinion, is the kind of definition which befits the
sciences of life. There is no manifestation of life which
does not contain, in a rudimentary state — either latent
or potential, — the essential characters of most other mani-
festations. The difference is in the proportions. But this
very difference of proportion will suffice to define the group,
if we can establish that it is not accidental, and that the
group as it evolves, tends more and more to emphasize these
particular characters. In a word, the group must not be
defined by Ike possession of certain ckaracters, but by its
tendency to emphasize them. From this point of view, taking
tendencies rather than states into account, we find that
vegetables and animals may be precisely defined and
distinguished, and that they correspond to two divergent
developments of life.
This divergence is shown, first, in the method of ali-
mentation. We know that the vegetable derives directly
from the air and water and soil the elements necessary
to maintain life, especially carbon and nitrogen, which it
takes in mineral form. The animal, on the contrary,
cannot assimilate these elements unless they have already
been fixed for it in organic substances by plants, or by
animals which directly or indirectly owe them to plants;
THE PLANT AND THE ANIMAL
107
The animal, on the contrary,
cannot assimilate these elements unless they have already
been fixed for it in organic substances by plants, or by
animals which directly or indirectly owe them to plants;
THE PLANT AND THE ANIMAL
107
80 that ultimately the vegetable nourishes the animal.
True, this law allows of many exceptions among vegetables.
We do not hesitate to class amongst vegetables the Drosera,
the Dionaea, the Pinguieula, which are insectivorous
plants. On the other hand, the fungi, which occupy so
considerable a place in the vegetable world, feed like ani-
mals: whether they are ferments, saprophytes or parasites,
it is to already formed organic substances that they owe
their nourishment. It is therefore impossible to draw from
this difference any static definition such as would auto-
matically settle in any particular case the question whether
we are dealing with a plant or an animal. But the difference
may provide the beginning of a dynamic definition of the
two kingdoms, in that it marks the two divergent di-
rections in which vegetables and animals have taken their
course. It is a remarkable fact that the fungi, which
nature has spread all over the earth in such extraordinary
profusion, have not been able to evolve. Organically
they do not rise above tissues which, in the higher vegetables,
are formed in the embryonic sac of the ovary, and precede
the germinative development of the new individual.'
They might be called the abortive children of the vege-
table world. Their different species are like so many blind
alleys, as if, by renouncing the mode of alimentation custom-
ary amongst vegetables, they had been brought to a stand-
still on the highway of vegetable evolution. As to the
Drosera, the Dionaea, and insectivorous plants in general,
they are fed by their roots, hke other plants; they too fix,
by their green parts, the carbon of the carbonic acid in the
atmosphere. Their faculty of capturing, absorbing and
digesting insects must have arisen late, in quite exceptional
cases where the soil was too poor to furnish sufficient nour-
ishment. In a general way, then, if we attach less im-
De SapoTta u)d Marion, L'Evolution dei eryplogamet, ISSl, p. 37.
108
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
In a general way, then, if we attach less im-
De SapoTta u)d Marion, L'Evolution dei eryplogamet, ISSl, p. 37.
108
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
portance to the presence of special characters than to their
tendency to develop, and if we regard as essential that
tendency along which evolution has been able to continue
indefinitely, we may say that vegetables are distinguished
from animals by their power of creating organic matter
out of mineral elements which they draw directly from the
air and earth and water. But now we come to another
difference, deeper than this, though not unconnected with it.
The animal, being unable to fix directly the carbon
and nitrogen which are everywhere to be found, has to
seek for its nourishment vegetables which have already
fixed these elements, or animals which have taken them
from the vegetable kingdom. So the animal must be
able to move. From the amoeba, which thrusts out
its pseudopodia at random to seize the organic matter
scattered in a drop of water, up to the higher animals
which have sease-organs with which to recognize their
prey, locomotor organs to go and seize it, and a ncn'ous
system to coordinate their movements with their sen-
sations, animal life is characterized, in its general direction,
by mobility in space. In its most rudimentary form, the
animal is a tiny mass of protoplasm enveloped at most
in a thin albuminous pellicle which allows full freedom for
change of shape and movement. The vegetable cell,
on the contrary, is surrounded by a membrane of cellu-
lose, which condemns it to immobility. And, from the
bottom to the top of the vegetable kingdom, there are the
same habits growing more and more sedentary, the plant
having no need to move, and finding around it, in the air
and water and soil in which it is placed, the mineral ele-
ments it can appropriate directly. It is true that phe-
nomena of movement are seen in plants. Darwin has
written a well-known work on the movements of climbing
plants. He studied also the contrivances of certain in-
THE PLANT AND THE ANIMAL
109
It is true that phe-
nomena of movement are seen in plants. Darwin has
written a well-known work on the movements of climbing
plants. He studied also the contrivances of certain in-
THE PLANT AND THE ANIMAL
109
sectivorous plants, such as the Drosera and the Dionaea,
to seize their prey. The leaf-movements of the acacia,
the seiaitive plant, etc., are well known. Moreover,
the circulation of the vegetable protoplasm within its
sheath bears witness to its relationship to the protoplasm
of animals, whilst in a large number of animal species
(generally parasites) phenomena of fixation, analogous
to those of vegetables, can be observed." Here, again,
it would be a mistake to claim that fixity and mobility
are the two characters which enable us to decide, by simple
inspection alone, whether we have before us a plant or an
animal. But fixity, in the animal, generally seems Uke
a torpor into which the species has fallen, a refusal to
evolve further in a certain direction; it is closely akin to
parasitism and is accompanied by features that recall
those of vegetable life. On the other hand, the move-
ments of vegetables have neither the frequency nor the
variety of those of animals. Generally, they involve only
part of the organism and scarcely ever extend to the whole.
In the exceptional cases in which a vague spontaneity
appears in vegetables, it is as if we beheld the accidental
awakening of an activity normally asleep. In short,
although both mobility and fixity exist in the vegetable
as in the animal worid, the balance is clearly in favor of
fixity in the one case and of mobility in the other. These
two opposite tendencies are so plainly directive of the two
evolutions that the two kingdoms might almcMt be defined
by them. But fixity and mobility, again, are only super-
ficial signs of tendencies that are still deeper.
Between mobility and consciousness there is an obvious
relationship. No doubt, the consciousness of the higher
or;ganism3 seems bound up with certain cerebral arrange-
Archives lU phytiologie, 1892.
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
tOHAP.
action of these nerves is subordinated to the action of
those which stimulate the locomotor muscles — in thia
sense, that the muscles begin by expending without cal-
culation, thus consuming glycogen, impoverishing the
blood of its glucose, and finally causing the liver, which
has had to pour into the impoverished blood some of
its reserve of glycogen, to manufacture a fresh supply.
From the sensori-motor system, then, everything starts;
on that system everything converges; and we may say,
without metaphor, that the rest of the organism is at its
service.
From the sensori-motor system, then, everything starts;
on that system everything converges; and we may say,
without metaphor, that the rest of the organism is at its
service.
Consider again what happens in a prolonged fast. It
is a remarkable fact that in animals that have died of
hunger the brain is found to be almost unimpaired, while
the other organs have lost more or less of their weight
and their cells have undergone profound changes.' It
seems as though the rest of the body had sustained th«
nervous system to the last extremity, treating itself
simply as the means of -which the nervous system is tha
end.
To sum up: if we agree, in short, to understand by
"the sensori-motor system" the cerebro-spinal nervous
system together with the sensorial apparatus in which it
is prolonged and the locomotor muscles it controls, we
may say that a higher organism is essentially a sensori-
motor system installed on systems of digestion, respiration,
circulation, secretion, etc., whose function it is to repair,
cleanse and protect it, to create an unvarying internal
environment for it, and above all to pass it potential
De Hanac^ine, "Quelquei obaervatjona exp^rimen tales sur Tin-
sbaolue' ' (Arch. iial. de bichgie, t, xxi., 1894, pp.
322 B.). Recently, analogous obiiervktiona have been made on a man
vho died of inanition after b faat of Ibirly-five days. See, on this
•ubJMt, In the A nntt biologvpie of 1898, p. 338, the rtisumti of aa article
(in Russian) by Tat«kevitch and Stchaaoy.
ANIMAL LIFE
125
energy to convert into locomotive movement.' It is
true that the more the nervous function is perfected, the
more must the functions required to maintain it develop, and
the more axacting, consequently, they become for them-
selves. As the nervous activity has emerged from the
protoplasmic mass in which it was almost drowned, it
has had to summon around itself activities of all kinds for
its support. These could only be developed on other
activities, which again implied others, and so on indefinitely.
Thus it is that the complexity of functioning of the higher
organisms goes on to infinity. The study of one of these
organisms therefore takes us round in a circle, as if every-
thing was a means to everything else. But the circle
has a centre, none the leas, and that is the system of nervous
elements stretching between the sensory organs and the
motor apparatus.
We will not dwell here on a point we have treated at
length in a former work. Let us merely recall that the
progress of the nervous system has been effected both
in the direction of a more precise adaptation of movements
and in that of a greater latitude left to the living being
to choose between them. These two tendencies may
appear antagonistic, and indeed they are so; but a nervous
chain, even in its most rudimentary form, successfully
reconciles them. On the one hand, it marks a well-de-
These two tendencies may
appear antagonistic, and indeed they are so; but a nervous
chain, even in its most rudimentary form, successfully
reconciles them. On the one hand, it marks a well-de-
' Cuviereaid; "The nervous syBfem is, at bottom, the whole animal;
the other syBtcma are there only to serve it." ("Sur un nouveau
npprochement k ^(ahlir entre les classes qui mmposent le regne B.m~
mftl," Arch, du Mutttum d'histoire nalurellr., Paris. 1S12. pp. 73-84.)
Of course, it would be neceesary to apply a great many restrictions
to this Formula — for example, to allow for the cases of degradation
and retrogression in which the nervous eystem passes iDt« the back-
ground. And, moreover, with the nen-oua system must be included
the sensorial apparatus on the one hand and the motor on the other,
between which it acts as iatemcdiary. Cf. Foster, art. "Physiology,''
in the Encyclopatdia BrUanniea, Edinburgh, 1S85, p. 17.
126
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
{CHAP.
fined track between one point of the periphery and an-
other, the one sensory, the other motor. It has therefore
canalized an activity which was originally diffused in the
protoplasmic mass. But, on the other hand, the elements
that compose it are probably discontinuous; at any rate,
even supposing they anastomose, they exhibit a functional
discontinuity, for each of them ends in a kind of cross-
road where probably the nervous current may choose
its course. From the humblest Monera to the best endowed
insects, and up to the most intelligent vertebrates, the
I progress reahzed has been above all a progress of the ner\-oua
1 system, coupled at every stage with all the new construc-
[ tions and complications of mechanism that this progress
1 required. As we foreshadowed in the beginning of this
work, the r61e of life is to insert some iTuktermination into
matter. Indeterminate, i.e. unforeseeable, are the forma
it creates in the course of its evolution. More and more
indeterminate also, more and more free, is the activity
to which these forms ser\'e as the vehicle. A nervous
system, with neurones placed end to end in such wise that,
at the extremity of each, manifold ways open in which
manifold questions present themselves, is a veritable
reservoir of indetermination. That the main energy of
the vital impidse has been spent in creating apparatus
of this kind is. we believe, what a glance over the organ-
ized world as a whole easily shows. But concerning the
vital impulse itself a few explanations are necessary.
It must not be forgotten that the force which is evolv-
ing throughout the organized world is a limited force,
which is always seeking to transcend itself and always
remains inadequate to the work it would fain produce. .
The errors and puerilities of radical finalism aie due to
the misapprehension of this point. It has represented
n.i
DEVELOPMENT OF ANIMAL LIFE
127
.
The errors and puerilities of radical finalism aie due to
the misapprehension of this point. It has represented
n.i
DEVELOPMENT OF ANIMAL LIFE
127
the whole of the living world as a construction, and a
conatmction analogous to a human work. All the pieces
have been arranged with a view to the best possible funo-
tioniug of the machine. Each species has its reason for
existence, its part to play, its allotted place; and all join
together, as it were, in a musical concert, wherein the
seeming discords are really meant to bring out a funda-
mental harmony. In short, all goes on in nature as in
the works of hiunan genius, where, though the result
may be trifling, there is at least perfect adequacy between
the object made and the work of making it.
Nothing of the kind in the evolution of life. There,
the disproportion is striking between the work and the
result. From the bottom to the top of the organized
world we do indeed find one great effort; but most often
this effort turns short, sometimes paralyzed by contrary
forces, sometimes diverted from what it should do by
what it does, absorbed by the form it is engaged in tak-
ing, hypnotized by it as by a mirror. Even in its most
perfect works, though it seems to have triumphed over
external resistances and also over its own, it is at the
mercy of the materiality which it has had to assume.
It is what each of us may experience in himself. Our
freedom, in the very movements by which it is affirmed,
creates the growing habits that will stifle it if it fails to
renew itself by a constant effort : it is dogged by automa-
tism. The most living thought becomes frigid in the for-
mula that expresses it. The word turns against the
idea.
The letter kills the spirit. And our most ardent enthusi-
asm, as soon as it is externalized into action, is so naturally
congealed into the cold calculation of interest or vanity,
the one takes so easily the shape of the other, that we
might confuse them together, doubt our own sincerity,
128
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lOHAP.'
deny goodness and love, if we did not know that the dead
retain for a time the features of the living.
The profound cause of this discordance lies in an ir-
remediable difference of rhythm. Life in general is mo-
bility itself; particular manifestations of hfe accept this
mobility reluctantly, and constantly lag behind. It is
always going ahead; they want to mark time. Evolution
in general would fain go on in a straight line; each special
evolution is a kind of circle. Like eddies of dust raised
by the wind as it passes, the living turn upon themselves,
borne up by the great blast of life. They are therefore
relatively stable, and counterfeit immobility bo well
that we treat each of them as a thing rather than as a
progress, forgetting that the very permanence of their
form is only the outline of a movement. At times, how-
ever, in a fleeting vision, the invisible breath that bears
them is materialized before our eyes. We have this
sudden illumination before certain forms of maternal
love, so striking, and in most animals so touching, ob-
servable even in the sohcitude of the plant for its seed.
This love, in which some have seen the great mystery
of life, may possibly deliver us life's secret. It shows us
each generation leaning over the generation that shall
follow. It allows ua a glimpse of the fact that the living
being La above all a thoroughfare, and that the essence of
life is in the movement by which life is transmitted.
This contrast between life in general, and the forms
in which it is manifested, has everywhere the same char-
acter. It might be said that life tends toward the ut-
most possible action, but that each species prefers to
contribute the slightest possible effort. Regarded in what
constitutes its true essence, namely, as a transition from
species to species, life is a continually growing action.
But each of the species, through which life passes, aims
r
DEVELOPMENT OF ANIMAL LIFE
129
only at its own convenience. It goes for that which
demands the least labor. Absorbed in the form it is
about to take, it falls into a partial sleep, in which it
ignores almost all the rest of life; it fashions itself so
as to take the greatest possible advantage of its immediate
environment with the least possible trouble. Accord-
ingly, the act by which hfe goes forward to the creation
of a new form, and the act by which this form is shaped,
are two different and often antagonistic movements.
The first is continuous with the second, but cannot con-
tinue in it without being drawn aside from its direction,
fis would happen to a man leaping, if, in order to clear
the obstacle, he had to turn bis eyes from it and look at
himself all the while.
The first is continuous with the second, but cannot con-
tinue in it without being drawn aside from its direction,
fis would happen to a man leaping, if, in order to clear
the obstacle, he had to turn bis eyes from it and look at
himself all the while.
Living forms are, by their very definition, forms that
are able to live. In whatever way the adaptation of the
organism to its circumstances is explained, it has necessv
lily been sufficient, since the species has subsisted. In
this sense, each of the successive species that paleon-
tology and zoology describes was a success carried ofE by
life. But we get a very different impression when we
refer each species to the movement that has left it behind
on its way, instead of to the conditions into which it has
been set. Often this movement has turned aside; very
often, too, it has stopped short ; what was to have been
a thoroughfare has become a terminus. From this new
point of \-iew, failure seems the rule, success exceptional
and always imperfect. We shall see that, of the four
main directions along which animal life bent its course,
two have led to blind alleys, and, in the other two, the
effort has generally been out of proportion to the result.
Documents are lacking to reconstruct this history in
detail, but we can make out its main Unes. We have
Already sud that animals and vegetables must have
130 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
separated soon from their common stock, the vegetable
falling asleep in immobility, the animal, on the con-
trary, becoming more and more awake and marching on
to the conquest of a nervous system. Probably the effort
of the animal kingdom resulted in creating oi^anisms
still very simple, but endowed with a certain freedom
of action, and, above all, with a shape so undecided that
it could lend itself to any future determination. These
animals may have resembled some of our worms, but
with this difference, however, that the worms living to-
day, to which they could be compared, are but the empty
and fixed examples of infinitely plastic forms, pregnant
with an unlimited future, the common stock of the echino-
denns, molluscs, arthropods, and vertebrates.
One danger lay in wait for them, one obstacle which
might have stopped the soaring course of animal life.
There is one peculiarity with which we cannot help
being struck when glancing over the fauna ol primitive
times, namely, the imprisonment of the animal in a more
or less solid sheath, which must have obstructed and
often even paralyzed its movements. The molluscs
of that time had a shell more universally than those of
to-day. The arthropods in general were provided with a
carapace; most of them were crustaceans. The more
ancient fishes had a bony sheath of extreme hardness."
The explanation of this general fact should be sought,
we believe, in a tendency of soft organisms to defend
themselves against one another by making themselves,
as far as possible, undevourable. Each species, in the act
by which it comes into being, trends towards that which
is most expedient. Just as among primitive organisms
there were some that turned towards animal life by re-
8e«. on these different points, tbe work of Gaudry, Etaai de jiaUon-
MogU philotophique, fans, 1S90, pp. 14-10 and 78-79.
DEVELOPMENT OF ANIMAL LIFE
131
fusing to manufacture organic out of inorganic material
and taking organic substances ready made from organ-
isms that had turned toward the vegetative life, so, among
the aoimal species themselves, many contrived to live
at the expense of other animals. For an organism that is
animal, that is to say mobile, can avail itself of its mobihty
to go in search of defenseless animals, and feed on them
quite as well as on vegetables. So, the more species be-
came mobile, the more they became voracious and danger-
ous to one another. Hence a sudden arrest of the entire
animal world in its progress towards higher and higher
mobihty; for the hard and calcareous skin of the echino-
derm, the shell of the mollusc, the carapace of the crustacean
and the ganoid breast-plate of the ancient fishes probably
all originated in a common effort of the animal species
to protect themselves against hostile species. But this
breast-plate, behind which the animal took shelter,
constrained it in its movements and sometimes fixed
it in one place. If the vegetable renounced consciousness
in wrapping itself in a cellulose membrane, the animal
that shut itself up in a citadel or in armor condemned
itself to a partial slumber. In this torpor the echinoderms
fljid even the molluscs live to-day. Probably arthropods
and vertebrates were threatened with it too. They escaped,
however, and to this fortunate circumstance is due the
expansion of the highest forms of life.
In this torpor the echinoderms
fljid even the molluscs live to-day. Probably arthropods
and vertebrates were threatened with it too. They escaped,
however, and to this fortunate circumstance is due the
expansion of the highest forms of life.
In two directions, in fact, we see the impulse of life
to movement getting the upper hand again. The fishes
exchanged their ganoid breast-plate for scales. Long
before that, the insects had appeared, also disencumbered
of the breast-plate that had protected their ancestors.
Both supplemented the insufSciency of their protective
covering by an agility that enabled them to escape their
enemiee. and also to assume tbe offensive, to choose the
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
ICHIP.
place and the moment of encounter. We see a progress
of the same kind in the evolution of human armaments,
The first impulse is to seek shelter; the second, which is
the better, is to become as supple as possible for flight and
above all for attack — attack being the most effective
means of defense. So the heavy hoplite was supplanted
by the legionary; the kaight, clad in annor, had to give
place to the light free-moving infantrj'man ; and in a
general way, in the evolution of life, just as in the evo-
lution of human societies and of individual destinies, the
greatest successes have been for those who have accepted
the heaviest risks.
Evidently, then, it was to the animal's interest to
make itself more mobile. As we said when speaking
of adaptation in general, any transformation of a species
can be explained by its own particular interest. This
will give the immediate cause of the variation, but often
only the most superficial cause. The profound cause is
the impulse which thrust hfe into the world, which made
it divide into vegetables and animals, which shunted the
animal on to suppleness of form, and which, at a certain
moment, in the animal kingdom threatened with torpwr,
secured that, on some points at least, it should rouse itself
up and move forward.
On the two paths along which the vertebrate* and
arthropods have separately evolved, development {apart
from retrogressions connected with parasitism or any
other cause) has consisted above all in the progress of
the aensori-motor ner\-ou8 system. Mobility and sup-
plensBS were sought for, and also — through many experi-
mental attempts, and not without a tendency to excess
of substance and brute force at the start — variety of move-
ments. But this quest itself took place in divergent
directions. A glance at the nervous system of the arthro-
DEVELOPMENT OF ANIMAL LIFE
133
But this quest itself took place in divergent
directions. A glance at the nervous system of the arthro-
DEVELOPMENT OF ANIMAL LIFE
133
pods and that of the vertebrates shows us the difference.
In the arthropods, the body is formed of a aeries more or
less long of rings set together; motor activity ia thus
distributed amongst a varying — sometimes a considerable
— number of appendages, eacti of which has its special
function. In the vertebrates, activity is concentrated
in two pairs of members only, and these organs perform
functions which depend much less strictly on their form.'
The independence becomes complete in man, whose hand
is capable of any kind of work.
That, at least, is what we see. But behind what is
seen there is what may be surmised — two powers, im-
manent in life and originally intermingled, which were
bound to part company in course of growth.
To define these powers, we must consider, in the evo-
lution both of the arthropods and the vertebrates, the
Bpecies which mark the culminating point of each. How
is this point to be determined? Here again, to aim at
geometrical precision will lead us astray. There is no
eingle simple sign by which we can recognize that one
species is more advanced than another on the same line
of evolution. There are manifold characters, that must
be compared and weighed in each particular case, in order
to ascertain to what extent they are essential or acci-
dental and how far they must be taken into account.
It is unquestionable, for example, that success is the
most general criterion of superiority, the two terms being,
up to a certain point, synonymous. By success must be
understood, so far as the living being is concerned, an
aptitude to develop in the most diverse environments,
through the greatest possible variety of obstacles, so as to
cover the widest possible extent of ground. A speciea
8m, on this subject, Shftler, The Individual, New Vork, 1600, pp.
Ilft-126.
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
which claims the entire eeirth for its domain is truly a
dominating and consequently superior species. Such
is the human species, which represents the culminatmg
poiot of the evolution of the vertebrates. But such also
are, in the series of the articulate, the insects and in partic-
ular certain hymenoptera. It has been said of the anta
that, as man is lord of the soil, they are lords of the sub-aoil.
On the other hand, a group of species that has appeared
late may be a group of degenerates; but, for that, some
special cause of retrogression must have intervened.
By right, this group should be superior to the group from
which it is derived, since it would correspond to a more
advanced stage of evolution. Now man is probably
the latest comer of the vertebrates;' and in the insect
series no species is later than the hymenoptera, unless
it be the lepidoptera, which are probably degenerates,
living parasitically on flowering plants.
Now man is probably
the latest comer of the vertebrates;' and in the insect
series no species is later than the hymenoptera, unless
it be the lepidoptera, which are probably degenerates,
living parasitically on flowering plants.
So, by different ways, we are led to the same conclusion.
The evolution of the arthropods reaches its culminating
point in the insect, and in particular in the hymenoptera,
as that of the vertebrates in man. Now, since instinct
is nowhere so developed as in the insect world, and in no
group of Uiseets so marvelously as in the hymenoptera, it
may be said that the whole evolution of the animal king-
dom, apart from retrogressions towards vegetative life,
has taken place on two divergent paths, one of which led
to instinct and the other to intelligence.
This point is disputed by M. Rcn£ Quintou, who regards the car-
nivonius and ruminant mammatH, an well as certein biids, as subse-
quent to man (R. Qmntan, L'Kaudemer milieu organique, Paris, 1904,
p. 43S). We may nay bore that our general conclusiooa, altbough
very different from M. Quinton's, are not irraconcilablB with them;
for if evolution has really been such as we represent it, the vertebrates
must have made an effort to maintain themselves in the most favor-
able conditions of activity — the veiy conditions, indeed, which life
luhd eh^>flen in the b^iiuuns.
n.j DEVELOPMENT OF ANIMAL LIFE 135
Vegetative torpor, instinct, and intelligence — these,
then, are the elements that coiocided in the vital impulsion
common to plants and animals, and which, in the course
of a development in which they were made manifest in
the most unforeseen forms, have been dissociated by the
very fact of their growth. Tlie cardinal error which, from
Aristotle onwards, has vitiated most of the philosophies of
Tiaiure, is to see in vegetaiive, instinctive and rational life,
three successive degrees of the development of one and the
same tendency, whereas they are three divergent directions
of an adimty that has split up as il grew. The difference
between them is not a difference of intensity, nor, more
generally, of degree, but of kind.
It is important to investigate this point. We have
seen in the case of vegetable and animal life how they
are at once mutually complementary and mutually an-
tagonistic. Now we must show that intelligence and /
instinct also are opposite and complementary. But i
let us first ejtplain why we are generally led to regard
them as activities of which one is superior to the other
and based upon it, whereas in reality they are not things
of the same order: they have not succeeded one another,
nor can we assign to them differentj grades.
But i
let us first ejtplain why we are generally led to regard
them as activities of which one is superior to the other
and based upon it, whereas in reality they are not things
of the same order: they have not succeeded one another,
nor can we assign to them differentj grades.
It is because intelligence and instinct, having origin- 1
ally been interpenetrating, retain something of their I
common origin. Neither is ever found in a pure state.
We said that in the plant the consciousness and mobihty
of the animal, which lie dormant, can be awakened; and
that the animal lives under the constant menace of being
drawn aside to the vegetative hfe. The two tendencies
— that of the plant and that of the animal — were so thor-
oughly interpenetrating, to begin with, that there has
never been a complete severance between them: thqr
138 CREATIVE EVOLUTION mArT
haunt each other continually; everywhere we find them
mingled; it is the proportion that differs. So with in-
telligence and instinct. There is no intelligence in which
some traces of instinct are not to be discovered, more
especially no instinct that is not surrounded with a
fringe of intelligence. It is this fringe of intelligence
that has been the cause of so many misunderstandings.
From the fact that instinct is always more or less in-
telligent, it has been concluded that instinct and intelligence
are things of the same kind, that there is only a difference
of complexity or perfection between them, and, above all,
that one of the two is expressible in terms of the other.
In reaUty, they accompany each other only because they
are complementary, and they are complementary only
because they are different, what is instinctive in instinct
being opposite to what is intelligent in intelligence.
We are bound to dwell on this point. It is one of the
utmost importance.
Let us say at the outset that the distinctions we are
going to make will be too sharply drawn, just, because we
wish to define in instinct what is instinctive, and in intelh-
gence what is intelligentj whereas all concrete instinct is
mingled with intelligence, as all real intelligence is pene-
trated by instinct. Moreover, neither intelligence nor
instinct lends itself to rigid definition: they are tendencies,
and not things. Also, it must not be forgotten that in the
present chapter we are considering intelligence and instinct
as going out of life which deposits them along its course.
Now the life manifested by an organism is, in our view,
a certain effort to obtain certain things from the material
world. No wonder, therefore, if it is the diversity of this
effort that strikes us in instinct and intelligence, and if
we see in these two modes of psychical activity, above
all else, two different methods of action on inert matter.
n.i
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
No wonder, therefore, if it is the diversity of this
effort that strikes us in instinct and intelligence, and if
we see in these two modes of psychical activity, above
all else, two different methods of action on inert matter.
n.i
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
This rather narrow view of them has the advantage of
^ving us an objective means of distinguishing them. In
return, however, it gives us, of intelHgence in general
and of instinct in general, only the mean position above and
below which both constantly oscillate. For that reason
the reader must expect to see in what follows only a dia-
grammatic drawing, in which the respective outlines
of intelligence and instinct are sharper than they should
be, and in which the shading-off which comes from the
indecision of each and from their reciprocal encroachment
on one another is neglected. In a matter so obscure,
we cannot strive too hard for clearness. It will always be
easy afterwards to soften the outlines and to correct what
is too geometrical in the drawing — in short, to replace
the rigidity of a diagram by the suppleness of life.
To what date is it agreed to ascribe the appearance
of man on the earth? To the period when the first
weapons, the first tools, were made. The memorable
quarrel over the discovery of Boucher de Perthes in the
quarry of Moulin-Quignon is cot forgotten. The question
was whether real hatchets had been found or merely
bite of flint accidentally broken. But that, supposing
they were hatchets, we were indeed in the presence of
intelligence, and more particularly of human intelligence,
no one doubted for an instant. Now let us open a col-
lection of anecdotes on the intelligence of animals: we
ehall see that besides many acts explicable by imitation
or by the automatic association of images, there are some
that we do not hesitate to call intelligent: foremost among
them are tho:,e that bear witness to some idea of manu-
facture, whether the animal life succeeds in fashioning a
crude instrument or uses for its profit an object made by
man. The animals that rank immediately after man in
138
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
tCHAF.
The animals that rank immediately after man in
138
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
tCHAF.
the matter of intelligence, the apes and elephants, are
those that can use an artificial instrument occasionally.
Below, but not very far from thcni, come those that
recognize a constructed object: for example, the fox, which
knows quite well that a trap is a trap. No doubt, there is
intelligence wherever there is inference; but inference,
which consists in an inflection of past experience in the
direction of present experience, is already a beginning
of invention. Invention becomes complete when it is
materialized in a manufactured instrument. Towards
that achievement the intelligence of animals tends as
towards an ideal. And though, ordinarily, it does not
yet succeed in fashioning artificial objects and in making
use of them, it is preparing for this by the very variations
which it performs on the instincts furnished by nature.
As regards human intelligence, it has not been sufficiently
noted that mechanical invention has been from the first
its essential feature, that even to-day our social life gravi-
tates around the manufacture and use of artificial instru-
ments, that the inventions which strew the road of progress
have also traced its direction. This we hardly realize,
because it takes us longer to change ourselves than to
change our tools. Our individual and even social habits
survive a good while the circumstances for which they were
made, so that the ultimate efi'ects of an invention are not
observed until its novelty is already out of sight. A
century has elapsed since the invention of the steam-
engine, and we are only just beginning to feel the depths
of the shock it gave us. But the revolution it has effected
in industry has nevertheless upset human relations al-
together. New ideas are arising, new feelings are on the
way to flower. In thousands of years, when, seen from
the distance, only the broad lines of the present age will
still be visible, our wars and our revolutions will count for
INTELLIGENCE
^Fnttle, even supposing they are remembered at all; but the
Bteam-engine, and the procession of inventions of every
kind that accompanied it, will perhaps be spoken of as we
speak of the bronze or of the chipped stone of pre-historic
times: it will serve to define an age.' If we could rid our-
selves of all pride, if, to define our species, we kept strictly
to what the historic and the prehistoric periods show us
to be the constant characteristic of man and of intelli-
gence, we should say not Hovio sapiens, but Hovio faber.
tin short, inlelligence, considered in what seetns to be its
[itrigincd feature, is the faculty of manufacturing artifidaZ
objects, especially tools to make tools, and of indefinitely
varying the manufacture.
tin short, inlelligence, considered in what seetns to be its
[itrigincd feature, is the faculty of manufacturing artifidaZ
objects, especially tools to make tools, and of indefinitely
varying the manufacture.
Now, doed an unintelligent animal also possess tools
or machines? Yes, certainly, but here the instrument
forms a part of the body that uses it; and, correspond-
ing to this instrument, there is an instinct that knows how
to use it. True, it cannot be maintained that all instincts
consist in a natural ability to use an inborn mechanism.
Such a definition would not apply to the instincts which
Romanes called "secondary"; and more than one "pri-
mary" instinct would not come under it. But this defi-
nition, like that which we have provisionally given of
intelligence, determines at least the ideal limit toward
which the very numerous forms of instinct are traveUng.
Indeed, it has often been pointed out that most instincts
are only the continuance, or rather the consummation, '
of the work of organization itself. Where does the activity
of instinct begin? and where does that of nature end? We
cannot tell. In the metamorphoses of the larva into the
nymph and into the perfect insect, metamorphoses that
> M. Paul l^combe htks kid great stress an the important influence
that great inventbns have exerrised on the evolution of humanity (P.
Lftoombe. De I'hiatoire conaidir4e eomme science, Paris, 1S94. Soe, in
(wrticukr, pp. 16S-247).
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[OOIP.
often require appropriate action and a kind of initiative
on the part of the larva, there is no sharp line of demarca-
tion between the instinct of the animal and the organizing
work of living matter. We may say, as we will, either that
instinct organizes the instruments it is about to use, or
that the process of organization is continued in the instinct
that has to use the organ. The most marvelous instincts
of the insect do nothing but develop its special structure
into movements: indeed, where social life divides the
labor among different individuals, and thus allots them
different instincts, a corresponding difference of structure
is observed: the polymorphism of ants, bees, wasps and
certain j)seudoneuroptera is well known. Thus, if we
consider only those typical cases in which the complete
triumph of intelligence and of instinct is seen, we find
this essential difference between them: instinct perfected
is a faculty of using and even of conslrucling organized
instruments; intelligence perfected is the faculty of rnaking
and usiTtg imorganized instruments.
The advantages and drawbacks of these two modes
of activity are obvious. Instinct finds the appropriate
instrument at hand: this instrument, which makes and
repairs itself, which presents, like all the works of nature,
&n infinite complexity of detail combined with a marveloua
simplicity of function, does at once, when required, what
it is called upon to do, without difficulty and with a per-
fection that is often wonderful. In return, it retains an
almost invariable structure, since a modification of it
involves a modification of the species. Instinct is there-
fore necessarily specialized, being nothing but the utiU-
zation of a specific instrument for a specific object. The
instrument constructed intelligently, on the contrary,
is an imperfect instrument. It costs an effort. It ia
generaliy troublesome to handle. But, as it is made of
r
I
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
unorganized matter, it can take any form whatsoever,
serve any purpose, free the bving being from every new
difficulty that arises and bestow on it an unlimited number
of powers, Whilst it is inferior to the natural instrument
for the satisfaction of immediate wants, its advantage
over it is the greater, the less urgent the need. Above
all, it reacts on the nature of the being that constructs
it; for in calling on him to exercise a new function, it
confers on him, so to speak, a richer organization, being
an artificial organ by which the natural organism is ex-
tended. For every need that it satisfies, it creates a new 1
need; and so, instead of closing, like instinct, the round of '
action within which the animal tends to move auto-
matically, it lays open to activity an unlimited field into
which it is driven further and further, and made more
and more free. But this advantage of intelligence over
instinct only appears at a late stage, when inteUigence,
having raised construction to a higher degree, proceedi
to construct constructive machinery. At the outset, the
advantages and drawbacks of the artificial instrument and of
the natural instrument balance so well that it is hard to for&-
tell which of the two will secure to the living being the
greater empire over nature.
We may surmise that they began by being implied
in each other, that the original psychical activity included
both at once, and that, if we went far enough back into the
past, we should find instincts more nearly approaching
intelligence than those of our insects, intelligence nearer
to instinct than that of our .vertebrates, intelligence and
instinct being, in this elementary condition, prisoners of s
matter which they are not yet able to control. K the force
immanent in life were an unhmited force, it might perhaps
have developed instinct and intelligence together, and to
my Krtent, in the same organisms. But everything scemj
142
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
K the force
immanent in life were an unhmited force, it might perhaps
have developed instinct and intelligence together, and to
my Krtent, in the same organisms. But everything scemj
142
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
to indicate that this force is limited, and that it soon
exhausts itself in its very manifestation. It is hard for
it to go far in several directions at once: it must choose.
Now, it has the choice between two modes of acting on
the material world: it can either effect this action directly
by creating an organized instrument to work with; or else
it can effect it indirecUj/ through an organism which, in-
stead of possessing the required instrument naturally,
will itself construct it by fashioning inorganic matter.
Hence intelligence and instinct, which diverge more and
more as they develop, but which never entirely separate
from each other. On the one hand, the most perfect
instinct of the insect is accompanied by gleams of intelli-
gence, if only in the choice of place, time and materials
of construction: the bees, for example, when by exception
they build in the open air, invent new and really intelligent
arrangements to adapt themselves to such new con-
ditions.' But, on the other hand, intelligence has even
more need of instinct than instinct has of intelligence;
for the power to give shape to crude matter involves al-
ready a superior degree of organization, a degree to which
the animal could not have risen, save on the wings of
instinct. So, while nature has frankly evolved in the di-
rection of mstinct in the arthropods, we observe in almost
all the vertebrates the striving after rather than the ex-
pansion of intelligence. It is instinct still which forma
the basis of their psychical activity; but intelligence ia
there, and would fain supersede it. Intelligence does not
yet succeed in inventing instruments; but at least it tries
to, by performing as many variations as possible on the
instinct which it would like to dispense with. It gains
complete self-possession only in man, and this triumph
Bouvier, "La NidilicatioD dea abeillca i I'air Libre" (C. B. de t'A9^
do* fcien««f , 7 n
il906),
n.i
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
143
is attested by the very insufficiency of the natural meana
&t nmn's disposal for defense against his enemies, against
cold and hunger. This insufficiency, when we strive to
fathom its significance, acquires the value of a prehistoric
document; it is the final leave-taking between intelli-
gence and instinct. But it is no less true that nature
must have hesitated between two modes of psychical
activity — one assured of immediate success, but limited
in ita effects; the other hazardous, but whose conquests,
if it should reach independence, might be extended in-
definitely. Here again, then, the greatest success was
achieved on the side of the greatest risit. Instinct and
inielligence therefore represent two divergent sdi^ona,
equally fitting, of one and the same problem.
Here again, then, the greatest success was
achieved on the side of the greatest risit. Instinct and
inielligence therefore represent two divergent sdi^ona,
equally fitting, of one and the same problem.
There ensue, it is true, profound differences of internal
structure between instinct and intelligence. We shall
dwell only on those that concern our present study. Let
us say, then, that instinct and intelligence imply two
radically different kinds of knowledge. But some ex-
planations are first of all necessary on the subject of con-
sciousness in general.
It has l>een asited how far instinct is conscious. Our
reply is that there are a vast number of differences and
degrees, tliat instinct is more or less conscious in certain
cases, unconscious in others. The plant, as we shall see,
has instincts; it is not likely that these are accompanied
by feeling. Even in the animal there is hardly any com-
plex instinct that is not unconscious in some part at least
of its exercise. But here we must point out a difference,
not often noticed, between two kinds of unconsciousness,
viz., that in which consciousness is absent, and that in which
consciousness is nullified. Both are equal to zero, but in
one case the zero expresses the fact that there is nothing,
in the other that we have two equal quantities of opposite
144
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Both are equal to zero, but in
one case the zero expresses the fact that there is nothing,
in the other that we have two equal quantities of opposite
144
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
sign which compensate and neutralize each other. The
UDConsciotisness of a falling stone is of the former kind:
the stone has no feeling of its faU. Is it the same with
the unconsciousness of instinct, in the extreme cases in
which instinct is unconscious? When we mechanically
perform an habitual action, when the somnambulist
automatically acts his dream, unconsciousness may be
absolute; but this is merely due to the fact that the re-
presentation of the act is held in check by the performance
of the act itself, which resembles the idea so perfectly,
and fits it so exactly, that consciousness is unable to find
room between them. RepresenCalion is stopped up by
action. The proof of this is, that if the accomplishment
of the act is arrested or thwarted by an obstacle, con-
sciousness may reappear. It was there, but neutralized
by the action which fulfiled and thereby filled the repre-
eentation. The obstacle creates nothing positive ; it simply
makes a void, removes a stopper. This inadequacy of act to
representation is precisely what we here call consciousness.
If we examine this point more closely, we shall find
that consciousness is the light that plays around the
zone of possible actions or potential activity which sur-
rounds the action really performed by the living being.
It signifies hesitation or choice. Where many equally
possible actions are indicated without there being any real
action (as in a deliberatioD that has not come to an end),
consciousness is intense. 'WTiere the action performed
is the only action possible (as in activity of the somnam-
bulistic or more generally automatic kind), consciousness
is reduced to nothing. Representation and knowledge
exist none the less in the case if we find a whole series of
B)rstematized movements the last of which is already pre-
figured in the first, and if, besides, consciousness can flash
4ut of them at the shock of an obstacle. From this point
n,l
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
145
of view, the consciousness of a living being may be defined as
an arilkmelical difference between potential aTid real activity.
It measuTes the interval betioeen representation aTid action.
From this point
n,l
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
145
of view, the consciousness of a living being may be defined as
an arilkmelical difference between potential aTid real activity.
It measuTes the interval betioeen representation aTid action.
It may be inferred from this that intelligence is likely
to point towards conaciousness, and instinct towards un-
consciousness. For, where the implement to be used is
organized by nature, the material furnished by nature,
and the result to be obtained willed by nature, there is
little left to choice; the consciousnesss inherent in the
representation is therefore counterbalanced, whenever it
tends to disengage itself, by the performance of the act,
identical with the representation, which forms its counter-
weight. Where consciousness appears, it does not so
much light up the instinct itself as the thwartings to which
instinct is subject; it is the deficit of instinct, the distance,
between the act and the idea, that becomes consciousness
so that consciousness, here, is only an accident. Ea-
sentially, consciousness only emphasizes the starting-
point of instinct, the point at which the whole series of
automatic movements is released. Deficit, on the con-
trary, is the normal state of intelligence. Laboring under
difficulties is its very essence. Its original function being
to construct unorganized instruments, it must, in spite
of numberless difficulties, choose for this work the place
and the time, the form and the matter. And it can never
satisfy itself entirely, because every new satisfaction
creates new needs. In short, while instinct and intelli-
gence both involve knowledge, this knowledge is rather
acted and unconscious in the case of instinct, thought and
conscious in the case of intelligence. But it is a difference
rather of degree than of kind. So long as consciousness
is all we are concerned with, we close our eyes to what la,
from the psychological point of view, the cardinal difference
between instinct and inteUigeuce.
146 CREATIVE EVOLUTION [ohap.
In order to get at this essential difference we must,
without stopping at the more or less brilliant light which
illumines these two modes of internal activity, go straight
to the two objects, profoundly different from each other,
upon which instinct and intelligence are directed.
In order to get at this essential difference we must,
without stopping at the more or less brilliant light which
illumines these two modes of internal activity, go straight
to the two objects, profoundly different from each other,
upon which instinct and intelligence are directed.
When the horse-fly lays its eggs on the lege or shoulders
of the horse, it acts as if it knew that its lar\'a has to develop
in the horse's stomach and that the horse, in licking itself,
will convey the larva into its digestive tract. When a
paralyzing wasp stings its victim on just those points
where the nervous centres lie, so as to render it motionless
without killing it, it acts like a learned entomologist and a
skilful surgeon rolled into one. But what shall we say of
the little beetle, the Sitaris, whose story is so often quoted?
This insect lays its eggs at the entrance of the under-
ground passages dug by a kind of bee, the Anthophora.
Its larva, after long waiting, spring upon the male Antho-
phora as it goes out of the passage, clings to it, and re-
mains attached until the "nuptial flight," when it seizes
the opportunity to pass from the male to the female, and
quietly waits until it lays its eggs. It then leaps on the egg,
which serves as a support for it in the honey, devours the
egg in a few days, and, resting on the shell, undergoes its
first metamorphosis. Organized now to float on the honey,
it consumes this provision of nourishment, and becomes
a nymph, then a perfect insect. Everything happens aa
if the larva of the Sitaris, from the moment it was hatched,
knew that the male Anthophora would first emerge from
the passage; that the nu[]tial flight would give it the means
of conveying itself to the female, who would take it to a
store of honey sufficient to feed it after its transformation;
that, until this transformation, it could gradually eat
the egg of the Anthophora, in such a way that it could
at the same time feed itself, maintain itself at the surface
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
147
I
^B of the honey, and also suppress the rival that otherwise
^m would have come out of the egg. And equally all this
H happens as if the Sitaris itself knew that its larva would
H know all these things. The knowledge, if knowledge there
^1 be, is only implicit. It is reflected outwardly in exact
H movements instead of being reflected inwardly in conscious-
V ness. It is none the less true that the behavior of the insect
involves, or rather evolves, the idea of definite things
existing or being produced in definite points of space
tand time, which the insect knows without having learned
them.
Now, if we look at inteUigence from the same point
of view, we find that it also knows certain things with-
out having learned them. But the knowledge in the
two cases is of a very different order. We must be careful
Now, if we look at inteUigence from the same point
of view, we find that it also knows certain things with-
out having learned them. But the knowledge in the
two cases is of a very different order. We must be careful
»here not to revive again the old philosophical dispute
on the subject of innate ideas. So we will confine our-
selves to the point on which every one is agreed, to wit,
that the young child understands immediately things that
the animal will never understand, and that in this sense
mtelligence, like instinct, is an inherited function, there-
fore an innate one. But this innate intelligence, although
it is a faculty of knowing, knows no object in particular.
When the new-bom babe seeks for the first time its mother's
breast, so showing that it has knowledge (unconscious,
no doubt) of a thing it has never seen, we say, just because
the innate knowledge is in this case of a definite object,
that it belongs to inslinct and not to intelligence. Intelli-
gence does not then imply the innate knowledge of any
object. And yet, if inteUigence knows nothing by nature,
it has nothing innate. What, then, if it be ignorant of
all things, can it know? Besides things, there are relations.
The new-born child, so far as inteUigent, knows neither
definite objects nor a definite property of any object;
148
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[CH.^r.
but when, a little later on, he will hear an epithet being
applied to a substantive, be will immediately understand
what it means. The relation of attribute to subject is
therefore seized by him naturally, and the same might be
said of the general relation expressed by the verb, a re-
lation so immediately conceived by the mind that language
can leave it to be understood, as is instanced in rudimentary
languages which have no verb. Intelligence, therefore,
naturally makes use of relations of like with like, of con-
tent to container, of cause to effect, etc., which are implied
in every phrase in which there is a subject, an attribute and
a verb, expressed or understood. May one say that it has
inivite knowledge of each of these relations in particular?
It is for logicians to discover whether they are so many
irreducible relations, or whether they can be resolved
into relations still more general. But, in whatever way
we make the analysis of thought, we always end with one
or several general categories, of which the mind possesses
innate knowledge since it makes a natural use of them.
Let us say, therefore, that wfiaiever, in instinct and intelli-
gence, is innale knowledge, bears in the first case on things
and in the second on relations.
Let us say, therefore, that wfiaiever, in instinct and intelli-
gence, is innale knowledge, bears in the first case on things
and in the second on relations.
Philosophers distinguish between the matter of our
knowledge and its form. The matter is what is given
by the perceptive faculties taken in the elementary state.
The form is the totality of the relations set up between
these materials in order to constitute a systematic know-
ledge. Can the form, without matter, be an object of
knowledge? Yes, without doubt, provided that this
knowledge is not like a thing we possess so much as like
a habit we have contracted,— a direction rather than a
state: it is, if we will, a certain natural bent of attention.
The schoolboy, who knows that the master is going to
dictate a fraction to him, draws a line before he knows
n.i
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
149
what numerator and what denominator are to come; he
therefore has present to his mind the general relation be-
tween the two terms although he does not know either of
them; he knows the form without the matter. So is it,
prior to experience, with the categories into which our
experience comes to be inserted. Let ua adopt then words
sanctioned by usage, and give the distinction between
intelligence and instinct this more precise formula: In-
teUigeiice, in so far as it is innale, is the knowledge of a form;
vistinct implies the knowledge of a matter.
From this second point of view, which is that of know-
ledge instead of action, the force immanent in life in general
appears to us again as a limited principle, in which origin-
ally two different and even divergent modes of knowing
coexisted and intermingled. The first gets at definite
objects immediately, in their materiality itself. It says,
"This is what is." The second gets at no object in particu-
lar; it is only a natural power of relating an object to an
object, or a part to a part, or an aspect to an aspect — in
short, of drawing conclusions when in possession of the
premisses, of proceeding from what has been learnt to
what is still unknown. It does not say, "This is;" it
says only that "if the conditions are such, such will be the
conditioned." In short, the first kind of knowledge, the
instinctive, would be fonnulated in what philosophers
call categorical propositions, while the second kind, the
intellectual, would always be expressed hypolheticcdly.
Of these two faculties, the former seems, at first, much
preferable to the other. And it would be so, in truth, if it
extended to an endless number of objects. But, in fact,
it applies only to one special object, and indeed only to a
restricted part of that object. Of this, at least, its know-
ledge is intimate and full; not explicit, but implied in the
accomplished action. The intellectual faculty, on the
150
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lOHAP.
But, in fact,
it applies only to one special object, and indeed only to a
restricted part of that object. Of this, at least, its know-
ledge is intimate and full; not explicit, but implied in the
accomplished action. The intellectual faculty, on the
150
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lOHAP.
contrary, possesses naturally only an externa! and empty
knowledge; but it has thereby the advantage of supplying
a frame in which an infinity of objects may find room in
turn. It is as if the force evolving in living forms, being a
limited force, had had to choose between two kinds of
limitation in the field of natural or innate knowledge,
one applying to the extension of knowledge, the other to
its itdension. In the first case, the knowledge may be
packed and full, but it will then be confined to one specific
object; in the second, it is no longer limited by its object,
but that is because it contains nothing, being only a form
without matter. The two tendencies, at first implied
in each other, had to separate in order to grow. They
both went to seek their fortune in the world, and turned
out to be instinct and intelligence.
Such, then, are the two divergent modes of knowledge
by which intelligence and instinct must be defined, from
the standpoint of knowledge rather than that of action.
But knowledge and action are here only two aspects of
one and the same faculty. It is easy to see, indeed, that
L the second definition is only a new form of the first,
** If instinct is, above all, the faculty of using an organized
natural instrument, it must involve innate knowledge
(potential or unconscious, it is true), both of this instru-
ment and of the object to which it is applied. Instinct
is therefore innate knowledge of a thing. But intelligence
is the faculty of constructing unorganized- — that is to say
artificial — instruments. If, on its account, nature gives
up endowing the living being with the instruments that may
serve him, it is in order that the living being may be able
to vary his construction according to circumstances. The
I essential function of intelligence is therefore to see the way
I out of a difficulty in any circumstances whatever, to find
. what is most suitable, what answers best the question
151
rn.l INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
Bsked. Hence it bears essentially on the relations between
a ^ven situation and the means of utihzing it. What ia
innate in intellect, therefore, is the tendency to establish
relations, and this tendency implies the natural know-
I ledge of certain very general relations, a kind of stuff
that the activity of each particular intellect will cut up
into more special relations. Where activity is directed
toward manufacture, therefore, knowledge necessarily
bears on relations. But this entirely Jonnai knowledge
of intelligence has an immense advantage over the material
knowledge of instinct. A form, just because it is empty,
may be filled at will with any number of things in turn,
But this entirely Jonnai knowledge
of intelligence has an immense advantage over the material
knowledge of instinct. A form, just because it is empty,
may be filled at will with any number of things in turn,
I even with those that are of no use. So that a formal
knowledge \s not limited to what is practically useful, al-
though it is in view of practical utility that it has made
its appearance in the world. An intelligent being bears ]
within himself the means to transcend his own nature.
He transcends himself, however, less than he wishes,
less also than he imagines himself to do. The purely
formal character of inteUigence deprives it of the ballast
necessary to enable it to settle itself on the objects that
are of the most powerful interest to speculation. Instinct,
on the contrary, has the desired materiaUty, but it is
incapable of going so far in quest of its object; it does not
speculate. Here we reach the point that most concerns
our present inquiry. The difference that we shall now
proceed to denote between instinct and intelligence is
what the whole of this analysis was meant to bring out.
We formulate it thus: Ttiere are things thai intelligence
alone is able to seek, but which, by itself, it vdll never find.
These things instinct alone could find; but it will never seek
them.
It is necessary here to consider some preliminary de-
tails that concern the mechanism of intelligence. We
152 CREATIVE EVOLUTION ichai-.-
These things instinct alone could find; but it will never seek
them.
It is necessary here to consider some preliminary de-
tails that concern the mechanism of intelligence. We
152 CREATIVE EVOLUTION ichai-.-
have said that the function of intelligence is to establish
relations. Let us determine more precisely the nature
of these relations. On this point we are bound to be either
vague or arbitrary so long as we see in the intellect a faculty
intended for pure speculation. We are then reduced to
taking the general frames of the understanding for some-
thing absolute, irreducible and inexplicable. The under-
standing must have fallen from heaven with its fonn,
as each of us is bom with his face. This form may be
defined, of course, but that is all; there is no asking why
it is what it is rather than an>'th!ng else. Thus, it will be
Baid that the function of the intellect is essentially uni-
fication, that the common object of all its operations is to
introduce a certain unity into the diversity of phenomena,
and so forth. But, in the first place, "unification" is a
vague term, less clear than "relation" or even "thought,"
and says nothing more. And, moreover, it might be asked
if the function of intelligence is not to divide even more
than to unite. Finally, if the intellect proceeds as it does
because it wishes to unite, and if it seeks unification simply
because it has need of unifying, the whole of our knowledge
becomes relative to certain re(]uirements of the mind
that probably might have been entirely different from
what they are: for an intellect differently shaped, know-
ledge would have been different. Intellect being no longer
dependent on anything, everything becomes dependent
on it; and so, having placed the understanding too high,
we end by putting too low the knowledge it gives us.
Knowledge becomes relative, as soon as the intellect is
made a kind of absolute. — We regard the human intellect,
on the contrary, as relative to the needs of action. Postu-
late action, and the very form of the intellect can be deduced
from it. This form is therefore neither irreducible nor
inexpUcable. And, precisely because it is not independent,
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
153
knowledge cannot be said to depend on it: knowledge
ceases to be a product of the intellect and becomes, in a
certain sense, part and parcel of reality.
This form is therefore neither irreducible nor
inexpUcable. And, precisely because it is not independent,
INTELLIGENCE AND INSTINCT
153
knowledge cannot be said to depend on it: knowledge
ceases to be a product of the intellect and becomes, in a
certain sense, part and parcel of reality.
Philosophers will reply that action takes place in an
ordered world, that this order is itself thought, and that
we beg the question when we explain the intellect by action,
which presupposes it. They would be right if our point
of view in the present chapter was to be our final one.
We should then be dupes of an illusion like that of Spencer,
who believed that the intellect is sufficiently explained as
the impression left on us by the general characters of matter:
as if the order inherent in matter were not intelligence
itself! But we reserve for the nejtt chapter the question
up to what point and with what method philosophy can
attempt a real genesis of the intellect at the same time
as of matter. For the moment, the problem that engages
our attention is of a psychological order. We are asking
what is the portion of the material world to which our in-
tellect is specially adapted. To reply to this question,
there is no need to choose a system of philosophy: it is
enough to take up the point of ■view of common sense.
Let us start, then, from action, and lay down that
the intellect aims, first of all, at constructing. This
fabrication \a exercised exclusively on inert matter, in
this sense, that even if it makes use of organized material,
it treats it as inert, without troubling about the life which
animated it. And of inert matter itself, fabrication 'deals
only with the sohd; the rest escapes by its very fluidity.
If, therefore, the tendency of the intellect is to fabricate,
we may expect to find that whatever is fluid in the real
will escape it in part, and whatever is life in the living will
escape it altogether. Our inUlligence, as it leaves the hands
of nature, has for Us chief diject the unorganized solid.
When we pass in review the intellectual functions,
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Our inUlligence, as it leaves the hands
of nature, has for Us chief diject the unorganized solid.
When we pass in review the intellectual functions,
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
we see that the intellect is never quite at its ease, never
entirely at home, except when it is working upon inert
matter, more particularly upon solids, ^\^lat is the most
gCQeral property of the materia! world? It is extended:
it presents to us objects external to other objects, and, in
these objects, parts external to parts. No doubt, it is
useful to us, in view of our ulterior manipulation, to regard
each object as divisible into parts arbitrarily cut up, each
part being again divisible as we like, and so on ad infinitum.
But it is above all necessary, for our present manipulation,
to regard the real object in hand, or the real elements into
which we have resolved it, as provisionally final, and to
treat them as so many units. To this possibiUty of de-
composing matter as much as we please, and in any way
we please, we allude when we speak of the continuily of
material extension; but this continuity, as we see it, is
nothing else but our ability, an ability that matter allows
to us to choose the mode of discontinuity we shall find in
it. It is always, in fact, the mode of discontinuity once
chosen that appears to us as the actually real one and
that which fixes our attention, just because it rules our
action. Thus discontinuity is thought for itself; it is
thinkable in itself; we form an idea of it by a positive
act of our mind; while the intellectual representation of
continuity is negative, being, at bottom, only the refusal
of our mind, before any actually given system of decompo-
sitioD, to regard it as the only possible one. Of the
discontinuous alone does the intellect form a clear idea.
On the other hand, the objects we act on are certainly
mobile objects, but the important thing for us to know ia
whither the mobile object is going and where it is at any
moment of its passage. In other words, our interest is
directed, before all, to its actual or future positions, and
not to the progress by which it passes from one position
n.i
THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 155
In other words, our interest is
directed, before all, to its actual or future positions, and
not to the progress by which it passes from one position
n.i
THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 155
to another, progress which is the movement itself. In
our actions, which are systematized movements, what we
fix our mind on is the end or meaning of the movement,
its design as a whole — in a word, the immobile plan of its
execution. That which really moves in action interests
us only so far as the whole can be advanced, retarded, or
stopped by any incident that may happen on the way.
From mobihty itself our intellect turns aside, because it
has nothing to gain in dealing with it. If the intellect were
meant for pure theorizing, it would take its place within
movement, for movement is reality itself, and immobility
is always only apparent or relative. But the intellect
is meant for something altogether different. Unless it
docs violence to itself, it takes the opposite course; it
always starts from immobility, as if this were the ultimate
reality: when it tries to form an idea of movement, it
does so by constructing movement out of immobilities
put together. This operation, whose illegitimacy and danger
in the field of speculation we shall show later on (it leads
to dead-locks, and creates artificially insoluble philosophical
problems), is easily justified when we refer it to its proper
goal. Intelligence, in its natural state, aims at a practically
useful end. When it substitutes for movement immobUities
put together, it does not pretend to reconstitute the move-
ment such as it actually is; it merely replaces it with a
practical equivalent. It is the philosophers who are mis-
taken when they import into the domain of speculation
a method of thinking which is made for action. But of
this more anon. Suffice it now to say that to the stable
and unchangeable our intellect is attached by virtue of
its natural disposition. Of immobility alone does the in-
tellect farm a clear idea.
Now, fabricating consists in carving out the fonn of
an object in matter. What is the most important is
156
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Of immobility alone does the in-
tellect farm a clear idea.
Now, fabricating consists in carving out the fonn of
an object in matter. What is the most important is
156
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
the form to be obtained. As to the matter, we choose
that which is most convenient; but, in order to choose
it, that is to say, in order to go and seek it among many
others, we must have tried, in imagination at least, to
endow every kind of matter with the form of the object
conceived. In other words, an intelligence which aims
at fabricating is an inteDigence which never stops at the
actual form of things nor regards it as final, but, on the
contrary, looks upon all matter as if it were car\-able at
will. Plato compares the good dialectician to the skilful
cook who carves the animal without breaking its bones,
by following the articulations marked out by nature."
An intelligence which always proceeded thus would really
be an intelligence turned toward speculation. But
action, and in particular fabrication, requires the opposite
mental tendency : it makes us consider every actual
form of things, even the form of natural things, as artificial
and provisional; it makes our thought efface from the object
perceived, even though organized and living, the lines
that outwardly mark its inward structure; in short, it
makes us regard its matter as indifferent to its form. The
whole of matter is made to appear to our thought as an
immense piece of cloth in which we can cut out what we
will and sew it together again as we please. Let us note,
in passing, that it is this power that we affirm when we say
that there is a apace, that is to say, a homogeneous and
empty medium, infinite and infinitely divisible, lending
itself indifferently to any mode of decomposition whatso-
ever. A medium of this kind is never perceived; it is only
conceived. What is perceived is extension colored, re-
Bistant, divided according to the lines which mark out the
boundaries of real bodies or of their real elements. But
when we think of our power over this matter, that is to say,
Plato, Phatarui, 26S ■.
r
iM THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 157
of our faculty of decomposing and recomposing it as we
please, we project the whole of these possible decompositions
and recompositions behind real extension in the form of a
homogeneous space, empty and indifferent, which is
supposed to underlie it. This space is therefore, pre-
eminently, the plan of our possible action on things, al-
though, indeed, things have a natural tendency, aa we
shall explain further on, to enter into a frame of this
kind. It is a view taken by mind. The animal has
probably no idea of it, even when, hke us, it perceives ex-
tended things. It is an idea that symboUzes the tendency
of the human intellect to fabrication. But this point
must not detain us now. Suffice it to say that the iTiteUect
is characterized by the unlimited power of decomposing ac-
cording to any law and of recomposing iriio any system.
It is an idea that symboUzes the tendency
of the human intellect to fabrication. But this point
must not detain us now. Suffice it to say that the iTiteUect
is characterized by the unlimited power of decomposing ac-
cording to any law and of recomposing iriio any system.
We have now enumerated a few of the essential features
of human intelligence. But we have hitherto considered
the individual in isolation, without taking account of social
life. In reahty, man is a being who lives in society. If
it be true that the human intellect aims at fabrication, we
must add that, for that as well as for other purposes, it is
associated ^nth other intellects. Now, it is difficult to
imagine a society whose members do not communicate by
signs. Insect societies probably have a language, and this
language must be adapted, like that of man, to the neces-
sities of life in common. By language community of action
is made possible. But the requirements of joint action
are not at all the same in a colony of ants and in a human
society. In insect societies there is generally polymor-
phism, the subdivision of labor is natural, and each indi-
vidual is riveted by its structure to the function it performs.
In any case, these societies are based on instinct, and con-
sequently on certain actions or fabrications that are more
or less dependent on the form of the organs. So if the ants.
158 CREATIVE EVOLUTION (ohap.
for instance, have a language, the signs which compose
it must be very liinited in number, and each of them, once
the species is fonned, must remain invariably attached to a
certain object or a certain operation: the sign is adherent
to the thing signified. In human society, on the contraiy,
fabrication and action are of variable form, and, moreover,
each individual must learn his part, because he is not
preordained to it by his structure. So a language is re-
quired which makes it possible to be always passing from
what is known to what is yet to be known. There must
be a language whose signs — which cannot be infinite in
number — are extensible to an infinity of things. This
tendency of the sign to transfer itself from one object to
another is characteristic of human language. It is ob-
servable in the httle child as soon as he begins to speak.
Immediately and naturally he extends the meaning of
the words he learns, availing himself of the most accidental
connection or the most distant analogy to detach and
transfer elsewhere the sign that had been associated in
his hearing with a particular object. "Anything can
designate anything;" such is the latent principle of
infantine language. This tendency has been wrongly
confused with the faculty of generalizing. The animals
themselves generalize ; and, moreover, a sign — even
an instinctive sign — always to some degree represents
a genus. But what characterizes the signs of human
language is not so much their generality as their mobility.
The instinctive siffn is adherent, the ijUeUigent swpi is
mobile.
The animals
themselves generalize ; and, moreover, a sign — even
an instinctive sign — always to some degree represents
a genus. But what characterizes the signs of human
language is not so much their generality as their mobility.
The instinctive siffn is adherent, the ijUeUigent swpi is
mobile.
Now, this mobiUty of words, that makes them able
to pass from one thing to another, has enabled them to
be extended from things to ideas. Certainly, language
would not have given the faculty of reflecting to an in-
telligence entirely externalized and incapable of turn-
n.i THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 159
ing homeward. Ad intelligence which reflects is om
that originally had a surplus of energy to spend, over
and above practically useful efforts. It ia a conscious-
ness that has virtually reconquered itself. But still the
virtual has to become actual. Without language, in-
telligence would probably have remained riveted to the
material objects which it was interested in considering.
It would have lived in a state of somnambulism, outside
itself, hypnotized on its own work. Language has greatly
contributed to its liberation. The word, made to pass
from one thing to another, is, in fact, by nature transferable
and free. It can therefore be extended, not only from one
perceived thing to another, but even from a perceived thing
to a recollection of that thing, from the precise recollection
to a more fleeting image, and Anally from an image fleets
ing, though still pictured, to the picturing of the act by
which the image is pictured, that is to say, to the idea.
Thus is revealed to the intelligence, hitherto always turned
outwards, a whole internal world— the spectacle of its
own workings. It required only this opportunity, at
length offered by language. It profits by the fact that the
word is an external thing, which the intelligence can catch
bold of and cling to, and at the same time an immaterial
thing, by means of which the intelligence can penetrate
even to the inwardness of its own work. Its first business
was indeed to make instruments, but this fabrication is
possible only by the employment of certain means which
are not cut to the exact measure of their object, but go
beyond it and thus allow intelligence a supplementary —
that is to say disinterested work. From the moment that
the intellect, reflecting upon itB own doings, perceives itself
as a creator of ideas, as a faculty of representation in
general, there is no object of which it may not wish to have
the idea, even though that object be without direct re-
160
[CHAP,
lation to practical action. That is why we said there are
things that intellect alone can seek. Intellect alone,
indeed, troubles itself about theory; and its theory would
fain embrace everything — not only inanimate matter,
over which it has a natural hold, but even life and
thought.
That is why we said there are
things that intellect alone can seek. Intellect alone,
indeed, troubles itself about theory; and its theory would
fain embrace everything — not only inanimate matter,
over which it has a natural hold, but even life and
thought.
By what means, what instruments, in short by what
method it will approach these problems, we can easily
guess. Originally, it was fashioned to the form of matter.
Language itself, which has enabled it to extend its field
of operations, is made to designate things, and nought but
things: it is only because the word is mobile, because it
flies from one thing to another, that the intellect was sure
to take it, sooner or later, on the wing, while it was not
settled on anything, and apply it to an object which ia
Dot a thing and which, concealed till then, awaited the
coming of the word to pass from darkness to light. But
the word, by covering up this object, again converts it
into a thing. So intelligence, even when it no longer
operates upon its own object, follows habits it has con-
tracted in that operation: it applies forms that are indeed
those of unorganized matter. It is made for this kind of
work. With this kind of work alone is it fully satisfied.
And that is what intelligence expresses by saying that tbuB
only it arrives at dislincineas and clearness.
It must, therefore, in order to think itself clearly and
distinctly, perceive itself under the form of discontinuity.
Concepts, in fact, are outside each other, like objects in
space; and they have the same stability as such objects,
on which they have been modeled. Taken together,
they constitute an "intelligible world," that resembles
the world of solids in its essential characters, but whose
elements are lighter, more diaphanous, easier for the
intellect to deal with than the image of concrete thin^:
I
n.i THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 16t
Taken together,
they constitute an "intelligible world," that resembles
the world of solids in its essential characters, but whose
elements are lighter, more diaphanous, easier for the
intellect to deal with than the image of concrete thin^:
I
n.i THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 16t
they are not, indeed, the perception itself of things, but
the representation of the act by which the intellect is
fixed on them. They are, therefore, not images, but
symbols. Our logic is the complete set of rules that must
be followed in using symbols. As these symbols are de-
rived from the consideration of solids, as the rules for com-
bining these symbols hardly do more than express the most
general relations among solids, our logic triumphs in that
science which takes the solidity of bodies for its object,
that is, in geometry. Logic and geometry engender each
other, as we shall see a little further on. It is from the
extension of a certain natural geometry, suggested by the
most general and immediately perceived properties of
solids, that natural logic has arisen; then from this natural
logic, in its turn, has sprung scientific geometry, which
extends further and further the knowledge of the external
properties of solids.' Geometry and logic are strictly
applicable to matter; in it they are at home, and in it
they can proceed quite alone. But, outside this domain,
pure reasoning needs to be supervised by common sense,
which is an altogether different thing.
Thus, all the elementary forces of the intellect tend
to transform matter into an instrument of action, that
is, in the etymological sense of the word, into an organ.
Life, not content with producing organisms, would fain
give them as an appendage inorganic matter itself, con-
verted into an immense organ by the industry of the living
being. Such is the initial task it assigns to intelligence.
That is why the intellect always behaves as if it were
fascinated by the contemplation of inert matter. It is
life looking outward, putting itself outside itself, adopting
the ways of unorganized nature in principle, in order to
direct them in fact. Hence its bewilderment when it
' We shall return to these puintd in the next chapter.
162
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
turns to the living and is confronted with organization.
It does what it can, it resolves the organized into the un-
organized, for it cannot, mthout reversing its natural
direction and twisting about on itself, think true continuity,
real mobility, reciprocal penetration — in a word, that
creative evolution which is life.
It does what it can, it resolves the organized into the un-
organized, for it cannot, mthout reversing its natural
direction and twisting about on itself, think true continuity,
real mobility, reciprocal penetration — in a word, that
creative evolution which is life.
Consider continuity. The aspect of life that is accessible
to our intellect — as indeed to our senses, of which our
intellect is the extension — is that wliieh offers a hold to
our action. Now, to modify an object, we have to perceive
it as divisible and discontinuous. From the pomt of view
of positive science, an incomparable progress was realized
when the organized tissues were resolved into cells. The
study of the cell, in its turn, has shown it to be an organism
whose complexity seems to grow, the more thoroughly
it is examined. The more science advances, the more
it sees the number grow of heterogeneous elements which
are placed together, outside each other, to make up a
living being. Does science thus get any nearer to life?
Does it not, on the contrary, find that what is really life
in the living seems to recede with every step by which
it pushes further the detail of the parts combined? There
is indeed already among scientists a tendency to regard
the substance of the organism as continuous, and the cell
as an artificial entity.' But, supposing this view were
finally to prevail, it could only lead, on deeper study, to
some other mode of analyzing of the living being, and so to
a new discontinuity — although less removed, perhaps,
from the real continuity of life. The truth is that this
continuity cannot be thought by the intellect while it
follows its natural movement. It implies at once the
multiplicity of elements and the interpenetration of
all by all, two conditions that can hardly be reconciled
> We shall return to this point in chapter iii., p, 2fi9.
n.] THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 163
in the field id which our industry, and consequently our
intellect, is engaged.
n.] THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 163
in the field id which our industry, and consequently our
intellect, is engaged.
Just as we separate in space, we fix in time. The in-
tellect is not made to think evolvHon, in the proper sense
of the word — that is to say, the continuity of a. change
that is pure mobility. We shall not dwell here on this
point, which we propose to study in a special chapter.
Suffice it to say that the intellect represents becoming aa
a series of states, each of which is homogeneous with itself
and consequently does not change. Is our attention
called to the internal change of one of these states? At
once we decompose it into another series of states which,
reunited, will be supposed to make up this internal modi-
fication. Each of these new states must be invariable,
or else their internal change, if we are forced to notice
it, must be resolved again into a fresh series of invariable
states, and so on to infinity. Here again, thinking con-
sists in reconstituting, and, naturally, it is with given
elements, and consequently with stable elements, that we
reconstitute. So that, though we may do our beat to
imitate the mobility of becoming by an addition that is
ever going on, becoming itself slips through our fingers just
when we think we are holding it tight.
Precisely because it is always trying to reconstitute,
and to reconstitute with what is given, the intellect lets
what is new in each moment of a history escape. It
does not admit the unforeseeable. It rejects all creation.
That definite antecedents bring forth a definite consequent,
calculable as a function of them, is what satisfies our
intellect. That a definite end calls forth definite means
to attain it, is what we also understand. In both cases
we have to do with the known which is combined with the
known, in short, with the old which is repeated. Our
intellect is there at its ease; and, whatever be the object,
164
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
{OHAF.
In both cases
we have to do with the known which is combined with the
known, in short, with the old which is repeated. Our
intellect is there at its ease; and, whatever be the object,
164
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
{OHAF.
it will abstract, separate, eliminate, so as to substitute for
the object itself, if necessary, an approximate equivalent
in which things will happen in this way. But that each
instant is a fresh endowment, that the new is ever upspring-
ing, that the form just come into existence {although,
when once produced, it may be regarded as an efEect de-
termined by its causes) could never have been foreseen —
because the causes here, unique in their kind, are part of
the effect, have come into existence with it, and are de-
termined by it as raucli as they determine it — all this we
can feel within ourselves and also divine, by sympathy,
outside ourselves, but we cannot think it, in the strict sense
of the word, nor express it in terms of pure understanding.
No wonder at that: we must remember what our intellect
U meant for. The causality it seelcs and finds everywhere
expresses the very mechanism of our industrj', in which
we go on recomposing the same whole with the same parts,
repeating the same movements to obtain the same result.
The finality it understands tiest is the finality of our in-
dustry, in which we worlc on a model given in advance, that
is to say, old or composed of elements already known. As
to invention properly so called, which is, however, the point
of departure of industry itself, our intellect does not
succeed in grasping it in its upspringing, that is to say,
in its indivisibihty, nor in its fervor, that is to say, in
its creativeness. Explaining it always consists in re-
solving it, it the unforeseeable and new, into elements
old or Imown, arranged in a different order. The intellect
can no more admit complete novelty than real trecoming;
that is to say, here again it lets an essential aspect of life
escape, as if it were not intended to think such an object.
All our analyses bring us to this conclusion. But it
is hardly necessarj" to go into such long details concerning
the mechanism of intellectual working; it is enough to
n.i THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 165
All our analyses bring us to this conclusion. But it
is hardly necessarj" to go into such long details concerning
the mechanism of intellectual working; it is enough to
n.i THE FUNCTION OF THE INTELLECT 165
consider the results. We see that the intellect, so skilful
in dealing with the inert, is awkwai-d the moment it touches
the living. Whether it wants to treat the life of the body
or the life of the mind, it proceeds with the rigor, the stiff-
ness and the brutality of an instrument not designed for
such use. The history of hygiene or of pedagogy teaches
us much in this matter. When we think of the cardinal,
urgent and constant need we have to preserve our bodies
and to raise our souls, of the special facilities given to each
of us, in this field, to experiment continually on ourselves
and on others, of the palpable injury by which the wrong-
ness of a medical or pedagogical practise is both made
manifest and punished at once, we are amazed at the stu-
pidity and especially at the persistence of errors. We
may easily find their origin in the natural obstinacy with
which we treat the li\-ing hke the lifeless and think all
reality, however fluid, under the form of the sharply defined
solid. We are at ease only in the discontinuous, in the
immobile, in the dead. The inleUed is characterized by a
natural inabiiUy to comprehend life.
Instinct, on the contrary, is molded on the very form
of life. While intelligence treats ever>-thing mechanically,
instinct proceeds, so to speak, organically. If the con-
sciousness that slumbers in it should awake, if it were
wound up into knowledge instead of being wound off into
action, if we could ask and it could reply, it would give up
to us the most intimate secrets of life. For it only carries
out further the work by which life organizes matter —
so that we cannot' say, as has often been shown, where
organization ends and where instinct begins. When the
Uttle chick is breaking its shell with a peck of its beak,
it is acting by instinct, and yet it does but carry on the
movement which has borne it through embryonic life.
166
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Inversely, in the course of embryonic life itself (especially
when the embrj'o lives freely io the form of a larva), many
of the acts accompUshed must be referred to instinct.
The most essential of the primary instincts are really,
therefore, vital processes. The potential consciousness
that accompanies them is generally actualized only at the
outset of the act, and leaves the rest of the process to go on
by itself. It would only have to expand more widely,
and then dive into its own depth completely, to be one
with the generative force of life.
The potential consciousness
that accompanies them is generally actualized only at the
outset of the act, and leaves the rest of the process to go on
by itself. It would only have to expand more widely,
and then dive into its own depth completely, to be one
with the generative force of life.
When we see in a living body thousands of cells work-
ing together to a common end, dividing the task between
them, Uving each for itself at the same time as for the others,
preserving itself, feeding itself, reproducing itself, respond-
ing to the menace of danger by appropriate defensive
reactions, how can we help thinking of so many instincts?
And yet these are the natural functions of the cell, the
constitutive elements of ita vitality. On the other hand,
when we see the bees of a hive forming a system so strictly
organized that no individual can live apart from the others
beyond a certain time, even though furnished with food
and shelter, how can we help recognizing that the hive
is really, and not metaphorically, a single organism, of
which each bee is a cell united to the others by invisible
bonds? The instinct that animates the bee is indistinguish-
able, then, from the force that animates the cell, or is only
a prolongation of that force. In extreme cases like this,
instinct coincides with the work of organization.
Of course there are degrees of perfection in the same
instinct. Between the humble-bee, and the honey-bee,
for instance, the distance is great; and we pass from
one to the other through a great number of intermediaries,
which correspond to so many complications of the social
life. But the same diversity is found in the functioniog
THE NATURE OF rNSTINCT 167
of histological elements belonging to different tissues more
or less akin. In both cases there are manifold variations
on one and the same theme. The constancy of the theme
is manifest, however, and the variations only fit it to the
diversity of the circumstances.
In both cases there are manifold variations
on one and the same theme. The constancy of the theme
is manifest, however, and the variations only fit it to the
diversity of the circumstances.
Now, in both cases, in the instinct of the animal and
in the vital properties of the cell, the same knowledge
and the same ignorance are shown. AH goes on as if
the cell knew, of the other cells, what concerns itself;
as if the animal knew, of the other animals, what it can
utilize — all else remaining in shade. It seems as if life,
as soon as it has become bouad up in a species, is cut off
from the rest of its own work, save at one or two points
that are of vital concern to the species just arisen. Is it
not plain that life goes to work here exactly Uke conscious-
ness, exactly like memorj'? We trail behind us, unawares,
the whole of our past; but our memory pours into the
present only the odd recollection or two that in some
way complete our present situation. Thus the instinctive
knowledge which one species possesses of another on a
certain particular point has its root in the very unity of
life, which is, to use the expression of an ancient philoso-
pher, a "whole sympathetic to itself." It is impossible to
consider some of the special instincts of the animal and of
the plant, evidently arisen in extraordinary cireumstances,
without relating them to those recollections, seemingly
forgotten, which spring up suddenly under the pressure
of an urgent need.
No doubt many secondary instincts, and also many
varieties of primary instinct, admit of a scientific ex-
planation. Yet it is doubtful whether science, with
its present methods of explanation, will ever succeed in
analyzing instinct completely. The reason is that in-
stinct and intelligence are two divergent developments
CREATR^ EVOLUTION
[CHAP.
of one and the same principle, which in the one case re-
mains within itself, in the other steps out of itself and
becomes absorbed in the utilization of inert matter. This
gradual divergence testihes to a radical incompatibihty,
and points to the fact that it is impossible for intelligence
to re-absorb instinct. That which is instinctive in instinct
cannot be expressed in terms of intelligence, nor, conse-
quently, can it be anaJyzed,
This
gradual divergence testihes to a radical incompatibihty,
and points to the fact that it is impossible for intelligence
to re-absorb instinct. That which is instinctive in instinct
cannot be expressed in terms of intelligence, nor, conse-
quently, can it be anaJyzed,
A man bom blind, who had lived among others bom
blind, could not be made to believe in the possibility of
perceiving a distant object without first perceiving all the
objects in between. Yet vision perfomia this miracle.
In a certain sense the blind man is right, since vision, hav-
ing its origin in the stimulation of the retina, by the vi-
brations of the light, is nothing else, in fact, but a retinal
touch. Such is indeed the scientific explanation, for the
function of science is just to express all perceptions in
terms of touch. But we have shown elsewhere that the
philosophical explanation of perception (if it may still be
called an explanation) must be of another kind.' Now
instinct also is a knowledge at a distance. It has the
same relation to inteUigence that vision has to touch.
Science cannot do otherwise than express it in terms of
intelligence; but in so doing it constructs an imitation
of instinct rather than penetrates within it.
Any one can convince himself of this by studying the
ingenious theories of evolutionist biology. They may be
reduced to two tj-pes, which are often intermingled. One
type, following the principles of neo-DaiTvinism, regards
instinct as a sum of accidental differences preserved by
selection: such and such a useful behavior, naturally
adopted by the individual in virtue of an accidental pre-
disposition of the germ, has been transmitted from germ
MalHre et rrttmMrt, chap. i.
n.i THE NATURE OF INSTINCT 169
i.
n.i THE NATURE OF INSTINCT 169
to germ, waiting for chance to add fresh improvements
to it by the same method. The other type regards instinct
as lapsed intelligence: the action, found useful by the
species or by certain of its representatives, is supposed
to have engendered a habit, which, by hereditary trans-
mission, has become an instinct. Of these two types of
theory, the first has the advantage of being able to bring
in hereditary transmission without raising grave objection;
for the accidental modification which it places at the
origin of the instinct is not supposed to have been acquired
by the individual, but to have been inherent in the germ.
But, on the other hand, it is absolutely incapable of ex-
plaining instincts as sagacious as those of most insects.
These instincts surely could not have attained, all at once,
their present degree of complexity; they have probably
evolved; but, in a hypothesis like that of the neo-Darwin-
ians, the evolution of instinct could have come to pass oidy
by the progressive addition of new pieces which, in some
way, by happy accidents, came to fit into the old. Now
it is evident that, in most cases, instinct could not have
perfected itself by simple accretion: each new piece really
requires, if all is not to be spoiled, a complete recasting
of the whole. How could mere chance work a recast-
ing of the kind? I agree that an accidental modifica-
tion of the germ may be passed on hereditarily, and may
somehow wait for fresh accidental modifications to come
and comphcate it. I agree also that natural selection
may eliminate all those of the more complicated forms
of instinct that are not fit to survive. Still, in order that
the life of the instinct may evolve, complications fit to
survive have to be produced. Now they will be produced
only if, in certain cases, the addition of a new element
brings about the correlative change of all the old elements.
No one will maintain that chance could perform such a
170
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(CHAP.
miracle: in one form or another we shall appeal to in-
telligence. We shall suppose that it is by an effort, more
or less conscioas, that the living being develops a higher
instinct. But then we shall have to admit that an acquired
habit can become hereditary, and that it does so regularly
enough to ensure an evolution. The thing is doubtful,
to put it mildly. Even if we could refer the instincts of
animals to habits intelligently acquired and hereditarily
transmitted, it is not clear how this sort of explanation
cpuld be extended to the vegetable world, where effort
is never intelligent, even supposing it is sometimes con-
scious. And yet, when we see with what sureness and
precision climbing plants use their tendiils, what mar-
velously combined manoeuvres the orchids perform to
procure their fertilization by means of insects," how can
we help thinking that these are so many instincts?
And yet, when we see with what sureness and
precision climbing plants use their tendiils, what mar-
velously combined manoeuvres the orchids perform to
procure their fertilization by means of insects," how can
we help thinking that these are so many instincts?
This is not saying that the theory of the neo-Darwinians
must be altogether rejected, any more than that of the
neo-Lamarckians. The first are probably right in holding
that evolution takes place from germ to germ rather than
from individual to individual; the second are right in
saying that at the origin of instinct there is an effort
{although it is something quite different, we believe, from
an irUelligerU effort). But the former are probably wrong
when they make the evolution of instinct an accidental
evolution, and the latter when they regard the effort from
which instinct proceeds as an individual effort. The effort
by which a species modifies its instinct, and modifies
itself as well, must be a. much deeper thing, dependent
solely neither on circumstances nor on individuals. It
is not purely accidental, although accident has a large
place in it; and it does not depend solely on the initia^
See the two works of Darwio, Climbuig PlanU and The Ftrhii-
tation ol Orchvl* by InstcU.
THE NATURE OF INSTINCT
171
It
is not purely accidental, although accident has a large
place in it; and it does not depend solely on the initia^
See the two works of Darwio, Climbuig PlanU and The Ftrhii-
tation ol Orchvl* by InstcU.
THE NATURE OF INSTINCT
171
tive of individuals, although individuals collaborate in it.
Compare the different forms of the same instinct in
different species of hymenoptera. The impression de-
rived is not always that of an increasing complexity made
of elements that have been added together one after the
other. Nor does it suggest the idea of steps up a ladder.
Rather do we think, in many cases at least, of the circum-
ference of a circle, from different points of which these
different varieties have started, all facing the same centre,
all making an effort in that direction, but each approach-
ing it only to the extent of its means, and to the extent
also to which this central point has been illumined for it.
In other words, instinct is everywhere complete, but it is
more or less simplified, and, above all, simpUfied differently.
On the other hand, in cases where we do get the impression
of an ascending scale, as if one and the same instinct had
gone on complicating itself more and more in one direction
and along a straight line, the species which are thus ar-
ranged by their instincts into a linear series are by no means
always akin. Thus, the comparative study, in recent
years, of the social instinct in the different apidae proves
that the instinct of the meliponines is intennediary in
complexity between the still rudimentary tendency of the
humble bees and the consummate science of the true bees;
yet there can be no kinship between the bees and the
meliponines.' Most hkely, the degree of complexity of
these different societies has nothing to do with any greater
or smaller number of added elements. We seem rather to
be before a musical theme, which had first been transposed,
the theme as a whole, into a certain number of tones
and on which, still the whole theme, different variations
had been played, some very simple, others very skilful.
' Buttel-Reepen, "Die phylogenetiache Entatehung des Bieuen-
nutea" (,Biol. CentraMiU, xxiii. igO'i), p. lOtt in particular.
172
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
' Buttel-Reepen, "Die phylogenetiache Entatehung des Bieuen-
nutea" (,Biol. CentraMiU, xxiii. igO'i), p. lOtt in particular.
172
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
As to the original theme, it is everywhere and nowhere.
It is in vain that we try to express it in terms of any idea:
it must have been, originally. /e// rather than thought. We
get the same impression before the paralyzing instinct
of certain wasps. We know that the different species
of hymenoptera that have this paralyzing instinct lay their
eggs in spiders, beetles or caterpillars, which, having first
been subjected by the wasp to a skilful surgical operation,
will go on hving motionless a certain number of days, and
thus provide the larvae with fresh meat. In the sting
which they give to the nerve-centres of their victim, in
order to destroy its power of moving without killing it,
these different species of hjTnenoptera take into account,
so to speak, the different species of prey they respectively
attack. The Scolia, which attacks a larva of the rose-
beetle, stings it in one point only, but in this point the
motor ganglia are concentrated, and those ganglia alone:
the stinging of other ganglia might cause death and putre-
faction, which it must avoid.' The yellow-winged Sphex,
which has chosen the cricket for its victim, knows that the
cricket has three nerve-centres which serve its three pairs
of legs — or at least it acts as if it knew this. It stings
the insect first under the neck, then behind the prothorax,
and then where the thorax joins the abdomen.* The
Ammophila Hirsuta gives nine successive strokes of its
sting upon nine nerve-centres of its caterpillar, and then
seizes the head and squeezes it in its mandibles, enough to
cause paralysis without death." The general theme is
"the necessity of paralyzing without killing"; the vari-
ations are subordinated to the structure of the victim on
which they are played. No doubt the operation is not
' F&bre, Smivaiira enlomatogiqtia, 3" sine, Paris, 1890, pp. I.fl9.
• Fftbre, SouvenirM entcmologiqurK, 1" eirie, 3" Mition, Paris, 1804,
pp. 03 fl.
* Fftbre, Nouvcaiu touvtnin entomoiogiqua, Ptuia, 1882, pp. U S.
THE NATURE OF INSTINCT
173
No doubt the operation is not
' F&bre, Smivaiira enlomatogiqtia, 3" sine, Paris, 1890, pp. I.fl9.
• Fftbre, SouvenirM entcmologiqurK, 1" eirie, 3" Mition, Paris, 1804,
pp. 03 fl.
* Fftbre, Nouvcaiu touvtnin entomoiogiqua, Ptuia, 1882, pp. U S.
THE NATURE OF INSTINCT
173
always perfect. It has recently been shown that the
Ammophila soraetinses kills the caterpillar instead of
paralyzing it, that sometimes also it paralyzes it incom-
pletely.' But, because instinct is, like intelligence, fallible,
because it also shows individual deviations, it does not at
all follow that the instinct of the Ammophila has been
acquired, as has been claimed, by tentative intelligent
experiments. Even supposing that the Ammophila has
come in counse of time to recognize, one after another,
by tentative experiment, the points of its victim which
must be stung to render it motionless, and also the special
treatment that must be inflicted on the head to bring about
paralysis without death, how can we imagine that elements
BO special of a knowledge so precise have been regularly
transmitted, one by one, by heredity? If, in all our present
experience, there were a single indisputable example of
a transmission of this kind, the inheritance of acquired
characters would be questioned by no one. As a matter
of fact, the hereditary transmission of a contracted habit
is effected in an irregular and far from precise manner,
supposing it is ever really effected at all.
But the whole difficulty comes from our desire to ex-
press the knowledge of the hymenoptera in terms of in-
telligence. It is this that compels us to compare the
Ammophila with the entomologist, who knows the cater-
pillar as he knows everything else — from the outside, and
without having on his part a special or vital interest.
The Ammophila, we imagine, must learn, one by one,
like the entomologist, the positions of the nerve-centree
of the caterpillar — must acquire at least the practical
knowledge of these positions by trying the effects of ita
sting. But there is no need for such a view if we suppose
a sympathy (in the etj-mological sense of the word) between
' Peckham, Watpi, SolUary and Social, WeatmioeUr, 1905, pp. 26 B.
174 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
the Anunophila and its victim, which teaches it from
within, so to say, concerning the vulnerability of the
caterpillar. This feeling of v-ulnerability might owe noth-
ing to outward perception, but result from the mere presence
together of the Ammophila and the caterpillar, considered
no longer as two organisms, but as two activities. It
would express, in a concrete fonn, the rdoiion of the one
to the other. Certainly, a scientific theory cannot appeal
to considerations of this kind. It must not put action
before organization, sympathy before perception and know-
ledge. But, once more, either philosophy has nothing
to see here, or its rfile begins where that of science ends.
Certainly, a scientific theory cannot appeal
to considerations of this kind. It must not put action
before organization, sympathy before perception and know-
ledge. But, once more, either philosophy has nothing
to see here, or its rfile begins where that of science ends.
Whether it makes instinct a "compound reflex," or
a habit formed intelligently that has become automatism,
or a sura of small accidental advantages accumulated
and fixed by selection, in every case science claims to
resolve instinct completely either into intelligent actions,
or into mechanisms built up piece by piece like those
combined by our intelligence. I agree indeed that science
is here within its function. It gives us, in default of a real
analysis of the object, a translation of this object in terms
of intelligence. But is it not plain that science itself
invites philosophy to consider things in another way?
If our biology was still that of Aristotle, if it regarded the
series of Uving beings as unilinear, if it showed us the whole
of life evolving towards intelligence and passing, to that
end, through sensibility and instinct, we should be right,
we, the intelligent beings, in turning back towards the
earher and consequently inferior manifestations of life
and in claiming to fit them, without deforming them, into
the molds of our understanding. But one of the clearest
results of biologj' has been to show that evolution has
taken place along divergent lines. It is at the extremity
of two of these lines — the two principal — that we find
THE NATURE OF INSTINCT
17!
But one of the clearest
results of biologj' has been to show that evolution has
taken place along divergent lines. It is at the extremity
of two of these lines — the two principal — that we find
THE NATURE OF INSTINCT
17!
intelligence and instinct in forms almost pure. Why,
then, should instinct be resolvable into intelligent elements?
Why, even, into terms entirely intelligible? Is it not
obvious that to think here of the intelligent, or of the abao-
lutely intelligible, is to go back to the Aristotelian theory
of nature? No doubt it is better to go back to that than
to stop short before instinct as before an unfathomable
mystery. But, though instinct is not within the domain
of intelligence, it is not situated beyond the limits of mind.
In the phenomena of feeling, in unreflecting sympathy
and antipathy, we experience in ourselves — though under
a much vaguer form, and one too much penetrated with
intelligence — something of what must happen in the
consciousness of an insect acting by instinct. Evolu-
tion does but sunder, in order to develop them to the end,
elements which, at their origin, interpenetrated each
other. More precisely, inteUigence is, before anj-thing
else, the faculty of relating one point of space to another,
one material object to another; it appUes to all things,
but remains outside them; and of a deep cause it perceives
only the effects spread out side by side. Whatever be
the force that is at work in the genesis of the nervous
system of the caterpillar, to our eyes and our intelligence
it is only a juxtaposition of nerves and nervous centres.
It is true that we thus get the whole outer effect of it. The
Ammophila, no doubt, discerns but a very little of that
force, just what concerns itself; but at least it discerns
it from within, quite otherwise than by a process of know-
ledge — by an intuition {lived rather than represented),
which is probably like what we call divining sympathy.
A very significant fact is the swing to and fro of scientific
theories of instinct, from regarding it as intelligent to
regarding it as simply intelligible, or, shall I say, between
likening it to an intelligence "lapsed" and reducmg it
to a pure mechanism.' Each of these systems of explana-
tion triumphs in its criticism of the other, the first when
it shows us that instinct cannot be a mere reflex, the oEffei"
when it declares that instinct is something different from
intelligence, even fallen into unconsciousness. What can
this mean but that they are two symbolisms, equally
acceptable in certain respects, and, in other respects,
equally inadequate to their object? The concrete explana-
tion, no longer scientific, but metaphysical, must be sought
along quite another path, not in the direction of iytelligence,
but in that of "sympathy."
The concrete explana-
tion, no longer scientific, but metaphysical, must be sought
along quite another path, not in the direction of iytelligence,
but in that of "sympathy."
Instinct is sympathy. If this sympathy could extend
its object and also reflect upon itself, it would give us
the key to vital operations — just as intelligence, developed
and disciplined, guides us into matter. For — we cannot
too often repeat it — intelligence and instinct are turned
in opposite directions, the former towards inert matter,
the latter towards life. Intelligence, by means of science,
which is its work, will deLver up to us more and more
completely the secret of physical operations; of life it
brings us, and moreover only claims to bring us, a transla^
tion in terms of inertia. It goes all round life, taking from
outside the greatest possible number of ■views of it, draw-
ing it into itself instead of entering into it. But it is to
the very inwardness of life that inhdiion leads us^by
intuition I mean instinct that has become disinterested,
self-conscious, capable of reflecting upon its object and of
enlai^ng it indefinitely.
That an effort of this kind is not impossible, is proved
' See. in purticiikr, among recent worka, Bethe. "Diirfen wir den
Ameisen und Bieuen paychiache QualiUftea euachreibea7" (Areh. j. d.
gti. PhyiioUtgie, 189S), and Purel, "Uq Apergu de p^chobgie oom-
fftito" iAnnit jayehotogiqut, 1895).
n.!
LIFE AND CONSCIOUSNESS
177
in purticiikr, among recent worka, Bethe. "Diirfen wir den
Ameisen und Bieuen paychiache QualiUftea euachreibea7" (Areh. j. d.
gti. PhyiioUtgie, 189S), and Purel, "Uq Apergu de p^chobgie oom-
fftito" iAnnit jayehotogiqut, 1895).
n.!
LIFE AND CONSCIOUSNESS
177
by the existence in man of an aesthetic faculty along with
normal perception. Our eye perceives the features of
the living being, merely as assembled, not as mutually
organized. The intention of Jife, the simple movement
that runs through the lines, that binds them together and
pves them significance, escapes it. This intention is
just what the artist tries to regain, in placing himself
back within the object by a Idnd of sympathy, in breaking
down, by an effort of intuition, the barrier that space
puts up between him and his model. It is true that this
aesthetic intuition, like external perception, only attains
the individual. But we can conceive an inquiry turned
in the same direction as art, which would take life in general
for its object, just as physical science, in following to the
end the direction pointed out by external perception, pro-
longs the individual facta into general laws. No doubt
this philosophy will never obtain a knowledge of its object
comparable to that which science has of its own. In-
telligence remains the luminous nucleus around which
instinct, even enlarged and purified into intuition, forms
only a vague nebulosity. But, in default of knowledge
properly so called, reserved to pure intelligence, intuition
may enable us to grasp what it is that intelligence fails
to give us, and indicate the means of supplementing it.
On the one hand, it will utilize the mechanism of intelli-
gence itself to show how intellectual molds cease to be
strictly applicable; and on the other hand, by its own work,
it will suggest to us the vague feeling, if nothing more, of
what must take the place of intellectual molds. Thus,
intuition may bring the intellect to recognize that life
does not quite go into the category of the many nor yet
into that of the one; that neither mechanical causality
nor finality can give a sufficient interpretation of the vital
process. Then, by the sympathetic communication which
178
C11EATI\'E EVOLUTION
it estBbUshte between us and the rest of the living, by the
expansion of our consciousness which it brings about,
it introduces us into life's own domain, which is reciprocal
interpenetration, endlessly continued creation. But, though
it thereby transcends intelligence, it is from intelligence
that has come the push that has made it rise to the point
it has reached. Without Intelligence, it would have
remained in the form of instinct, riveted to the special
object of its practical interest, and turned outward by it
into movements of locomotion.
Without Intelligence, it would have
remained in the form of instinct, riveted to the special
object of its practical interest, and turned outward by it
into movements of locomotion.
How theory of knowledge must take account of these
two faculties, intellect and intuition, and how also, for
want of establishing a sufficiently clear distinction between
them, it becomes involved in inextricable difficulties, creat-
ing phantoms of ideas to which there cling phantoms of
problems, we shall endeavor to show a little further on.
We shall see that the problem of knowledge, from this point
of view, is one with the metaphysical problem, and that
both one and the other depend upon experience. On the
one hand, indeed, if intelligence is charged with matter and
instinct with life, we must squeeze them both in order
to get the double essence from them; meta phyRics ia
t herefore dependent u|xin thwirv nf knnwlpH f rp But,
on the other hand, if consciousness has thus split up into
intuition and intelligence, it is because of the need it had to
apply itself to matter at the same time as it had to follow
tlie stream of life. The double form of consciousness is
then due to the double form of the real, and theory of
knowledge must be dependent upon metaphysics. In
fact, each of these two lines of thought leads to the other;
they form a circle, and there can be no other centre to
the circle but the empirical study of evolution. It is only
in seeing consciousness run through matter, lose itself
tiiere and find itself there again, divide and reconstitute
LIFE AND CONSCIOUSNESS
17i
itself, that we shall form an idea of the mutual opposition
of the two terms, as also, perhaps, of their common origin.
But, on the other hand, by dwelling on this opposition
of the two elements and on this identity of origin, perhaps
we shall bring out more clearly the meaning of evolution
itself.
Such will be the aim of our next chapter. But the
facts that we have just noticed must have already sug-
gested to us the idea that life is connected either with
consciousness or with something that resembles it.
Such will be the aim of our next chapter. But the
facts that we have just noticed must have already sug-
gested to us the idea that life is connected either with
consciousness or with something that resembles it.
Throughout the whole extent of the animal kingdom,
we have said, consciousness seems proportionate to the)
living being's power of choice. It lights up the zone
of potentialities that surrounds the act. It fills the interval
between what is done and what might be done. Looked
at from without, we may regard it as a simple aid to action,
a light that action kindles, a momentary spark flying up
from the friction of real action against possible actions.
But we must also point out that things would go on in just
the same way if consciousness, instead of being the effect,
were the cause. We might suppose that consciousness,
even in the most rudimentary animal, covers by right an
enormous field, but is compressed in fact in a kind of vise:
each advance of the nervous centres, by giving the organism
a choice between a larger number of actions, calls forth the
potentialities that are capable of surrounding the real,
thus opening the vise wider and allowing consciousness
to pass more freely. In this second hypothesis, as in
the first, consciousness is still the instrument of action;
but it is even more true to say that action is the instrument
of consciousness; for the complicating of action with action,
and the opposing of action to action, are for the imprisoned
consciousness the only possible means to set itself free.
How, then, shall we choose between the two hypotheses?
180
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
How, then, shall we choose between the two hypotheses?
180
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
If the first IS true, consciousness must express exactly,
at each instant, the state of the brain; there is strict
parallelism (so far as intelligible) between the psychical
and the cerebral state. On the second hypothesis, on
the contrary, there is indeed solidaiity and interdependence
between the brain and consciousness, but not parallelism:
the more comphcated the brain becomes, thus giving the
organism greater choice of possible actions, the more
does consciousness outrun its physical concomitant. Thus,
the recollection of the same spectacle probably modifies
in the same way a dog's brain and a man's brain, if the
perception has been the same; yet the recollection must
be very different in the man's consciousness from what
it is in the dog's. In the dog, the recollection remains
the captive of perception; it is brought back to conscious-
ness only when an analogous perception recalls it by re-
producing the same spectacle, and then it is manifested
by the recognition, acted rather than Ihoughi, of the present
perception much more than by an actual reappearance
of the recollection itself, Man, on the contrary, is capable
of calling up the recollection at will, at any moment, in-
dependently of the present perception. He is not limited
to playing his past life again; he represents and dreams it.
The local modification of the brain to which the recollection
is attached being the same in each case, the psychological
difference between the two recollections cannot have its
ground in a particular difference of detail between the two
cerebral mechanisms, but in the difference between the
two brains taken each as a whole. The more complex
of the two, in putting a greater number of mechanisms in
opposition to one another, has enabled consciousness
to disengage itself from the restraint of one and all and to
reach independence. That things do happen in this way,
that the second of the two hypotheses is that which must
fSCTOUSNESS
181
be chosen, is what we have tried to prove, in a former
work, by the study of facta that best bring into relief
the relation of the conscious state to the cerebral state,
the facts of normal and pathological recognition, in particu-
lar the forms of aphasia.' But it could have been proved
by pure reasoning, before even it was Cv-idenced by facts.
We have shown on what self-contradictory postulate,
on what confusion of two mutually incompatible symbol-
isms, the hypothesis of equivalence between the cerebral
state and the psychic state rests.'
We have shown on what self-contradictory postulate,
on what confusion of two mutually incompatible symbol-
isms, the hypothesis of equivalence between the cerebral
state and the psychic state rests.'
The evolution of life, looked at from this point, recdvee
a clearer meaning, although it cannot be subsumed under
any actual idea. It is as if a broad current of conscioua-
ness had penetrated matter, loaded, as all consciousness
is, with an enormous multiplicity of interwoven potential-
ities. It has carried matter along to organization, but its
movement has been at once infinitely retarded and in-
finitely divided. On the one hand, indeed, consciousness
has had to fall asleep, like the chrysalis in the envelope
in which it is preparing for itself wings; and, on the other
hand, the manifold tendencies it contained have been
distributed among divergent series of organisms which,
moreover, express these tendencies outwardly in move-
ments rather than internally in representations. In the
course of this evolution, while some beings have fallen
more and more asleep, others have more and more complete-
ly awakened, and the torpor of some has served the activity
of others. But the waking could be effected in two different
ways. Life, that is to say consciousness launched into
matter, fixed its attention either on its own movement or
on the matter it was passing through; and it has thus
> Malihe et mhnoiTe, chaps, ii. and iii.
• "Le ParalogiBine paycho-phj-Biologiquo-' (fteuue de m&ajihysiqut,
Nov. 1904).
182
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
been turned either m the direction of intuition or in that
intellect. Intuition, at first sight, seems far preferable
to intellect, since in it life and consciousness remain within
themselves. But a glance at the evolution of living beings
shows us that intuition could not go very far. On the
side of intuition, consciousness found itself so restricted
by its envelope that intuition had to shrink into instinct,
that is, to embrace only the very small portion of life that
interested it; and this it embraces only in the dark, touch-
ing it while hardly seeing it. On this side, the horizon
was soon shut out. On the contrary, consciousness, in
shaping itself into intelligence, that is to say in concentrat-
ing itself at first on matter, seems to externalize itself in
relation to itself; but, just because it adapts itself thereby
to objects from without, it succeeds in moving among
them and is evading the barriers they oppose to it, thus
opening to itself an unlinoited field. Once freed, more-
over, it can turn inwards on itself, and awaken the po-
tentialities of intuition which still slumber within it.
Once freed, more-
over, it can turn inwards on itself, and awaken the po-
tentialities of intuition which still slumber within it.
From this point of view, not only does consciousness
appear as the motive principle of evolution, but also,
among conscious beings themselves, man comes to occupy
a privileged place. Between him and the animals the dif-
ference is no longer one of degree, but of kind. We shall
show how this conclusion is arrived at in our next chapter.
Let us now show how the preceding analyses suggest it.
A noteworthy fact is the extraordinary disproportion
between the consequences of an invention and the invention
itself. We have said that intelligence is modeled on matter
and that it aims in the first place at fabrication. But
does it fabricate in order to fabricate or does it not pursue
involuntarily, and even unconsciously, something entirely
different? Fabricating consists in shaping matter, in
making it supple and in bending it, in converting it into
that of ^H
4
LIFE AND CONSCIOUSNESS 183
an instrument in order to become master of it. It is
this maslery that profits humaaity, much more even than
the material result of the invention itself. Though we
derive an immediate advantage from the thing made, as
an intelligent animal might do, and though this advantage
be all the inventor sought, it is a sHght matter compared
with the new ideas and new feelings that the invention
may g^ve rise to in every direction, as if the essential part
of the effect were to raise us above oui"seIves and enlarge
oiu- horizon. Between the effect and the cause the dis-
proportion is so great that it is difficult to regard the cause
as producer of its effect. It releases it, wliilst setthng,
indeed, its direction. Everjthing happens as though
the grip of intelligence on matter were, in its main intention,
to let something pass that matter is holding back.
The same impression arises when we compare the brain
of man with that of the animals. The difference at first
appears to be only a difference of size and complexity.
But, jud^ng by function, there must be something else
besides. In the animal, the motor mechanisms that the
brain succeeds in setting up, or, in other words, the habits
contracted voluntarily, have no other object nor effect
than the accomplishment of the movements marked out
in these habits, stored in these mechanisms. But, in man,
the motor habit may have a second result, out of proportion
to the first: it can hold other motor habits in check, and
thereby, in overcoming automatism, set consciousness
free. We know what vast re^ons in the human brain
language occupies. The cerebral mechanisms that corre-
spond to the words have this in particular, that they can
be made to grapple with other mechanisms, those, for
instance, that correspond to the things themselves, or
even be made to grapple with one another. Meanwhile
consciousness, which would have been dragged down and
184 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohap."
Meanwhile
consciousness, which would have been dragged down and
184 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohap."
drowned in the accomplishment of the act, is restored
and set free.'
The difference must therefore be more radical than a
superficial examination would lead us to suppose. It is
the difference between a mechanism which engages the
attention and a mechanism from which it can be diverted.
The primitive steam-engine, as Newcomen conceived it,
required the presence of a person exclusively employed to
turn on and off the taps, either to let the steam into the
cylinder or to throw the cold spray into it in order to con-
dense the steam. It is said that a boy employed on this
work, and very tired of having to do it, got the idea of
tying the handles of the taps, with cords, to the beam of
the engine. Then the machine opened and closed the taps
ilsclf; it worked all alone. Now, if an observer had com-
pared the structure of this second machine with that of
the first without taking into account the two boya left to
watch over them, he would have found only a slight
difference of complexity. That is, indeed, all we can per-
ceive when we look only at the machines. But if we cast a
glance at the two boj-s, we shall see that whilst one is
wholly taken up by the watching, the other is free to
go and play as he chooses, and that, from this point of
view, the difference between the two machines is radical,
the first holding the attention captive, the second setting
it at liberty. A difference of the same kind, we think,
Would be found between the brain of an animal and the
Human brain.
If, now, we should wish to express this in terms of
' A geologist whom we have alreadj' had occasion to eit«, N. S.
Shtkler, well says that "when we come to man, it seeniM im if we find
the uicient subjcctioD of mind to body aholJRhed, and the intcUectiul
pftrtB develop with an extraordinary rapidity, the Btructtire of the
body remaining identical in essentiaU" (Sbaier, Th* Inttrpntatian
of Natur*, Boalon. IS!)9, p. 1S7).
IS!)9, p. 1S7).
finality, we should have to say that consciousness, after
having been obliged, in order to set itself free, to divide
organization into two complementary parts, vegetables
on one hand and animals on the other, has sought an
issue in the double direction of instinct and of inteUigence.
It has not found it with instinct, and it has not obtained
it on the side of intelligence except by a sudden leap
from the animal to man. So that, in the last analysis,
man might be considered the reason for the existence of
the entire organization of life on our planet. But this
would be only a manner of speaking. There is, in reality,
only a current of existence and the opposing current;
thence proceeds the whole evolution of life. We must
now grasp more closely the opposition of these two currents.
Perhaps we shall thus discover for them a common source.
By this we shall also, no doubt, penetrate the most obscure
regions of metaphysics. However, as the two directions
we have to follow are clearly marked, in intelligence on the
one hand, in instinct and intuition on the other, we are not
afraid of straying. A survey of the evolution of life
suggests to us a certain conception of knowledge, and also a
certain metaphysics, which imply each other. Once made
clear, this metaphysics and this critique may throw some
light, in their turn, on evolution as a whole.
CHAPTER m
ON THE MEANING OP UFE — THE QBDEK OF NATOBH \
AND THE FORM OF DJTELLIOENCB
In the course of our first chapter we traced a line of de-l
niarcation between the inorganic and the organized,
but we pointed out that the division of unorganized matter
into separate bodies is relative to our senses and to our
intellect, and that matter, looked at as an undivided
whole, must be a flux rather than a thing. In this we
were preparing the way for a reconciliation between the
inert and the living.
On the other side, we have shown in our second chapter
that the same opposition is found again between instinct
and intelligence, the one turned to certain determinations
of life, the other molded on the configuration of matter.
But instinct and intelligence, we have also said, stand
out from the same background, which, for want of a better
name, we may call consciousness in general, and which
must be coextensive with universal life. In this way, we
have disclosed the possibility of showing the genesis of
intelligence in setting out from general consciousness,
which embraces it.
We are now, then, to attempt a genesis of intellect
at the same time as a genesis of material bodies — two
enterprises that are evidently correlative, if it be true
that the main lines of our intellect mark out the general
form of our action on matter, and that the detail of matter
is ruled by the requirements of our action. Intellectuality
186
THE METHOD OF PHILOSOPHY
187
Intellectuality
186
THE METHOD OF PHILOSOPHY
187
and materiality have been constituted, in detail, by
reciprocal adaptation. Both are derived from a wider
and higher form of existence. It is there that we must
replace them, in order to see them issue forth.
Such an attempt may appear, at first, more daring
than the boldest speculations of metaphysicians. It
claims to go further than psychology, further than cos-
mology, further than traditional metaphysics; for psy-
chology, cosmology and metaphysics take intelligence,
in all that is essential to it, as given, instead of, as we now
propose, engendering it in its form and in its matter. The
enterprise is in reality much more modest, as we are going
to show. But let us first say how it differs from othere.
To begin with psychology, we are not to believe that
it engenders intelligence when it follows the progressive
development of it through the animal series. Comparative
psychology teaches us that the more an animal is intelligent,
the more it tends to reflect on the actions by which it
makes use of things, and thus to approximate to man.
But its actions have already by themselves adopted the
principal lines of human action; they have made out the
same general directions in the material world as we have;
they depend upon the same objects bound together by
the same relations; so that animal intelligence, although
it does not form concepts properly so called, already moves
in a conceptual atmosphere. Absorbed at every instant
by the actions it performs and the attitudes it must adopt,
drawn outward by them and so externalized in relation
to itself, it no doubt plays rather than thinks its ideas;
this play none the less already corresponds, in the main,
to the general plan of human intelligence.' To explain
the intelligence of man by that of the animal consists
Wa have de%'ebped this point in Matiire et mimoire, chaps, ii. and
iii,, DoUbly pp. 7S-S0 and 1 t point elsewhere. As to
the second, we will limit ourselves to pointing out that
perfect spatiality would consist in a perfect externality
of parts in their relation to one another, that is to say,
in a complete reciprocal independence. Now, there is no
material point that does not act on every other material
point. When we observe that a thing really is there where
it acts, we shall be led to say {as Faraday' was) that all
the atoms inteqjenetratc and that each of them fills the
world. On such a hypothesis, the atom or, more generally,
the material point, becomes simply a view of the mind,
a view which we come to take when we continue far enough
the work (wholly relative to our faculty of acting) by
which we subdivide matter into bodies. Yet it is undeniable
that matter lends itself to this subdivision, and that, in
supposing it breakable into parts external to one another,
we are constructing a science sufficiently representative
of the real. It ia undeniable that if there be no entirely
isolated system, yet science finds means of cutting up the
universe into systems relatively independent of each other,
and commits no appreciable error in doing so. 'What else
can this mean but that matter extends itself in space with-
out being absolutely extended therein, and that in regarding
matter as decomposable into isolated systems, in attribut-
ing to it quite distinct elements which change in relation to
each other without changing in themselves (which are
"dLspIaced," shall we say, without being "altered"), ia
short, in conferring on matter the properties of pure
space, we are transporting ourselves to the terminal point
of the movement of which matter simply indicates the
direction?
What the Transcendental Aestkeiic of Kant appears
' Faraday, A Speeuiation concemiig Eketrie Condiuiion (Pkiksophi-
eai Magatine, 3d. series, vol. sxiv.).
204
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
to have established once for all is that extension is not
a material attribute of the same kind as others. We
cannot reason indefinitely on the notions of heat, color,
or weight: in order to know the modalities of weight {»■
of heat, we must have recourse to experience. Not so
of the notion of space. Supposing even that it is given
empirically by sight and touch (and Kant has not questioned
the fact) there is this about it that is remarlcable that our
mind, speculating on it with its own powers alone, cuts
out in it, a priori, figures whose propert,ies we determine
a priori: experience, with which we have not kept in touch,
yet follows us through the infinite complications of our
reasonings and invariably justifies them. That is the fact.
Kant has set it in clear light. But the explanation of the
fact, we believe, must be sought in a different direction
to that which Kant followed.
That is the fact.
Kant has set it in clear light. But the explanation of the
fact, we believe, must be sought in a different direction
to that which Kant followed.
Intelligence, as Kant re]*resents it to us, is bathed
in an atmosphere of spatiality to which it is as inseparably
united as the living body to the air it breathes. Our
perceptions reach us only after having passed through
this atmosphere. They have been impregnated in ad-
vance by our geometry, so that our faculty of thinking only
finds again in matter the mathematical properties which
our faculty of perceiving has already deposed there. We
are assured, therefore, of seeing matter yield itself with
docility to our reasonings; but this matter, in all that it has
that is inteUigible, is our own work; of the reality "in
itself we know nothing and never shall know anj'thing,
since we only get its refraction through the forms of our
faculty of perceiving. So that if we claim to affirm some-
thing of it, at once there rises the contrary affirmation,
equally demonstrable, equally plausible. The ideality
of space is proved directly by the analysis of knowledge
indirectly by the antinomies to which the opposite theory
INTELLECr AND
205
leads. Such is the goveming idea of the Kantian criticism.
It has inspired Kant with a peremptory refutation of
"empiricist" theories of knowledge. It is, in our opinion,
definitive in what it denies. But, in what it affirms, does
it give U3 the solution of the problem?
Such is the goveming idea of the Kantian criticism.
It has inspired Kant with a peremptory refutation of
"empiricist" theories of knowledge. It is, in our opinion,
definitive in what it denies. But, in what it affirms, does
it give U3 the solution of the problem?
With Kant, space is given as a ready-made form of
our perceptive faculty — a veritable deus ex mackina, of
which we see neither how it arises, nor why it is what
it is rather than anything else. " Things-in-themgelves"
are also given, of which he claims that we can know noth-
ing: by what right, then, can he affinB their existence,
even aa "problematic"? If the unknowable reality pro-
jects into our perceptive faculty a "sensuous manifold"
capable of fitting into it exactly, is it not, by that very
fact, in part known? And when we examine this exact
fitting, shall we not be led, in one point at least, to suppose
a pre-estabUshed harmony between things and our mind —
an idle hypothesis, which Kant was right in wishing to
avoid? At bottom, it is for not having distinguished
degrees in spatiality that he has had to take space ready-
made as given — whence the question how the "sensuous
manifold" is adapted to it. It is for the same reason
that he has supposed matter wholly developed into jiarts
absolutely external to one another;— whence antinomies,
of which we may plainly see that the thesis and antithesis
suppose the perfect coincidence of matter with geometrical
space, but which vanish the moment we cease to extend
to matter what is true only of pure space. Whence,
finally, the conclusion that there are three alternatives,
and three only, among which to choose a theory of know-
ledge: either the mind is determined by things, or things
are determined by the mind, or between mind and things
we must suppose a mysterious agreement.
But the truth is that there is a fourth, which does not
206 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohjlp.
seem to have occurred to Kant — in the first place because
he did not think that the mind overflowed the Intellect,
and in the second place (and this is at bottom thesame thing)
because he did not attribute to duration an absolute exist-
ence, having put time, a priori, on the same plane as space.
This alternative consists, first of all, in regarding the intel-
lect as a special function of the mind, essentially turned
toward inert matter; then in saying that neither does mat-
ter determine the form of the intellect, nor does the in-
tellect impose its form on matter, nor have matter and
intellect been regulated in regard to one another by we
know not what pre-established harmony, but that intellect
and matter have progressively adapted themselves one to
the other in order to attain at last a common form. This
adaptaiion has, moreover, been brought about quite rmturally,
because it is the same inversion of the same movement which
creates ai once ihe inteilectucUity of mind and the materiality
of things.
This
adaptaiion has, moreover, been brought about quite rmturally,
because it is the same inversion of the same movement which
creates ai once ihe inteilectucUity of mind and the materiality
of things.
From this point of view the knowledge of matter that
our perception on one hand and science on the other
give to us appears, no doubt, as approximative, but not as
relative. Our perception, whose r6le it is to hold up a
light to our actions, works a dividing up of matter that is
always too sharply defined, always subordinated to practi-
cal needs, consequently always requiring revision,
science, which aspires to the mathematical form, over*"'
accentuates the spatiality of matter; its formulae are,
in general, too precise, and ever need remaking. For a
scientific theory to be final, the mind would have to em-
brace the totality of things in block and place each thing
in its exact relation to every other thing; but in reality
we are obliged to consider problems one by one, in terms
which are, for that very reason, provisional, so that the
solution of each problem will have to be corrected indefi-
iver^^^H
INTELLECT AND MATERULITY
207
nitely by the solution that will be given to the problems
that will follow: thus, science as a whole is relative to
the particular order in which the problems happen to have
been put. It is in this meaning, and to this degree, that
science must be regarded as conventional. But it is a
conventionality of fact so to speak, and not of right.
In principle, positive science bears on reahty itself, pro-
vided it does not overstep the limits of its own domain,
which is inert matter.
It is in this meaning, and to this degree, that
science must be regarded as conventional. But it is a
conventionality of fact so to speak, and not of right.
In principle, positive science bears on reahty itself, pro-
vided it does not overstep the limits of its own domain,
which is inert matter.
Scientific knowledge, thus regarded, rises to a higher
plane. In return, the theory of knowledge becomes
an infinitely difficult enterprise, and which passes the
powers of the intellect alone. It is not enough to deter-
mine, by careful analysis, the categories of thought;
we must engender them. As regards space, we must,
by an effort of mind sui generis, follow the progression
or rather the regression of the extra-spatial degrading
itself into spatiality. When we make ourselves self-
conscious in the highest possible degree and then let our-
selves fall back little by little, we get the feeling of ex-
tension: we have an extension of the self into recollections
that arc fixed and external to one another, in place of the
tension it possessed as an indivisible active will. But
this is only a beginning. Our consciousness, sketching
the movement, shows us its direction and reveals to us
the possibility of continuing it to the end; but conscious-
ness itself does not go so far. Now, on the other hand,
if we consider matter, which seems to us at first coincident
with space, we find that the more our attention is fixed
on it, the more the parts which we said were laid side b>
side enter into each other, each of them undergoing tht
action of the whole, which is consequently somehow present
in it. Thus, although matter stretches itself out in the
direction of space, it does not completely attain it; whence
208
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[OHAP.
we may conclude that it only carries very much further
the movement that consciousness is able to sketch withio
us in its nascent state. We hold, therefore, the two ends
of the chain, though we do not succeed in seizing the inter-
mediate links. Will they always escape us? We must
remember that philosophy, as we define it, has not yet be-
come completely conscious of itself. Physics understands
its rdle when it pushes matter in the direction of spatiality;
but has metaphysics understood its rfile when it has simply
trodden in the steps of physics, in the chimerical hope of
going further in the same direction? Should not its own
task be, on the contrary, to remount the incline that
physics descends, to bring back matter to its origins, and
to build up progressively a cosmology which would be,
80 to speak, a reversed psychology? All that which seems
■posUive to the physicist and to the geometrician would
become, from this new point of view, an interruption or
inversion of the true positivity, which would have to be
defined in psychological terms.
All that which seems
■posUive to the physicist and to the geometrician would
become, from this new point of view, an interruption or
inversion of the true positivity, which would have to be
defined in psychological terms.
When we consider the admirable order of mathematics,
the perfect agreement of the objects it deals with, the
immanent logic in numbers and figures, our certainty
of always getting the same conclusion, however diverse
and complex our reasonings on the same subject, we
hesitate to see in properties apparently so positive a system
of negations, the absence rather than the presence of a true
reality. But we must not forget that our intellect, which
finds this order and wonders at it, is directed in the same
line of movement that l 'sicist legitimates
this operation later on by reducing, as far as possible,
differences of quaUty to differences of magnitude; but,
prior to all science, I incline to liken qualities to quantities,
as if I perceived behind the qualities, as through a trans-
parency, a geometrical mechanism.' The more complete
this transparency, the more it seems to me that in the same
conditions there must be a repetition of the same fact.
Our inductions are certain, to our eyes, in the exact degree
in which we make the qualitative differences melt into
the homogeneity of the space which subtends them,
80 that geometry is the ideal limit of our inductions as
well as of our deductions. The movement at the end of
which is spatiality lays down along its course the faculty
of induction as well as that of deduction, in fact, intel-
lectuality entire.
It creates them in the mind. But it creates also, in
things, the "order" which our induction, aided by de-
inphony of Beethoven,
which is genius, originality, and therefore unforeseeability
itself.
But it ia exceptional for order of the first kind to take
50 distinct a form. Ordinarily, it presents features that
we have every interest in confusing with those of the
opposite order. It is quite certain, for instance, that
if wc could view the evolution of fife in its entirety, the
spontaneity of its movement and the unforeseeability
of its procedures would thrust themselves on our at-
tention. • But what we meet in our daily experience ia a
certain determinate living being, certain special rnani-
festatioDS of hfe, which repeat, almost, forms and facts
already known; indeed, the similarity of structure that we
find everywhere between what generates and what is
generated — a similarity that enables us to include any
number of living individuals in the same group — is to our
LAWS AND GENERA
22S
I
eyes the very type of the generic: the inorganic genera
seem to us to take living genera as models. Thus the
vital order, such as it is offered to us piecemeal in experi-
ence, presents the same character and performs the same
function as the physical order: both cause experience to
repeat itself, both enable our mind to generalise. In reality,
this character has entirely different origins in the two
cases, and ovea opposite meanings. In the second case,
the type of this character, its ideal limit, as also its founda-
tion, is the geometrical necessity in virtue of which the
same components give the same resultant. In the first
case, this character involves, on the contrary, the interven-
tion of something which manages to obtain the same
total effect although the infinitely complex elementary
causes may be quite different. We insisted on this last
point in our first chapter, when we showed how identical
structures are to be met with on independent lines of evo-
lution. But, without looking so far, we may presume
that the reproduction only of the type of the ancestor
by his descendants is an entirely different thing from the
repetition of the same composition of forces which yields
an identical resultant. When we think of the infinity
of infinitesimal elements and of infinitesimal causes that
concur in the genesis of a living being, when we reflect
that the alasence or the deviation of one of them would
spoil everj-lhing, the first impulse of the mind is to consider
this army of little workers as watched over by a skilled
foreman, the "vital principle," which is ever repairing
faults, correcting effects of neglect or absentmindedness,
putting things back in place : this is how we try to express
the difference between the physical and the vital order,
the former making the same combination of causes give
the same combined effect, the latter securing the con-
itancy of the effect even when there is some wavering
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[CJHAP^^^
in the causes. But that is only a comparison; on re-
flection, we find that there can i>e no foreman, for the
very simple reason that there are no workers. The causes
and elements that physico-chemical analysis discovers
are real causes and elements, no doubt, as far as the facts
of organic destruction are concerned; they are then
limited in number. But vital phenomena, properly so
called, or facts of organic creation open up to us, when we
analyze them, the perspective of an analysis passing away
to infinity: whence it may be inferred that the manifold
causes and elements are here only views of the mind, at-
tempting an ever closer and closer imitation of the operation
of nature, white the operation imitated is an indivisible
act. The hkeness between individuals of the same species
has thus an entirely different meaning, an entirely difTerent
origin, to that of the hkeness iwtwecn complex effects ob-
tained by the same composition of the same causes. But
in the one case as in the other, there is likeness, and
consequently possible generalization. And as that is
all that interests us in practice, since our daily life is and
must be an expectation of the same things and the same
situations, it is natural that this common character,
essential from the point of view of our action, should bring
the two orders together, in spite of a merely internal
diversity between them which interests speculation only.
Hence the idea of a general order of nature, everywhere the
same, hovering over hfe and over matter abke. Hence
our habit of designating by the same word and represent-
ing in the same way the existence of laws in the domain
of inert matter and that of genera in the domain of life.
Now, it will be found that this confusion is the origin
of most of the difficulties raised by the problem of know-
ledge, among the ancients as well as among the modems.
The generality of laws and that of genera having been
F
V designati
LAWS AND GENERA
227
designated by the same word and subsumed under the Bame
idea, the geometrical order and the vital order are accord-
ingly confused together. According to the point of view,
the generality of laws is explained by that of genera, or
that of genera by that of laws. The first view is character-
istic of ancient thought; the second belongs to modem
philosophy. But in both ancient and modem philosophy
the idea of "generality" is an equivocal idea, uniting in its
denotation and in its connotation incompatible objects
and elements. In both there are grouped under the same
concept two kinds of order which are alite only in the
facihty they give to our action on things. We bring
together the two terms in virtue of a quite external like-
ness, which justifies no doubt their designation by the
same word for practice, but which does not authorize
us at all, in the speculative domain, to confuse them in
the same definition.
We bring
together the two terms in virtue of a quite external like-
ness, which justifies no doubt their designation by the
same word for practice, but which does not authorize
us at all, in the speculative domain, to confuse them in
the same definition.
The ancients, indeed, did not ask why nature submits
to laws, but why it is ordered according to genera. The
idea of genus corresponds more especially to an objective
reality in the domain of life, where it expresses an un-
questionable fact, heredity. Indeed, there can only be
genera where there are individual objects; now, while
the organized being is cut out from the general mass of
matter by his very organization, that is to say naturally,
it is our perception which cuts inert matter into distinct
bodies. It is guided in this by the interests of action,
by the nascent reactions that our body indicates — that is,
aa we have shown elsewhere," by the potential genera
that are trying to gain existence. In this, then, genera
and individuals determine one another by a semi-artificial
operation entirely relative to our future action on things.
Nevertheless the ancients did not hesitate to put all genera
I Matiire et niimoire, cbapt«rB iii. aad iv.
228 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
in the same rank, to attribute the same absolute existence
to all of them. Reality thus being a system of genera,
it is to the generality of the genera (that is, in effect, to
the generality expressive of the vital order) that the
generality of laws itself had to be brought. It is interest-
ing, in this respect, to compare the Aristotehan theory
of the fall of bodies with the explanation famished by
Galileo. Aristotle is concerned solely with the concepts
"high" and "low," "oi^ti proper place" as distinguished
from "place occupied," "natural movement" and "forced
movement;"' the physical law in virtue of which the stone
falls expresses for him that the stone regains the " natural
place" of all stones, to wit, the earth. The stone, in his
view, is not quite stone so long as it is not in its normal
place; in faUing back into this place it aims at complet-
ing itself, like a Hving being that grows, thus realizing
fully the essence of the genua stone.' If this concep-
tion of the physical law were exact, the law would no
longer be a mere relation established by the mmd; the
Bubdivision of matter into bodies would no longer be
relative to our faculty of perceiving; all bodies would
have the same individuality as living bodies, and the
laws of the physical universe would express relations
of real kinship between real genera. We know what
kind of physics grew out of this, and how, for having
believed in a science unique and final, embracing the
totality of the real and at one with the absolute, the
ancients were confined, in fact, to a more or less clumsy
interpretation of the physical in terms of the vital.
But there is the same confusion in the modems, with
this difference, however, that the relation between the
But there is the same confusion in the modems, with
this difference, however, that the relation between the
Sea in porticuUr, Phyg.. iv. 2i;i a 2; v. 230 b 12; viii. 255 a 2; and
De Catio, iv. 1-5; ii. 206 b 27; iv. 308 a 34.
• D« Caelo, iv. 310 a 34 rd d'th Tbv ainou nwrov ffipidai ckoozov r6
lit id ourou udoa can ipipsaOaj.
LAWS .
i GENERA
I
two terms is inverted : laws are no longer reduced to genera,
but genera to laws; and science, still supposed to be
uniquely one, becomes altogether relative, instead of
being, as the ancients wished, altogether at one with
the absolute. A noteworthy fact is the eclipse of the
problem of genera in modem philosophy. Our theory
of knowledge turns ahnost entirely on the question of
laws: genera are left to make shift with laws sb best
they can. The reason is, that modem philosophy has
its point of departure in the great astronomical and physical
discoveries of modem times. The laws of Kepler and of
Galileo have remained for it the ideal and unique type
of all knowledge. Now, a law is a relation between things
or between facts. More precisely, a law of mathematical
form expresses the fact that a certain magnitude is a
function of one or several other variables appropriately
chosen. Now, the choice of the variable magnitudes,
the distribution of nature into objects and into facts, has
already something of the contingent and the conventional.
But, admitting that the choice is hinted at, if not prescribed,
by experience, the law remains none the less a relation,
and a relation is essentially a comparison; it has objective
reality only for an intelligence that represents to itself
several terms at the same time. This intelligence may be
neither mine nor yours: a science which bears on laws may
therefore be an objective science, which experience con-
tains in advance and which we simply make it disgorge;
but it is none the less tme that a comparison of some kind
must be eflfected here, impersonally if not by any one
in particular, and that an experience made of laws, that
is, of terms related to other terms, is an experience made of
comparisons, which, before we receive it, has already had to
pass through an atmosphere of intellectuality. The idea
of a science and of an experience entirely relative to the
230 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iokap.
The idea
of a science and of an experience entirely relative to the
230 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iokap.
human understanding was therefore implicitly contuned
in the conception of a science one and integral, composed
of laws: Kant only brought it to light. But this con-
ception is the result of an arbitrary confusion between the
generality of laws and that of genera. Though an in-
telligence be necessary to condition terms by relation to
each other, we may conceive that in certain cases the terms
themselves may exist independently. And if, beside
relations of tenn to term, experience also presents to us
independent terms, the living genera being something
quite different from systems of laws, one half, at least,
of our knowledge bears on the " thing-in-itself," the very
reality. This knowledge may be very difficult, just be-
cause it no longer builds up its own object and is obliged,
on the contrary, to submit to it ; but, however little it cuts
into its object, it is into the absolute itself that it bites.
We may go further: the other half of knowledge is no
longer so radically, so definitely relative as certain philoso-
phers say, if we can establish that it bears on a reahty
of inverse order, a reality which we always express in
mathematical laws, that is to say in relations that imply
comparisons, but which lends itself to this work only
because it is weighted with spatiahty and consequently
with geometry. Be that as it may, it is the confusion of
two kinds of order that lies behind the relativism of the
modems, as it lay behind the dogmatism of the ancients.
We have said enough to mark the origin of this con-
fusion. It is due to the fact that the "vital" order, which
is essentially creation, is manifested to us less in its essence
than in some of its accidents, those which imitate the
physical and geometrical order; hke it, they present to
ua repetitions that make generalization possible, and in
that we have all that interests us. There is no doubt
that life as a whole is an evolution, that is, an unceasing
m.]
LAWS AND GENERA
231
There is no doubt
that life as a whole is an evolution, that is, an unceasing
m.]
LAWS AND GENERA
231
transformation. But life can progress only by means of
the living, which are its depositaries. Innumerable living
beings, almost alike, have to repeat each other in space
and in time for the novelty they are working out to grow
and mature. It is like a book that advances towards a
new edition by going through thousands of reprints with
thousands of copies. There is, however, this difference
between the two cases, that the successive impressions
are identical, as well as the simultaneous copies of the
SEime impression, whereas representatives of one and
the same species are never entirely the same, either in
different points of space or at different moments of tune.
Heredity does not only transmit characters; it transmits
also the impetus in virtue of which the characters are
modified, and this impetus is vitality itself. That is why
we say that the repetition which serves as the base of our
generalizations is essential in the physical order, accidental
in the vital order. The physical order is "automatic;"
the vital order is, I will not say voluntary, but analogous
to the order "willed."
Now, as soon as we have clearly distinguished be-
tween the order that is "willed" and the order that is
"automatic," the ambiguity that underlies the idea of
disorder is dissipated, and, with it, one of the principal
difficulties of the problem of knowledge.
The main problem of the theory of knowledge is to
know how science is possible, that is to say, in effect,
why there is order and not disorder in things. That
order exists is a fact. But, on the other hand, disorder,
which appears to us to be less than order, is, it seems, of
right. The existence of order is then a mystery to be
cleared up, at any rate a problem to be solved. More
simply, when we undertake to found order, we regard
it ae contingent, if not in things, at least as viewed by
232
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lOHAP,
The existence of order is then a mystery to be
cleared up, at any rate a problem to be solved. More
simply, when we undertake to found order, we regard
it ae contingent, if not in things, at least as viewed by
232
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lOHAP,
the mind: of a thing that we do not judge to be contingent
we do not require an explanation. If order did not appear
to U8 as a conquest over something, or as an addition to
something (which something is thought to be the "ab-
sence of order"), ancient realism would not have spoken
of a "matter" to which the Idea superadded itself, nor
would modem idealism have supposed a "sensuous mani-
fold" that the understanding organizes into nature. Now,
it is unquestionable that all order is contingent, and
conceived as such. But contingent in relation to what?
The reply, to our thinking, is not doubtful. An order
is contingent, and seems so, in relation to the inverse
order, as verse is contingent in relation to prose and prose
in relation to verse. But, just as all speech which is not
prose is verse and necessarily conceived as verse, just as
all speech which is not verse is prose and necessarily con-
ceived as prose, so any state of things that is not one of
the two orders is the other and is necessarily conceived as
the other. But it may happen that we do not realize
what we are actually thinking of, and perceive the idea
really present to our mind only through a mist of affective
states. Any one can be convinced of this by considering
the use we make of the idea of disorder in daily life. When
I enter a room and pronounce it to be "in disorder," what
do I mean? The position of each object is explained by the
automatic movements of the person who has slept in the
room, or by the efficient causes, whatever they may be,
that have caused each article of furniture, clothing, etc.,
to be where it is: the order, in the second sense of the
word, is perfect. But it is order of the first kind that
I am expecting, the order that a methodical person con-
Bciously puts into his life, the willed order and not the
automatic: so I call the absence of this order "disorder."
At bottom, all there is that is real, perceived and even
THE TWO KINDS OF ORDER
233
But it is order of the first kind that
I am expecting, the order that a methodical person con-
Bciously puts into his life, the willed order and not the
automatic: so I call the absence of this order "disorder."
At bottom, all there is that is real, perceived and even
THE TWO KINDS OF ORDER
233
cOQCKved, in this absence of one of the two kinds of order,
is the presence of the other. But the second is indifferent
to me, / am interested only in the first, and I express the
presence of the second as a function of the first, instead
of expressing it, so to speak, as a function of itself, by
saying it is disorder. Inversely, when we affirm that we
are imagining a chaos, that is to say a state of tilings in
which the physical world no longer obej3 laws, what are we
thinking of? We imagine facts that appear and disappear
capriciously. First we think of the physical universe as
we know it, with effects and causes well proportioned to
each other; then, by a series of arbitrary decrees, we aug-
ment, diminish, suppress, so as to obtain what we call
disorder. In reality we have substituted mil for the
mechanism of nature; we have replaced the "automatic
order" by a multitude of elementary wills, just to the extent
that we imagine the apparition or vanishing of phenomena.
No doubt, for all these little wills to constitute a "willed
order," they must have accepted the direction of a higher
will. But, on looking closely at them, we see that that is
just what they do: our own will 'is there, which objectifies
itself in each of these capricious wills in tmn, and takes
good care not to connect the same with the same, nor to
permit the effect to be proportional to the cause — in fact
makes one simple intention hover over the whole of the
elementary vohtions. Thus, here again, the absence
of one of the two orders consists in the presence of the
other. In analyzing the idea of chance, which is closely
akin to the idea of disorder, we find the same elements.
When the wholly mechanical play of the causes which stop
the wheel on a number makes nne win, and consequently
acts like a good genius, careful of my interests, or when
the wholly mechanical force of the wind tears a tile off
the roof and throws it on to my head, that is to say acts like
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
a bad genius, conspiring against my person: in both cases
I find a mechanism where I should have looked for, where,
indeed, it seems as if I ought to have found, an intention.
That is what I express in speaking of chance. And of an
anarchical world, in which phenomena succeed each other
capriciously, I should say again that it is a realm of chance,
meaning that I find before me wills, or rather decrees,
when what I am expecting is mechanism. Thus is ex-
plained the singular vaciUation of the mind when it tries
to define chance. Neither efficient cause nor final cause
can furnish the definition sought. The mind swings to
and fro, unable to rest, between the idea of an absence of
final cause and that of an absence of efficient cause, each
of these definitions sending it back to the other. The
problem remains insoluble, in fact, so long as the idea of
chance is regarded as a pure idea, without mixture of feeJ-
ing. But, in reality, chance merely objectifies the state
of mind of one who, expecting one of the two kinds of
order, finds himself confronted with the other. Chance
and disorder are therefore necessarily conceived as relative.
So if we wish to represent them to ourselves as absolute,
we perceive that we are going to and fro like a shuttle
between the two kinds of order, passing into the one just
at the moment at which we might catch ourself in the
other, and that the supposed absence of all order is really
the presence of both, with, besides, the swaying of a mind
that cannot rest finally in either. Neither in things
nor in our idea of things can there be any question of
presenting this disorder as the substratum of order, since
it implies the two kinds of order and is made of their
combination.
But our intelhgence is not stopped by this. By a
simple aic ju6€0 it posits a disorder which is an "absence
of order." In so doing it thinks a word or a set of words,
m.!
OF ORDER
235
But our intelhgence is not stopped by this. By a
simple aic ju6€0 it posits a disorder which is an "absence
of order." In so doing it thinks a word or a set of words,
m.!
OF ORDER
235
nothing more. If it seeks to attach an idea to the word,
it finds that disorder may indeed be the negation of order,
but that this negation is then the implicit affirmation of the
presence of the opposite order, which we shut our eyes to
because it does not interest us, or which we evade by deny-
ing the second order in its turn — that is, at bottom, by
re-establishing the first. How can we speaii, then, of an
incoherent diversity which an understanding organizes?
It is no use for us to say that no one supposes this inco-
herence to be reaUzed or realizable: when we speak of it,
we believe we are thinking of it; now, in analyzing the
idea actually present, we find, as we said before, only the
disappointment of the mind confronted with an order that
does not interest it, or a swaying of the mind between
two kinds of order, or, finally, the idea pure and simple
of the empty word that we have created by joining a
negative prefix to a word which itself signifies some-
thing. But it IB this analysis that we neglect to make.
We omit it, precisely because it does not occur to ua to
distinguish two kinds of order that are irreducible to one
another.
We said, indeed, that all order necessarily appears
as contingent. If there are two kinds of order, this con-
tingency of order is explained: one of the forms is con-
tingent in relation to the other. Where I find the geo-
metrical order, the vital was possible; where the order is
vital, it might have been geometrical. But suppose that
the order is everywhere of the same kind, and simply admits
of degrees which go from the geometrical to the vital:
if a determinate order still appears to me to be contingent,
and can no longer be so by relation to an order of another
kind, I shall necessarily believe that the order is contingent
by relation to an absence of itself, that is to say by relation
to a state of things "in which there is no order at all."
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
And this state of things I shall believe that I am think-
ing of, because it is implied, it seems, in the very con-
tingency of order, which is an unquestionable fact. I
sliall therefore place at the summit of the hierarchy the
vita! order; then, as a diminution or lower complication
of it, the geometrical order; and finally, at the bottom of
all, an absence of order, incoherence itself, on which order
ia superposed. This is why incoherence has the effect
on me of a word behind which there must be something
real, if not in things, at least in thought. But if I observe
that the state of things implied by the contingency of a
determinate order is simply the presence of the contrary
order, and if by this very fact I posit two kinds of order,
each the inverse of the other, I perceive that no inter-
mediate degrees can be imagined between the two orders,
and that there is no going down from the two orders to
the "incoherent." Either the incoherent is only a word,
devoid of meaning, or, if I give it a meaning, it is on con-
dition of putting incoherence midway between the two
orders, and not below both of them. There is not first
the incoherent, then the geometrical, then the vital;
there is only the geometrical and the vital, and then, by a
swaying of the mind between them, the idea of the in-
coherent. To speak of an uncoordinated diversity to
which order is superadded is therefore to commit a veritable
petitio prindpii; for in imagining the uncoordinated we
really posit an order, or rather two.
This long analysis was necessary to show how the real
can pass from tension to extension and from freedom to
mechanical necessity by way of inversion. It was not
enough to prove that this relation between the two terms
is suggested to us, at once, by consciousness and by sensible
experience. It was necessary to prove that the geometrical
IDEAL GENESIS OF MATTER
237
order has no need of explanation^ being purely and simply
the suppression of the inverse order. And, for that, it
was indispensable to prove that suppression is always a
substitution and is even necessarily conceived as such:
it is the retiuii-eraents of practical life alone that suggest
to us here a way of speaidng that deceives us both as to
what happens in things and as to what is present to our
thought. We must now examine more closely the in-
version whose consequences we have just described.
AVhat, then, is the principle that has only to let go its
tension — may we say to defend — in order to extend, the
interruption of the cause here being equivalent to a re-
versal of the effect?
We must now examine more closely the in-
version whose consequences we have just described.
AVhat, then, is the principle that has only to let go its
tension — may we say to defend — in order to extend, the
interruption of the cause here being equivalent to a re-
versal of the effect?
For want of a better word we have called it consciousneaa.
But we do not mean the narrowed consciousness that
fuoctions in each of us. Our own consciousness is the con-
sciousness of a certain living being, placed in a certain
point of space ; and though it does indeed move in the same
direction as its principle, it is continually drawn the op-
posite way, obliged, though it goes forward, to look be-
hind. This retrospective vision is, as we have sbo.wn,
the natural function of the intellect, and consequently
of distinct consciousness. In order that our consciousness
shall coincide with something of its principle, it must
detach itself from the already-made and attach itself to the
being-made. It needs that, turning back on itself and
twisting on itself, the faculty of seeing should be made to
be one with the act of uiliing—a painful effort which we
CAD make suddenly, doing violence to our nature, but
cannot sustain more than a few moments. In free action,
when we contract our whole being in order to thrust it
forward, we have the more or less clear consciousness
of motives and of impelling forces, and even, at rare mo-
menta, of the becoming by which they are organized into
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
tOHAP. I
In free action,
when we contract our whole being in order to thrust it
forward, we have the more or less clear consciousness
of motives and of impelling forces, and even, at rare mo-
menta, of the becoming by which they are organized into
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
tOHAP. I
an act: but the pure willing, the current that runs through
this matter, communicating life to it, is a thing which we
hardly feel, which at most we brash lightly as it passes.
Let us try, however, to instal ourselves within it, if only for
a moment; even then it is an individual and fragmentary
will that we grasp. To get to the principle of all life, as
also of all materiality, we must go further still. Is it
impossible? No, by no means; the history of philosophy
is there to bear witness. There is no durable system that
is not, at least in some of its parts, vivified by intuition.
Dialectic ia necessary to put intuition to the proof, necessary
also in order that intuition should break itself up into
concepts and so be propagated to other men; but all it
does, often enough, is to develop the result of that intuition
which transcends it. The truth is, the two procedures
are of opposite direction: the same effort, by which ideas
are connected with ideas, causes the intuition which the
ideas were storing up to vanish. The philosopher is
obliged to abandon intuition, once he has received from
it the impetus, and to rely on himself to carry on the
movement by pushing the concepts one after another.
But he soon feels he has lost foothold; he must come
into touch with intuition again; be must undo most of
what he has done. In short, dialectic is what ensures
the agreement of our thought with itself. But by dia-
lectic — which is only a relaxation of intuition — many
different agreements are possible, while there ia only
one truth. Intuition, if it could be prolonged beyond
a few instants, would not only make the philosopher
agree with his own thought, but also all philosophers
with each other. Such as it is, fugitive and incomplete,
it is, in each system, what is worth more than the system
and survives it. The object of philosophy would be
reached if this intuition could be sustained, generalized
ni.1
IDEAL GENESIS OF MATTER
239
and, above all, assured of external points of reference in
order not to go astray. To that end a continual coming
and going is necessary between nature and mind.
The object of philosophy would be
reached if this intuition could be sustained, generalized
ni.1
IDEAL GENESIS OF MATTER
239
and, above all, assured of external points of reference in
order not to go astray. To that end a continual coming
and going is necessary between nature and mind.
When we put bacli our being into our will, and our
will itself into the impulsion it prolongs, we understand,
we feel, that reality is a perpetual growth, a creation
pursued without end. Our will already performs this
miracle. Every human work in which there is invention,
every voluntary act in which there is freedom, every
movement of an organism that manifests spontaneity,
brin^ something new into the world. True, these are
only creations of fonn. How could they be anything
else? We are not the vital current itself; we are this
current already loaded with matter, that is, with con-
gealed parts of its own substance which it carries along
its course. In the composition of a work of genius, as
in a simple free decision, we do, indeed, stretch the spring
of our activity to the utmost and thus create what no mere
assemblage of materials could have given (what assemblage
of curves already known can ever be equivalent to the
pencil-stroke of a great artist?) but there are, none the
less, elements here that pre-exist and survive their or-
ganization. But if a simple arrest of the action that
generates form could constitute matter (are not the original
lines drawn by the artist themselves already the fixation
and, as it were, congcalment of a movement?), a creation
of matter would be neither incomprehensible nor inad-
missible. For we seize from within, we live at every
instant, a creation of form, and it is ju.st in those cases
in which the form is pure, and in which the creative current
is momentarily interrupted, that there is a creation of
matter. Consider the letters of the alphabet that enter
into the composition of everything that has ever been
written: we do not conceive that new letters spring up
240 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohap.
Consider the letters of the alphabet that enter
into the composition of everything that has ever been
written: we do not conceive that new letters spring up
240 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohap.
and come to join themselves to the others in order to
make a new poem. But that the poet creates the poem
and that human thought is thereby made richer, we under-
stand very well: this creation is a simple act of the mind,
and action has only to make a pause, instead of continuing
into a new creation, in order that, of itself, it may break
up into words which dissociate themselves into letters
which are added to all the letters there are already in the
world. Thus, that the number of atoms composing the
material universe at a given moment should increase runs
counter to our habits of mind, contradicts the whole of
our experience; but that a reahty of quite another order,
which contrasts with the atom as the thought of the poet
with the letters of the alphabet, should increase by sudden
additions, is not inadmissible; and the reveree of each
addition might indeed be a worH, which we then represent
to ourselves, symbolically, as an assemblage of atoms.
The mystery that spreads over the existence of the
universe comes in great part from this, that we want the
genesis of it to have been accomplished at one stroke or
the whole of matter to be eternal. Whether we speak of
creation or posit an uncreated matter, it is the totahty
of the universe that we are considering at once. At the
root of this habit of mind lies the prejudice which we
will analyze in our next chapter, the idea, common to
materialists and to their opponents, that there is no really
5icting duraiion, and that the absolute— matter or mind —
can have no place in concrete time, in the time which we
feel to be the very stuff of our life. From which it follows
that everything is given once for all, and that it is necessary
to posit from all eternity either material multipUcity it^
self, or the act creating this multiplicity, given in block
in the divine essence. Once this prejudice is eradicated,
the idea of creation becomes more clear, for it is merged
IDEAL GENESIS OP MATTER
241
in that of growth. But it is no longer then of the universe i
in its totality that we must speak.
Once this prejudice is eradicated,
the idea of creation becomes more clear, for it is merged
IDEAL GENESIS OP MATTER
241
in that of growth. But it is no longer then of the universe i
in its totality that we must speak.
Why should we speak of it? The universe is an as-
semblage of solar systems which we have every reason
to believe analogous to our own. No doubt they are not
absolutely independent of one another. Our sun radiates
heat and light beyond the farthest planet, and, on the
other hand, our entire solar system is moving in a definite
direction as if it were drawn. There is, then, a bond
between the worlds. But this bond may be regarded as
infinitely loose in comparison with the mutual dependence
which unites the parts of the same world among them-
selves; so that it is not artificially, for reasons of mere
conveaience, that we isolate our solar system: nature
itself invites us to isolate it. As living beings, we depend
on the planet on which we are, and on the sun that pro-
vides for it, but on nothing else. As thinking beings,
we may apply the laws of our physics to our own world,
and extend them to each of the worlds taken separately;
but nothing tells us that they apply to the entire universe,
nor even that such an affirmation has any meaning; for
the universe is not made, but is being made continually.
It is growing, perhaps indefinitely, by the addition of new
worlds.
Let us extend, then, to the whole of our solar system
the two most general laws of our science, the principle of
conservation of energy and that of its degradation —
limiting them, however, to this relatively closed system
and to other systems relatively closed. Let us see what
wiU follow. We must remark, first of all, that these two
principles have not the same luetaphysical scope. The
first is a quantitative law, and consequently relative,
in part, to our methods of measurement. It says that,
in a system presumed to be closed, the total energy, that
242 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohaP;
We must remark, first of all, that these two
principles have not the same luetaphysical scope. The
first is a quantitative law, and consequently relative,
in part, to our methods of measurement. It says that,
in a system presumed to be closed, the total energy, that
242 CREATIVE EVOLUTION iohaP;
is to say the sum of its kinetic and potential enei^, re-
mains constant. Now, if there were only kinetic energy
in the world, or even if there were, besides kinetic energy,
only one single kind of potential energy, but no more, the
artifice of measurement would not make the law artificial.
The law of the conservation of energy would express indeed
that somethiTig is preserved in constant quantity. But
there are, in fact, energies of various kinds,' and the meas-
urement of eacli of them has evidently been so chosen as
to justify the principle of conservation of energy. Con-
vention, therefore, plays a large part in this principle,
although there is undoubtedly, between the variations
of the different energies composing one and the same
system, a mutual dependence which is just what has
made the extension of the principle possible by measure-
ments suitably chosen. If, therefore, the philosopher
applies this principle to the solar system complete, he
must at least soften its outlines. The law of the con-
servation of energy cannot here express the objective
permanence of a certain quantity of a certain thing,
but rather the necessity for every change that is brought
about to be counterbalanced in some way by a change
in an opposite direction. That is to say, even if it governs
the whole of our solar system, the law of the conservation
of energy is concerned with the relationship of a fragment
of this world to another fragment rather than with the
nature of the whole.
It is otherwise with the second principle of thermo-
dynamics. The law of the degradation of energy does
not bear essentially on magnitudes. No doubt the first
idea of it arose, in the thought of Camot, out of cer-
t^n quantitative considerations on the yield of thermic
On these difTerenoes of quality see the work of Duhem, L'EvohiHon
d* la nieanique, Paris, 1905, pp. 1S7 S.
m.i
243
No doubt the first
idea of it arose, in the thought of Camot, out of cer-
t^n quantitative considerations on the yield of thermic
On these difTerenoes of quality see the work of Duhem, L'EvohiHon
d* la nieanique, Paris, 1905, pp. 1S7 S.
m.i
243
machines. Unquestionably, too, the terms in which
Clausius generalized it were mathematical, and a cal-
culable magnitude, " entropy," was, in fact, the final
conception to which he was led. Such precision is necessary
for practical applications, But the law might have been
vaguely conceived, and, if absolutely necessary, it might
have been roughly fonnulatcd, even though no one had
ever thought of measuring the different energies of the
physical world, even though the concept of energy had
not been created. Essentially, it expresses the fact that
all physical changes have a tendency to be degraded into
heat, and that heat tends to be distributed among bodies
in a uniform manner. In this less precise form, it becomes
independent of any convention; it is the most metaphysi-
cal of the laws of physics since it points out without inter-
posed symbols, without artificial devices of measurements,
the direction in which the world is going. It tells us that
changes that are visible and heterogeneous will be more and
more diluted into changes that are invisible and homo-
geneous, and that the instability to which we owe the rich-
ness and variety of the changes taking place in our solar
system will gradually give way to the relative stability
of elementary vibrations continually and perpetually
repeated. Just so with a man who keeps up his strength
as he grows old, but spends it less and less in actions, and
comes, in the end, to employ it entirely in making his lungs
breathe and his heart beat.
From this point of view, a world like our solar system
is seen to be ever exhausting something of the muta-
bihty it contains. In the beginning, it had the maximum of
possible utihzation of energy: this mutability has gone
on diminishing unceasingly. Whence does it come? We
might at first suppose that it has come from some other
point of space, but the difficulty is only set back, and for
244 CREATIVE EVOLUTION [okaK'
In the beginning, it had the maximum of
possible utihzation of energy: this mutability has gone
on diminishing unceasingly. Whence does it come? We
might at first suppose that it has come from some other
point of space, but the difficulty is only set back, and for
244 CREATIVE EVOLUTION [okaK'
liiiB external source of mutability the same question springs
up. True, it might be added that the number of worlds
capable of passing mutability to each other is unlimited,
that the sum of mutability contained in the universe is in-
finite, that there is therefore no ground on which to seek ita
origin orto foresee its end. A hypothesis of this kind is as
irrefutable as it is indemonstrable; but to speak of an infinite
universe is to admit a perfect coincidence of matter with
abstract space, and consequently an absolute externality
of all the parts of matter in relation to one another. We
have seen above what we must think of this theory, and
how difficult it is to reconcile with the idea of a reciprocal
influence of all the parts of matter on one another, an
influence to which indeed it itself makes appeal. Again it
might be supposed that the general instability has arisen
from a general state of stability; that the period in
which we now are, and in which the utilizable energy is
diminishing, has been preceded by a period in which
the mutability was increasing, and that the altematicoa
of increase and diminution succeed each other for ever.
This hypothesis is theoretically conceivable, as has been
demonstrated quite recently; but, according to the cal-
culations of Boltzmann, the mathematical improbabil-
ity of it passes all imagination and practically amounts
to absolute impossibility,' In reality, the problem re-
mains insoluble as long as we keep on the ground of physics,
for the physicist is obliged to attach energy to extended
particles, and, even if he regards the particles only as
reser\'oirs of energy, he remains in space: he would belie
his r61e if he sought the origin of these energies in an extra-
spatial process. It is there, however, in our opinion, that
it must be sought.
I8 it extension in general that we are considering in
■BoltDnuui. Vorletwi^tn xihtr Gattheorie, Leipzig, 1898, pp. 253 S.
IDEAL GENESIS OF ]
245
It is there, however, in our opinion, that
it must be sought.
I8 it extension in general that we are considering in
■BoltDnuui. Vorletwi^tn xihtr Gattheorie, Leipzig, 1898, pp. 253 S.
IDEAL GENESIS OF ]
245
abslractof Extension, we saiJ, appears only as a tension
which 13 intemipted. Or, are we considering the con-
crete reality that fills this extension? The order which
reigns therej and which is manifested by the laws of nature,
is an order which must be born of itself when the inverse
order is suppressed; a detension of the will would produce
precisely this suppression. Lastly, we find that the
direction, which this reality takes, suggests to us the idea
of a thing unmaking itself; such, no doubt, is one of the
essential characters of materiaUty. What conclusion are
we to draw from all this, if not that the process by which
this thing makes itself is directed in a contrary way to that
of physical processes, and that it is therefore, by its very
definition, immaterial? The vision we have of the material
world is that of a weight which falls: no image drawn from
matter, properly so called, will ever give us the idea of the
weight rising. But this conclusion will come home to us
with still greater force if we press nearer to the concrete
reality, and if we consider, no longer only matter in general,
but, within this matter, living bodies.
All our analj^ses show us, in life, an effort to re-mount
the incline that matter descends. In that, they reveal
to us the possibility, the necessity even of a process
the inverse of materiality, creative of matter by its in-
terruption alone. The life that evolves on the surface
of our planet is indeed attached to matter. If it were
pure consciousness, a fortiori if it were supraconscious-
ness, it would be pure creative activity. In fact, it is
riveted to an organism that subjects it to the general
laws of inert matter. But everything happens as if it
were doing its utmost to set itself free from these laws.
It has not the power to reverse the direction of physical
changes, such as the principle of Camot determines it.
It does, however, behave absolutely as a force would
246 CREATIVE EVOLUTION (ohap.'
But everything happens as if it
were doing its utmost to set itself free from these laws.
It has not the power to reverse the direction of physical
changes, such as the principle of Camot determines it.
It does, however, behave absolutely as a force would
246 CREATIVE EVOLUTION (ohap.'
behave which, left to itself, would work in the inverse
direction, Incapable of stopping the course of material
changes downwards, it succeeds in retarding it. The
evolution of life really continues, as we have shown,
an initial impulsion: this impulsion, which has deter-
mined the development of the chlorophyllian function
in the plant and of the sensori-motor system in the ani-
mal, brings life to more and more efficient acts by the
fabrication and use of more and more powerful explosives.
Now, what do these explosives represent if not a storing-
Up of the solar energy, the degradation of wiiich energy
is thus provisionally suspended on some of the points
where it was being poured forth? The usable energy which
the explosive conceals will be expended, of course, at the
moment of the explosion; but it would have been expended
sooner if an organism had not happened to be there to
arrest its dissipation, in order to retain it and save it up.
As we see it to-day, at the point to which it was brought
by a scission of the mutually complementary tendencies
which it contained within itself, Ufe is entirely dependent
on the chlorophyllian function of the plant. This means
that, looked at in its initial impulsion, before any scission,
life was a tendency to accumulate in a reservoir, aa do
especially the green parts of vegetables, with a view
to an instantaneous effective discharge, like that which
an animal brings about, something that would have
otherwise flowed away. It is like an effort to raise the
weight which falls. True, it succeeds only in retarding
the fall. But at least it can give us an idea of what the
raising of the weight was.'
* Inabooknehiafactsand ia'ide&B^LaDistoliUionoppoaieaVivolviion,
pAtiB, 1899), M. Andrt Lulandc shows lu everything going lowaids
death, in B[nle of the momentary resistance which organisms seem
to oppose. — But, even from the side of unoi^nized matter, have wb
the right t« extend to the entire imiverae consideretions drawn from
in. I
GENESIS OF MATTER
247
Andrt Lulandc shows lu everything going lowaids
death, in B[nle of the momentary resistance which organisms seem
to oppose. — But, even from the side of unoi^nized matter, have wb
the right t« extend to the entire imiverae consideretions drawn from
in. I
GENESIS OF MATTER
247
Let us imagine a vessel full of steam at a high pressure,
and here and there in its sides a crack through which the
steam is escaping in a jet. The steam thrown into the air
la nearly all condensed into little drops which fall back, and
this condensation and this fall represent simply the loss
of something, an interruption, a deficit. But a small
part of the jet of steam subsists, uncondensed, for some
seconds; it is making an effort to raise the drops which
arc falling; it succeeds at most in retarding their fall.
So, from an immense reservoir of life, jets must be gushing
out unceasingly, of which each, falling back, is a world.
The evolution of living species within this world repre-
sents what subsists of the primitive direction of the
original jet, and of an impulsion which continues itself
in a direction the inverse of materiality. But let us
not carry too far this comparison. It gives us but a
feeble and even deceptive image of reality, for the crack,
the jet of steam, the forming of the drops, are deter-
mined necessarily, whereas the creation of a world is
a free act, and the life within the material world partici-
pates in this liberty. Let us think rather of an action
like that of raising the arm; then let us suppose that
the arm, left to itself, falls back, and yet that there sub-
sists in it, striving to raise it up again, something of the
will that animates it. In this image of a creative action
which unmakes itself we have already a more exact re-
the present state of our solar system? Beaide the worlds which e.n
dyiDg. there are without doubt worlds that are being bora. On the
other hand, in the organized world, the death of individuals does not
Been) at all like a diminution of "life in general," or like a necessity
whioh life submits to reluctantly. As has lieen more than once re-
marked, life has never mode an eflort to prolong indefinitely the exist-
ence of the individual, although on so many other points it has made
HO many successful elTorts. Everything ia as ij this death had been
willed, or at Itut atxepled, f'^r the greater pnogreaa of life ia general.
248 CREATIVE EVOLUTION icmp.
presentation of matter. In vital activity we see, then,
that which subsists of the direct movement in the inverted
movement, a reality which is making itself in a reality
which is umnakiTig itself.
248 CREATIVE EVOLUTION icmp.
presentation of matter. In vital activity we see, then,
that which subsists of the direct movement in the inverted
movement, a reality which is making itself in a reality
which is umnakiTig itself.
Everything is obscure in the idea of creation if we
think of things which are created and a thing which createa,
aa we habitually do, as the understanding cannot help
doing. We shall show the origin of this illusion in our
next chapter. It is natural to our intellect, whose function
is essentially practical, made to present to us things and
states rather than changes and acts. But things and
states are only views, taken by our mind, of becoming.
There are no things, there are only actions. More particu-
larly, if I consider the world in which we live, I find that
the automatic and strictly determined evolution of this
well-knit whole is action which is unmaking itself, and that
the unforeseen forms which life cuts out in it, forms capable
of being themselves prolonged into unforeseen movements,
represent the action that is making itself. Now, I have
every reason to believe that the other worlds are analogous
to ours, that things happen there in the same way. And
I know they were not all constructed at the same time,
since observation shows me, even to-day, nebulae in
course of concentration. Now, if the same kind of action
is going on everywhere, whether it is that which is unmaking
itself or whether it is that which is striving to remake
itself, I simply express this probable similitude when I
speak of a centre from which worlds shoot out like rockets
in a fire-works display — provided, however, that I do not
present this centre as a thing, but as a continuity of shoot-
ing out. God thus defined, has nothing of the already
made; He is unceasing life, action, freedom. Creation,
80 conceived, is not a mystery; we experience it in our-
selves when we act freely. That new things can join
ni.i
IDEAL GENESIS OF MATTER
God thus defined, has nothing of the already
made; He is unceasing life, action, freedom. Creation,
80 conceived, is not a mystery; we experience it in our-
selves when we act freely. That new things can join
ni.i
IDEAL GENESIS OF MATTER
thinga already existing is absurd, no doubt, since the
thing results from a solidification perfonned by our under-
standing, and there are never any tilings other than those
that the understanding has thus constituted. To spieak
of things creating themselves would therefore amount
to saying that the understanding presents to itself more
than it presents to itself — a self-contradictory afiirmation,
an empty and vain idea. But that action increases as it
goes on, that it creates in the measure of its advance,
IB what each of us finds when he watches himself act.
Things are constituted by the instantaneous cut which
the understanding practices, at a given moment, on a Qux
of this kind, and what is mysterious when we compare
the cuts together becomes clear when we relate them to
the flux. Indeed, the modalities of creative action, in so
far as it is still going on in the organization of bving forms,
are much simplified when they are taken in this way.
Before the complexity of an organism and the practically
infinite multitude of interwoven analyses and syntheses
it presupposes, our understanding recoils disconcerted.
That the simple play of physical and chemical forces,
left to themselves, should have worked this marvel, we
find hard to believe. And if it is a profound science
which is at work, how are we to understand the influence
exercised on this matter without form by this form without
matter? But the difficulty arises from this, that we
represent statically ready-made material particles juxta-
posed to one another, and, also statically, an external
cause which plasters upon them a skilfully contrived
organization. In reality, life is a movement, materiality
is the inverse movement, and each of these two movements
is simple, the matter which forms a world being an un-
divided flux, and undivided also the life that runs through
it, cutting out in it Uving beings all along its track. Of
250 CREATIVE EVOLUTION mST
Of
250 CREATIVE EVOLUTION mST
these two currents the second runs counter to the first,
but the first obtains, all the same, something from the
second. There results between thera a modus vivendi,
wh'':n is organization. This organization takes, for our
£'jises and for our intellect, the form of parts entirely
external to other parts in space and in time. Not only
do we shut our eyes to the unity of the impulse which,
passing through generations, links individuals with in-
dividuals, species with species, and makes of the whole
series of the living one single immense wave flowing over
matter, but each individual itself seems to us as an aggre-
gate, aggregate of molecules and aggregate of facts. The
reason of this lies in the structure of our intellect, which
is formed to act on matter from without, and which suc-
ceeds by making, in the flux of the real, instantaneous
cuts, each of which becomes, in its fixity, endlessly de-
composable. Perceiving, in an organism, only parts
external to parts, the understanding has the choice
between two systems of explanation only: either to
regard the infinitely complex {and thereby infinitely
well-contrived) organization as a fortuitous concatena-
tion of atoms, or to relate it to the incomprehensible
influence of an external force that has grouped its ele-
ments together. But this complexity is the work of
the understanding; this incomprehensibility is also its
work. Let us try to see, no longer with the eyes of
the intellect alone, which grasps only the already made
and which looks from the outside, but with the spirit,
I mean with that faculty of seeing which is immanent
in the faculty of acting and which springs up, somehow,
by the twisting of the will on itself, when action is turned
into knowledge, like heat, so to say, into light. To
movement, then, everything will be restored, and into
movement everything will be resolved. Where the un-
r
IDEAL GENESIS OF MATTER 251
derstanding, working on the image supposed to be fixed
of the progressing action, shows us parts infinitely mani-
fold and an order infinitely well contrived, we catch a
glimpse of a simple process, an action which is making
itself across an action of the same kind which is unmaking
itself, like the fiery path torn by the last rocket of a fire-
works display through the black cinders of the spent
rockets that are f allin g dead. *
From this point of view, the general considerations
we have presented concerning the evolution of life will
be cleared up and completed. We will distinguish more
sharply what is accidental from what is essential in this
evolution.
*
From this point of view, the general considerations
we have presented concerning the evolution of life will
be cleared up and completed. We will distinguish more
sharply what is accidental from what is essential in this
evolution.
The impetus of life, of which we are speaking, consists
in a need of creation. It cannot create absolutely, be-
cause it is confronted with matter, that is to say with the
movement that is the inverse of its own. But it seizes
upon this matter, which is necessity itself, and strives
to introduce into it the largest possible amount of indeter-
mination and liberty. How does it go to work?
Ad animal high in the scale may be represented in
a general way, we said, as a sensori-motor nervous system
imposed on digestive, respiratory, circulatory systems,
etc. The function of these latter is to cleanse, repair
and protect the nervous system, to make it as independent
as possible of external circumstances, but, above all, to
furnish it with energy to be expended in movements.
The increasing complexity of the organism is therefore
due theoretically (in spite of innumerable exceptions
due to accidents of evolution) to the necessity of complexity
in the nervous system. No doubt, each complication
of any part of the organism involves many others in ad-
dition, because this part itself must hve, and every change
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[CHAP.
No doubt, each complication
of any part of the organism involves many others in ad-
dition, because this part itself must hve, and every change
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[CHAP.
in one point of the body reverberates, as it were, through-
out. The complication may therefore go on to infinity
in all directions; but it is the complication of the nervous
system which conditions the others in right, if not always
in fact. Now, in what does the progress of the nervous
system itself consist? In a simultaneous development
of automatic activity and of voluntary activity, the firet
furnishing the second with an appropriate instrument.
Thus, in an organism such as ours, a considerable number
of motor mechanisms are set up in the medulla and in the
spinal cord, awaiting only a signal to release the correspond-
ing act: the will is employed, in some cases, in setting up
the mechanism itself, and in the others in choosing the
mechanisms to be released, the manner of combining them
and the moment of releasing them. The will of an animal
is the more effective and the more intense, the greater
the number of the mechanisms it can choose from, the
more complicated the switchboard on which all the motor
paths cross, or, in other words, the more developed its
brain. Thus, the progress of the nervous sj-stem assures
to the act increasing precision, increasing variety, in-
creasing efficiency and independence. The organism be-
haves more and more like a machine for action, which
reconstructs itself entirely for every new act, as if it were
made of india-rubber and could, at any moment, change
the shape of all its parts. But, prior to the nervous
system, prior even to the organism properly so called,
already in the undifferentiated mass of the amoeba,
this essential property of animal life is found. The amoeba
deforms itself in varying directions; its entire mass does
what the differentiation of parts will localize in a sensori-
motor system in the developed animal. Doing it only
in a rudimentary manner, it is dispensed from the com-
plexity of the higher organisms; there is no need here of
r
in.i
THE MEANING OF EVOLUTION
253
the auxiliary elements that pass on to motor elements
the energy to expend; the animaJ moves as a whole, and,
as a whole also, procures energy by means of the organic
substances it assimilates. Thus, whether low or high in
the animal scale, we always End that animal life consists (
(1) in procuring a provision of energy; (2) in expending it,
by means of a matter as supple as possible, in directions
variable and unforeseen.
Thus, whether low or high in
the animal scale, we always End that animal life consists (
(1) in procuring a provision of energy; (2) in expending it,
by means of a matter as supple as possible, in directions
variable and unforeseen.
Now, whence comes the energy? From the ingested
food, for food is a kind of explosive, which needs only
the spark to discharge the energy it stores. Who has
made this explosive? The food may be the flesh of an
animal nourished on animals and so on; but, in the end
it is to the vegetable we always come back. Vegetables
alone gather in the solar energy, and the animals do but
borrow it from them, cither directly or by some passing
it on to others. How then has the plant stored up this
energy? Chiefly by the chlorophyllian function, a chem-
iciism sui generis of which we do not possess the key, and
which is probably unlike that of our laboratories. The
process consists in using solar energy to fix the carbon
of carbonic acid, and thereby to store this energy as we
should store that of a water-carrier by employing him to
fill an elevated reservoir: the water, once brought up, can
set in motion a mill or a turbine, as we will and when we
will. Each atom of carbon fixed represents something
like the elevation of the weight of water, or like the stretch-
ing of an elastic thread uniting the carbon to the oxygen
in the carbonic acid. The clastic is relaxed, the weight
falls back again, in short the energy held in reserve is
restored, when, by a simple release, the carbon is per-
mitted to rejoin its oxygen.
So that all life, animal and vegetable, seems in its essence
like an effort to accumulate energy and then to let it
254
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
pmuf.
So that all life, animal and vegetable, seems in its essence
like an effort to accumulate energy and then to let it
254
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
pmuf.
flow into flexible channels, changeable in shape, at the
end of which it will accomplish infinitely VEiried Idnds
of work. That is what the vital impetus, passing through
matter, would fain do all at once. It would succeed,
no doubt, if its power were unlimited, or if some reinforce-
ment could come to it from without. But the impetus
is finite, and it has been given once for all. It cannot
overcome all obstacles. The movement it starts is some-
times turned aside, sonnetimes divided, always opposed;
and the evolution of th« organized world is the unrolling
of this conflict. The first great scission that had to be
effected was that of the two kingdoms, vegetable and
animal, which thus happen to be mutually complementary,
without, however, any agreement having been made
between them. It is not for the animal that the plant
accumulates energy, it is for its own consumption; but
its expenditure on itself is less discontinuous, and less
concentrated, and therefore less eflicacious, than was
required by the initial impetus of life, essentially directed
toward free actions; the same organism could not with
equal force sustain the two functions at once, of gradual
storage and sudden use. Of themselves, therefore, and
without any external intervention, simply by the effect
of the duality of the tendency involved in the original
impetus and of the resistance opposed by matter to this
impetus, the organisms leaned some in the first direction,
others in the second. To this scission there succeeded
many others. Hence the diverging lines of evolution,
at least what is essential in them. But we must take into
account retrogressions, arrests, accidents of every kind.
And we must remember, above all, that each species
behaves as if the general movement of life stopped at it
instead of passing through it. It thinks only of itself,
it lives only for itself. Hence the numberless struggles
in.]
THE MEANING OP EVOLUTION
255
that we behold in nature. Hence a discord, striking
and terrible, but for which the original principle of life
must not be held responsible.
The part played by contingency in evolution is there-
fore great. Contingent, generally, are the forms adopted,
or rather invented. Contingent, relative to the obstacles
encountered in a given place and at a given moment,
is the dissociation of the primordial tendency into such and
such complementary tendencies which create divergent
lines of evolution. Contingent the arrests and set-backs;
contingent, in large measure, the adaptations. Two
things only are necessary: (1} a gradual accumulation
of energy; (2) an elastic canalization of this energy in
variable and indeterminable directions, at the end of which
are free acts.
Contingent the arrests and set-backs;
contingent, in large measure, the adaptations. Two
things only are necessary: (1} a gradual accumulation
of energy; (2) an elastic canalization of this energy in
variable and indeterminable directions, at the end of which
are free acts.
This twofold result has been obtamed in a particular
way on our planet. But it might have been obtained
by entirely different means. It was not necessary that
hfe should fix its choice mainly upon the carbon of car-
bonic acid. What was essential for it was to store solar
energy; but, instead of asking the sun to separate, for
instance, atoms of oxygen and carbon, it might (theoret-
ically at least, and, apart from practical difficulties possibly
insurmountable) have put forth other chemical elements,
which would then have had to be associated or dissociated
by entirely different physical means. And if the element
characteristic of the substances that supply energy to the
organism had been other than carbon, the element char-
acteristic of the plastic substances would probably have
been other than nitrogen, and the chemistry of hving bodies
would then have been radically different from what it is.
The result would have been living forms without any
analogy to those we know, whose anatomy would have
been different, whose physiology also would have been
256 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
The result would have been living forms without any
analogy to those we know, whose anatomy would have
been different, whose physiology also would have been
256 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
different. Alone, the sensori-motor function would have
been preserved, if not in its mechanism, at least in its
effects. It 13 therefore probable that life goea on in other
planets, in other solar systems also, under forms of which
we have no idea, in physical conditions to which it seems to
us, from the point of view of our physiology, to be ab-
solutely opposed. If its essential aim is to catch up
usable energy in order to expend it in explosive actions,
it probably chooses, in each solar system and on each
planet, as it does on the earth, the fittest means to get
this result in the circumstances with which it is con-
fronted. That is at least what reasoning by analogy leads
to, and we use analogy the wrong way when we declare
life to be impossible wherever the circumstances with
which it is confronted are other than those on the earth.
The truth is that life is possible wherever- energy descends
the incline indicated by Camot's law and where a cause
of inverse direction can retard the descent — that is to say,
probably, in all the worlds suspended from all the stars.
We go further: it is not even necessary that life should be
concentrated and determined in organisms properly so
called, that is, in definite bodies presenting to the flow of
energy ready-made though elastic canals. It can be con-
ceived (although it can hardly be imagined) that energy
might be saved up, and then expended on varying bnea
running across a matter not yet solidified. Every es-
sential of life would still be there, since there would still
be slow accumulation of energy and sudden release. There
would hardly be more difference between this vitality,
vague and formless, and the definite vitality we know,
than there is, in our psychical life, between the state of
dream and the state of waking. Such may have been the
condition of life in our nebula before the condensation of
matter was complete, if it be true that life springs forward
THE MEANING OF EVOLUTION
257
I
at the very moment when, as the effect of an inverse move-
ment, the nebular matter appears.
It is therefore conceivable that life might have assumed
a totally different outward appearance and designed forms
very different from those we know. With another chemical
substratum, in other physical conditions, the impulsion
would have remained the same, but it would have split
up very differently in course of progress; and the whole
would have traveled another road — whether shorter or
longer who can tell? In any case, in the entire series of
living beings no term would have been what it now is.
Now, was it necessary that there should be a series, or
terms? Why should not the unique impetus have been
impressed on a unique body, which might have gone on
evolving?
In any case, in the entire series of
living beings no term would have been what it now is.
Now, was it necessary that there should be a series, or
terms? Why should not the unique impetus have been
impressed on a unique body, which might have gone on
evolving?
This question arises, no doubt, from the comparisoa
of life to an impetus. And it must be compared to an
impetus, because no imago borrowed from the physical
world can give more nearly the idea of it. But it is only
an image. In reaUty, life is of the psychological order,
and it is of the essence of the psychical to enfold a
confused plurality of interpenetrating terras. In space,
and in space only, is distinct multiplicity possible: a point
is absolutely external to another point. But pure and
empty unity, also, is met with only in space; it is that
of a mathematical point. Abstract unity and abstract
multiplicity are determinatioas of space or categories of
the understanding, whichever we will, spatiality and in-
tellectuality being molded on each other. But what is of |
psychical nature cannot entirely correspond with space, I
nor enter perfectly into the categories of the understanding.
Is my own person, at a given moment, one or manifold?
If I declare it one, inner voices arise and protest — ^those
of the sensations, feelings, ideas, among which my in-
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
icmi^P^
dividuality is distributed. But, if I make it distinctly
manifold, my consciousness rebels quite as strongly; it
affirms that my sensations, my feelings, my thoughts
are abstractions which I effect on myself, and that each
of my states implies all the others. I am then (we must
adopt the language of the understanding, since only
the understanding has a language) a miity that is multiple
and a multiplicity that is one;' but unity and multiplicity
are only views of my personality taken by an understand-
ing that directs its categories at me; I enter neither into
one nor into the other nor into both at once, although
both, united, may give a fair imitation of the mutual
interpenetration and continuity that I find at the base of
my own self. Such is my inner life, and such also is life
in general. While, in its contact with matter, life is
comparable to an impulsion or an impetus, regarded in
itself it is an immensity of potentiality, a mutual encroach-
ment of thousands aad thousands of tendencies which
nevertheless are "thousands and thousands" only when
once regarded as outside of each other, that is, when
spatialized. Contact with matter is what determinea
this dissociation. Matter divides actually what was but
potentially manifold; and, in this sense, individuation
is in part the work of matter, in part the result of life's
own inclination. Thus, a poetic sentiment, which bursts
into distinct verses, lines and words, may be said to have
already contained thia multiplicity of individuated ele-
ments, and yet, in fact, it is the materiality of language
that creates it.
Thus, a poetic sentiment, which bursts
into distinct verses, lines and words, may be said to have
already contained thia multiplicity of individuated ele-
ments, and yet, in fact, it is the materiality of language
that creates it.
But through the words, lines and verses runs the simple
inspiration which is the whole poem. So, among the
'We have dwelt on this point in an article entitled "Introductkiii
k la mitaphyaique" [Itevue de milaphyiique el de morale, January, L9(KI,
pp. 1-25).
MEANING OF EVOLUTION
dissociated individuals, one life goes on moving: every-
where the tendency to individualize la opposed and at
the same time completed by an antagonistic and com-
plementary tendency to associate, as if the manifold
unity of Ufe, drawn in the direction of multiplicity, made
so much the more effort to withdraw itself on to itself.
A part is no sooner detached than it tends to reunite
itself, if not to all the rest, at least to what is nearest
to it. Hence, throughout the whole realm of life, a balanc-
ing between individuation and association. Individuals
join together into a society; but the society, as soon aa
formed, tends to melt the associated individuals into a new
organism, so as to become itself an individual, able in
its turr to be part and parcel of a new association. At the
lowest degree of the scale of organisms we already find
veritable associations, microbial colonies, and in these
associations, according to a recent work, a tendency to
individuate by the constitution of a nucleus." The same
tendency is met with again at a higher stage, in the proto-
phytes, which, once having quitted the parent cell by way of
division, remain united to each other by the gelatinous
substance that surrounds them — also in those protozoa
which begin by mingling their pseudopodia and end by
welding themselves together. The "colonial" theory
of the genesis of higher organisms is well known. The
protozoa, consisting of one single cell, are supposed to
have formed, by assemblage, aggregates which, relating
themselves together in their turn, have given rise to
aggregates of aggregates; so organisms more and more
complicated, and also more and ntore differentiated,
are bom of the association of organisms barely differ-
entiated and elementary." In this extreme form, the
' Cf , a paper written (in Russian) by Serkovski. and reviewed in the
Annie bioUrgique, 1898, p. 317.
Ed. Ferrier, La Coton-iea animalaa, Paris, 1867 (2ad edition).
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(CHAI^^^
and reviewed in the
Annie bioUrgique, 1898, p. 317.
Ed. Ferrier, La Coton-iea animalaa, Paris, 1867 (2ad edition).
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(CHAI^^^
theory is open to grave objections; more and more the
idea seema to be gaining ground, that polyzoism is an
exceptional and abnormal fact." But it is none the less
true that things happen as if every higher organism was
bora of an association of cells that have subdivided the
work between them. Very probably it is not the cells'
that have made the individual by means of association;
it is rather the individual that lias made the cells by means
of dissociation,' But this itself reveals to us, in the genesis
of the individual, a haunting of the social form, as if the
individual could develop only on the condition that its sub-
stance should be spHt up into elements ha\'ing themselves
an appearance of individuality and united among them-
selves by an appearance of sociahty. There are numerous
cases in which nature seems to hesitate between the two
forms, and to ask herself if she shall make a society or an
individual. The slightest push is enough, then, to make
the balance weigh on one side or the other. If we take
an infusorian sufficiently large, such as the Stentor, and
cut it into two halves each containing a part of the nu-
cleus, each of the two halves will generate an independent
Stentor; but if we divide it incompletely, so that a pro-
toplasmic communication is left between the two halves,
we shall see them execute, each from its side, correspond-
ing movements: so that in this case it is enough that a
thread should be maintained or cut in order that life
should affect the social or the individual form. Thus,
in rudimentary organisms consisting of a single cell, we
already find that the apparent individuahty of the whole
' Delage, L'HiridiU, Zud edition, Paris, 1903, p. 97. Cf. hy the SBmg
kutbor, ' ' La ConceptioD poIyzolQue des f tres" (Revue scwilijiquc, 1896,
pp. 641-653).
' This is the theory mointaiaed by KunBller, Delage, Sedgwick, L&bM,
etc. lie development, with bibUograpIiicut references, will be found hi
the work of Buaquet, Z.cs krea vivanl^, Paris, 1S0»,
is the composition of an undefined number of potential
individualities potentially associated. But, from top to
bottom of the series of living beings, the same law is mani-
fested. And it is this that we express when we say that
unity and multiplicity are categories of inert matter,
that the vital impetus is neither pure unity nor pure
multiplicity, and that if the matter to which it communi-
cates itself compels it to choose one of the two, its choice
will never be definitive: it will leap from one to the other .,
indefinitely. The evolution of life in the double direction
of individuality and association has therefore nothing
accidental about it: it is due to the very nature of hfe.
The evolution of life in the double direction
of individuality and association has therefore nothing
accidental about it: it is due to the very nature of hfe.
Essential also is the progress to reflextion. If our analysis
18 correct, it is consciousness, or rather supra-consciousness,
that is at the origin of life. Consciousness, or suprar
consciousness, is the name for the rocket whose extin-
guished fragments fall back as matter; consciousness,
again, is the name for that which subsists of the rocket
itself, passing through the fragments and lighting them
up into organisms. But this consciousness, which is a
need of creation, is made manifest to itself only where
creation is possible. It lies dormant when life is con-
demned to automatism; it wakens as soon as the possi-
bility of a choice is restored. That is why, in organisms
unprovided with a nervous system, it varies according
to the power of locomotion and of deformation of which
the organism disposes. And in animals with a nervous
system, it is proportional to the complexity of the switch-
board on which the paths called sensory and the paths
called motor mtersect — that is, of the brain. How must
this solidarity between the organism and consciousness
be understood?
We will not dwell here on a point that we have dealt
with in former works. Let us merely recall that a theory
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
How must
this solidarity between the organism and consciousness
be understood?
We will not dwell here on a point that we have dealt
with in former works. Let us merely recall that a theory
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
such as that according to which consciousness is attached
to certain neurons, and is thrown off from their work hke
a phosphorescence, may be accepted by the scientist for the
detail of analysis; it is a convenient mode of expression.
But it is nothing else. In reaUty, a hving being is a centre
of action. It represents a certain sum of contingency
entering into the world, that is to say, a certain quantity
of possible action — a quantity variable with individuals
and especially with species. The nervous system of
an animal marks out the flexible lines on which its action
will run (although the potential energy Ls accumulated
in the muscles rather than in the nervous system itself) ;
its nervous centres indicate, by their developmejit and their
configuration, the more or less extended choice it will
have among more or less numerous and compUcated
actions. Now, since the awakening ot consciousness in a
living creature is the more complete, the greater the
latitude of choice allowed to it and the larger the amount
of action bestowed upon it, it is clear that the development
of consciousness will appear to be dependent on that of
the nervous centres. On the other hand, every state of
consciousness being, in one aspect of it, a question put
to the motor activity and even the beginning of a reply,
there is no psychical event that does not imply the entry
into play of the cortical mechanisms. Everything seems,
therefore, to happen as if consciousness sprang from the
brain, and as if the detail of conscious activity were mod-
eled on that of the cerebral activity. In reality, conscious-
ness does not spring from the brain; but brain and con-
ficiousness correspond because equally they measure, the
one by the complexity of its structure and the other by
the intensity of its awareness, the quantity of clurice that
the living being has at its disposal.
It is precisely because a cerebral state expresses simply
m.i THE MEANING OF EVOLUTION 263
what there is of nascent actiori in the corresponding
psychical state, that the psychical state tells us more
than the cerebral state. The consciousness of a hving
being, as we have tried to prove elsewhere, is inseparable
from its brain in the sense in which a sharp knife is in-
separable from its edge: the brain is the sharp edge by
which consciousness cuts into the compact tissue of events,
but the brain is no more coextensive with consciousness
than the edge is with the knife. Thus, from the fact that
two brains, Hke that of the ape and that of the man, are
very much alike, we cannot conclude that the correspond-
ing consciousnesses are comparable or commensurable.
Thus, from the fact that
two brains, Hke that of the ape and that of the man, are
very much alike, we cannot conclude that the correspond-
ing consciousnesses are comparable or commensurable.
But the two brains may perhaps be less alike than
we suppose. How can we help being struck by the fact
that, while man is capable of learning any sort of exer-
cise, of constructing any sort of object, in short of ac-
quiring any kind of motor habit whatsoever, the faculty
of combining new movements is strictly limited in the
best-endowed animal, even in the ape? The cerebral
characteristic of man is there. The human brain is
made, like every brain, to set up motor mechanisms
and to enable us to choose among them, at any instant,
the one we shall put in motion by the pull of a trigger.
But it differs from other brains in this, that the number
of mechanisms it can set up, and consequently the choice
that it ^ves as to which among them shall be released,
is unlimited. Now, from the limited to the unlimited
there is all the distance between the closed and the open.
It is not a difference of degree, but of kind.
Radical therefore, also, is the difference between ani-
mal consciousness, even the most intelligent, and human
consciousness. For consciousness corresponds exactly to
the hving being's power of choice; it is co-extensive with
the fringe of possible action that surrounds the real action:
264 CRE.\TIVE EVOLUTION
For consciousness corresponds exactly to
the hving being's power of choice; it is co-extensive with
the fringe of possible action that surrounds the real action:
264 CRE.\TIVE EVOLUTION
consciousness is syTionymoiis with invention and with
freedom. Now, in tlie animal, invention is never any-
thing but a variation on the theme of routine. Shut up
in the habits of the species, it succeeds, no doubt, in en-
lar^g them by its individual initiative; but it escapes
automatism only for an instant, for just the time to create
a new automatism. Th« gates of its prison close as soon
as they are opened; by pulling at its chain it succeeds only
in stretching it. With man, consciousness breaks the
chain. In man, and in man alone, it sets itself free. The
whole history of life until man has been that of the effort of
consciousness to raise matter, and of the more or less com-
plete overwhelming of consciousness by the matter which
has fallen back on it. The enterprise was paradoxical,
if, indeed, we may speak here otherwise than by metaphor
of enterprise and of effort. It was to create with matter,
which is necessity itself, an instrument of freedom, to
make a machine which should triumph over mechanism,
end to use the determmism of nature to pass through
the meshes of the net which this very determinism had
spread. But, everj-where except in man, consciousness
has let itself be caught in the net whose meshes it tried
to pass through: it has remained the captive of the
mechanisms it has set up. Automatism, which it tries
to draw in the direction of freedom, winds about it and
drags it down. It has not the power to escape, because
the energy it has provided for acts is almost all employed
in maintaining the infinitely subtle and essentially unstable
equilibrium into which it has brought matter. But man
not only maintains his machine, he succeeds in using it as
he pleases. Doubtless he owes this to the superiority of
his brain, which enables him to build an unlimited number
of motor mechanisms, to oppose new habits to the old
ones unceasingly, and, by dividing automatism against
ON
265
But man
not only maintains his machine, he succeeds in using it as
he pleases. Doubtless he owes this to the superiority of
his brain, which enables him to build an unlimited number
of motor mechanisms, to oppose new habits to the old
ones unceasingly, and, by dividing automatism against
ON
265
itself, to nile it. He owes it to his language, which .
furnishes consciousness with an immaterial body in which .
to incarnate itseK and thus exempts it from dwelling
exclusively on material bodies, whose flux would soon
drag it along and finally swallow it up. He owes it to
social life, which stores and preserves efforts as language
stores thought, fixes thereby a mean level to which in-
dividuals must raise themselves at the outset, and by this
initial stimulation prevents the average man from slum-
bering and drives the superior man to mount still higher.
But our brain, our society, and our language are only the
external and various signs of one and the same internal
superiority. They tell, each after its manner, the unique,
exceptional success which life has won at a given moment
of its evolution. They express the difference of kind,
and not only of degree, which separates man from the rest
of the animal world. They let us guess that, while at the
end of the vast spring-board from which hfe has talien its
leap, all the others have stepped down, finding the cord
stretched too high, man alone has cleared the obstacle.
It is in tills quite special sense that man is the "term"
and the "end" of evolution. Life, we have said, transcends
finality as it transcends the other categories. It is es-
sentially a current sent through matter, drawing from it
what it can. There has not, therefore, properly speaking,
been any project or plan. On the other hand, it is abun-
dantly evident that the rest of nature is not for the sake of
man: we struggle hke the other species, we have struggled
against other species. Moreover, if the evolution of hfe
had encountered other accidents in its course, if, thereby,
the current of life had been otherwise divided, we should
have been, physically and morally, far different from what
we are. For these various reasons it would be wrong to
r^ard humanity, such as we have it before our eyes, as
266
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(CHAP.
pre-figured in the evolutionary movement. It cannot
even be said to be the outcome of the whole of evolution,
for evolution has been accomplished on several divergent
lines, and while the human species is at the end of one of
them, other Hnes have been followed with other species
at their end. It is in a quite different sense that we hold
humanity to be the ground of evolution.
It is in a quite different sense that we hold
humanity to be the ground of evolution.
From our point of view, life appears in its entirety
as an immense wave which, starting from a centre, spreads
outwards, and which on almost the whole of its circum-
ference is stopped and converted into oscillation: at one
single point the obstacle has been forced, the impulsion
has passed freely. It is this freedom that the human
form registers. Everj-where but in man, consciousness
has had to come to a stand; in man alone It has kept on
its way, Man, then, continues the vital movement in-
definitely, although he does not draw along with him all
that life carries in itself. On other lines of evolution there
have traveled other tendencies which life implied, and of
which, since everything interpenetrates, man has, doubt-
less, kept something, but of which he has kept only very
little. It is as if a vague and formless being, whom we may
coil, as we wUl, man or superman, had sought to realize
kiinself, and had succeeded only by abandoning a part of
himself on the way. The losses are represented by the rest
of the animal world, and even by the vegetable world,
at least in what these have that is positive and above the
accidents of evolution.
From this point of view, the discordances of which
nature offers us the sijcctacio are singularly weakened.
The organized world as a whole becomes as the soil on
which was to grow either man himself or a being who
morally must resemble him. The animals, however
distant they may be from our species, however hostile
m.i
THE MEANING OP EVOLUTION
267
to it, have none the less been useful traveling companions,
on whom consciousness has unloaded whatever encum-
brances it was dragging along, and who have enabled it to
rise, in man, to heights from which it sees an unlimited
horizon open again before it.
It is true that it has not only abandoned cumbersome
baggage on the way; it has also had to give up valuable
goods. Consciousness, in man, is pre-eminently intellect.
It might have been, it ought, so it seems, to have been
also intuition. Intuition and intellect represent two
opposite directions of the work of consciousness: intuition
goes in the very direction of life, intellect goes in the in-
verse direction, and thus finds itself naturally in accordance
with the movement of matter. A complete and perfect
humanity would be that in which these two forms of con-
scious activity should attain their full development. And,
between this humanity and ours, we may conceive any
number of possible stages, corresponding to all the degrees
imaginable of inteJIigence and of intuition. In this
hes the part of contingency in the mental structure of
our species. A different evolution might have led to
a humanity either more intellectual still or more intuitive.
In the humanity of which we are a part, intuition is, in
fact, almost completely sacrificed to intellect. It seems
that to conquer matter, and to reconquer its own self,
consciousness has had to exhaust the beat part of its power.
This conquest, in the particular conditions in which it has
been accompUshed, has required that consciousness should
adapt itself to the habits of matter and concentrate all
its attention on them, in fact determine itself more espe-
cially as intellect. Intuition is there, however, but vague
and above all discontinuous. It is a lamp almost ex-
tinguished, which only glimmers now and then, for a few
momenta at most. But it glimmers wherever a vital
interest is at stake. On our personality, on our litierty,
on the place we occupy in the wliole of nature, on our
origin and perhaps also on our destiny, it throws a light
feeble and vacillating, but which none the less pierces the
darkness of the night in which the intellect leaves ua.
These fleeting intuitions, which hght up their object
only at distant intervals, philosophy ought to seize, first
to sustain them, then to expand them and so unite them
together. The more it advances in this work, the more
will it perceive that intuition is mind itself, and, in a certain
sense, life itself: the intellect has been cut out of it by a
process resembling that which has generated matter.
Thus is revealed the unity of the spiritual hfe. We recog-
nize it only when we place ourselves in uituition in order
to go from intuition to the intellect, for from the intellect
we shall never pass to intuition.
Thus is revealed the unity of the spiritual hfe. We recog-
nize it only when we place ourselves in uituition in order
to go from intuition to the intellect, for from the intellect
we shall never pass to intuition.
Philosophy introduces us thus into the spiritual life.
And it shows us at the saine time the relation of the hfe
of the spirit to that of the body. The great error of the
doctrines on the spirit has been the idea that by isolating
the spiritual life from all the rest, by suspending it in space
as high as possible above the earth, they were placing it
beyond attack, as if they were not thereby simply exposing
it to be taken as an effect of mirage! Certainly they are
right to listen to conscience when conscience afhrmg human
freedom; but the intellect is there, which says that the
cause determines its effect, that like conditions like, that
all is repeated and that all is given. They are right to
believe in the absolute reality of the person and in his
independence toward matter; but science is there, which
shows the interdependence of conscious life and cerebral
activity. They are right to attribute to man a privileged
place in nature, to hold that the distance is infinite be-
tween the animal and man; but the history of life is there,
r
in.] THE MEANING OF EVOLUTION
They are right to attribute to man a privileged
place in nature, to hold that the distance is infinite be-
tween the animal and man; but the history of life is there,
r
in.] THE MEANING OF EVOLUTION
wluch makes us witness the genesis of species by gradual
transfonnation, and seems thus to reintegrate man in anl-
mality- When a strong instinct assures the probability
of personal survival, they are right not to close their ears
to its voice; but if there exist "souls" capable of an in-
dependent hfe, whence do they come? When, how and
why do they enter into this body which we see arise,
quite naturally, from a mixed cell derived from the bodies
of its two parents? All these questions will remain un-
answered, a philosophy of intuition will be a negation
of science, will be sooner or later swept away by science,
if it does not resolve to see the life of the body just where
it really is, on the road that leads to the life of the spirit.
But it will then no longer have to do with definite living
beings. Life as a whole, from the initial impulsion that
thrust it into the world, will appear as a wave which rises,
and which is opposed by the descending movement of
matter. On the greater part of its surface, at different
heights, the current is converted by matter into a vortex.
At one point alone it passes freely, dragging with it the
obstacle which will weigh on its progress but will not stop
it. At this point is humanity ; it is our privileged situation.
On the other hand, this rising wave is consciousness,
and, like all consciousness, it includes potentialities with-
out number which interpenetrate and to which con-
sequently neither the category of unity nor that of multi-
plicity is appropriate, made as they both are for inert
matter. The matter that it beara along with it, and in
the interstices of which it inserts itself, alone can divide
it into distinct individualities. On flows the current,
r unni ng through human generations, subdividing itself
into individuals. This subdivision was vaguely indicated
in it, but could not have been made clear without matter.
Thus souls are continually being created, which, never-
270 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
On flows the current,
r unni ng through human generations, subdividing itself
into individuals. This subdivision was vaguely indicated
in it, but could not have been made clear without matter.
Thus souls are continually being created, which, never-
270 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
theless, in a certain seOBe pre-existed. They are DOthing
else than the little rills into which the great river of life
divides itself, flowing through the body of humanity.
The movement of the stream is distinct from the river bed,
although it must adopt its winding course. Consciousness
is distinct from the organism it animates, although it
must undergo its vicissitudes. As the possible actions
which a state of consciousness indicates are at every
instant beginning to be carried out in the nervous centres,
the brain underlies at every instant the motor indications
of the state of consciousness; but the interdependency of
consciousness and brain is limited to this; the destiny
of consciousness is not bound up on that account with the
destiny of cerebral matter. Finally, consciousness is
essentially free; it is freedom itself; but it cannot pass
through matter without settling on it, without adapting
itself to it: this adaptation is what we call intellectuality;
and the intellect, turning itself back toward active, that
is to say free, consciousness, naturally makes it enter into
the conceptual forms into which it is accustomed to see
matter fit. It will therefore always perceive freedom
in the form of necessity; it will always neglect the part
of novelty or of creation inherent in the free act; it will
always substitute for action itself an imitation artificial,
approximative, obtained by compounding the old with the
old and the same with the same. Thus, to the eyes of a
philosophy that attempts to reabsorb intellect in intuition,
many difficulties vanish or become light. But such a
doctrine does not only facilitate speculation; it gives ua
also more power to act and to live. For, with it, we feel
ourselves no longer isolated in humanity, humanity no
longer seems isolated in the nature that it dominates.
As the smallest grain of dust is bound up with our entire
solar system, drawn along with it in that undivided move-
ni.i THE MEANING OF EVOLUTION 271
ment of descent which is materiality itself, so all organized
beings, from the humblest to the highest, from the first
origins of life to the time in which we are, and in all places
as in all times, do but evidence a single impulsion, the
inverse of the movement of matter, and in itself indivisible.
All the living hold together, and all yield to the same
tremendous push. The animal takes its stand on the
plant, man bestrides animality, and the whole of humanity,
in space and in time, is one immense army galloping beside
and before and behind each of us in an overwhelming
charge able to beat down every resistance and clear the
most formidable obstacles, perhaps even death.
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER IV
THE CINEMATOGRAPHICAL MECHANISM OF THOUGHT AND
THE MECH.^iSTlG ILLUSION — A GLANCE AT THE
HISTORY OP aVSTEMS' — REAL BECOMING AND FAl ~
EVOLUTIONISM.
It remains for us to examine in themselves two theoretical
illusions which we have frequently met with before, but
whose consequences rather than principle have hitherto
concerned us. Such is the object of the present chapter.
It will afford us the opportunity of removing certain
objections, of clearing up certain misunderstandings,
and, above all, of defining more precisely, by contrasting
it with others, a philosophy which sees in duration the very
stuff of roaJity.
Matter or mind, reality has appeared to us as a per-
petual becoming. It makes itself or it unmakes itself,
but it is never something made. Such is the intuition
that we have of mind when wc draw aside the veil which is
interposed between our consciousness and ourselves.
This, also, is what our intellect and senses themselves
would show us of matter, if they could obtain a direct
and disinterested idea of it. But, preoccupied before
everything with the necessities of action, the intellect,
' The port of Uiis cliapter which treats of the history of Bj'Btems. par-
ticularly of the Greek philoaophy, is only the very auucinct rSsum^ of
views that we developed nt length, from 1000 to 1604, ia our lectuna
at the College de France, especially in & course on the Hitlory oj Hit
Idta 0/ Time (ig02-l!>03). W« then compared tho niechaaism of con-
ceptual thought to that of the cinematograph. We believe the com*
pBiuoQ wiU be useful here.
272
like the senses, is limited to taking, at intervals, views
that are instantaneous and by that very fact immobile
of the becoming of niatter. Consciousness, being in its
turn formed on the intellect, sees clearly of the inner life
what ia already made, and only feels confusedly the making.
Thus, we pluck out of duration those moments that interest
us, and that we have gathered along its course. These
alone we retain. And we are right in so doing, while
action only is in question. But when, in speculating on
the nature of the real, we go on regarding it as our practi-
cal interest requires us to regard it, we become unable to
perceive the true evolution, the radical becoming. Of
becoming we perceive only states, of duration only in-
stants, and even when we speak of duration and of becom-
ing, it is of another thing that we are thinking. Such is
the most striking of the two illusions we wish to examine.
It consists in supposing that we can think the unstable
by means of the stable, the moving by means of the im-
mobile.
Such is
the most striking of the two illusions we wish to examine.
It consists in supposing that we can think the unstable
by means of the stable, the moving by means of the im-
mobile.
The other illusion is near akin to the first. It has the
Bame origin, being also due to the fact that we import
into speculation a procedure made for practice. All
action aims at getting something that we feel the want of,
or at creating something that does not yet exist. In this
very special sense, it fills a void, and goes from the empty
to the full, from an absence to a presence, from the unreal
to the real. Now the unreality which is here in question
is purely relative to the direction in which our attention
is engaged, for we are immersed in reahties and cannot
pass out of them; only, if the present reality is not the
one we are seeking, we speak of the absence of this sought-
for reality wherever we find the -presence of another. We
thus express what we have as a function of what we want.
This is quite legitimate in the sphere of action. But,
274 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
whether we will or no, we keep to this way of speaking,
and also of thinking, when we speculate on the nature
of things independently of the interest they have for
us. Thus arises the second of the two illusions. We
propose to examine this first. It is due, like the other,
to the static habits that our intellect contracts when it
prepares our action on things. Just as we pass through
the immobile to go to the moving, so we make use of
the void in order to think the full.
We have met with this illusion already in dealing with
the fundamental problem of knowledge. The question,
we then said, is to know why there is order, and not dis-
order, in things. But the question has meaning only if
we suppose that disorder, understood as an absence of
order, is possible, or imaginable, or conceivable. Now,
it is only order that is real; but, as order can take two
forms, and as the presence of the one may be said to consist
in the absence of the other, we speak of disorder whenever
we have before us that one of the two orders for which
we are not looking. The idea of disorder is then entirely
practical. It corresponds to the disappointment of a.
certain expectation, and it does not denote the absence
of all order, but only the presence of that order which does
not offer us actual interest. So that whenever we try to
deny order completely, absolutely, we find that we are leap-
ing from one kind of order to the other indefinitely, and
that the supposed suppression of the one and the other
implies the presence of the two. Indeed, if we go on,
and persist in shutting our eyes to this movement of the
mind and all it involves, we are no longer dealing with an
idea; all that is left of disorder is a word. Thus the
problem of knowledge is complicated, and possibly made
insoluble, by the idea that order fills a void and that its
actual presence is superposed on its virtual absence. We
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
276
Thus the
problem of knowledge is complicated, and possibly made
insoluble, by the idea that order fills a void and that its
actual presence is superposed on its virtual absence. We
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
276
go from absence to presence, from the void to the full, in
virtue of the fundamental illusion of our understaDding.
That 13 the error of which we noticed one consequence in
our last chapter. As we then anticipated, we must come
to close quarters with this error, and finally grapple with
it. We must face it in itself, in the radically false con-
ception which it implies of negation, of the void and of the
nought.'
Philosophers have paid little attention to the idea
of the nought. And yet it is often the hidden spring,
the invisible mover of philosophical thinking. From
the first awakening of reflection, it is this that pushes
to the fore, right under the eyes of consciousness, the
torturing problems, the questions that we cannot gaze
at without feeling giddy and bewildered. I have no
sooner commenced to philosophize than I ask myself
why I exist; and when I take account of the intimate
connection in which I stand to the rest of the universe,
the difficulty is only pushed back, for I want to know
why the universe exists; and if I refer the universe to a
Principle immanent or transcendent that supports it or
creates it, my thought rests on this principle only a few
moments, for the same problem recurs, this time in its
full breadth and generality: Whence comes it, and how
can it be understood, that anything exists? Even here, in
the present work, when matter has be^n defined as a kind
of descent, this descent as the interruption of a rise, this
rise itself as a growth, when finally a Principle of creation
has been put at the base of things, the same question
springs up: How — why does this principle exist rather
than nothing?
Now, if I push these questions aside and go straight
> The SDAlyBia of the idea of the nought which we give here (pp. 275-
398} baa Appeared before in the Eeime phiiosopMque (November 1006).
276
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Now, if I push these questions aside and go straight
> The SDAlyBia of the idea of the nought which we give here (pp. 275-
398} baa Appeared before in the Eeime phiiosopMque (November 1006).
276
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
to what hides behind them, this is what I Qnd: — Exist-
ence appears to me like a conquest over nought. I say
to myself that there might be, that indeed there ought to
be, nothing, and I then wonder that there is something.
Or I represent all reality extended on nothing as on a
carpet: at first was nothing, and being has come by super-
addition to it. Or, yet again, if something has always
existed, nothing must always have served as its substratum
or receptacle, and is therefore eternally prior. A glass
may have always been full, but the liquid it contains never^
theless fills a void. In the same way, being may have
always been there, but the nou^t which is filled, and, as
it were, stopped up by it, pre-exists for it none the less, if
not in fact at least in right. In short, I cannot get rid of
the idea that the full is an embroidery on the canvas
of the void, that being is superimposed on nothing, and
that in the idea of "nothing" there is less than in that of
"something." Hence all the mystery,
It is necessary that this mystery should be cleared up.
It is more espiecially necessary, if we put duration and
free choice at the base of things. For the disdain of
metaphysics for all reality that endures comes precisely
from this, that it reaches being only by passing through
"not-being," and that an existence which endures seems
to it not strong enough to conquer non-existence and itself
posit itself. It is for this reason especially that it is in-
clined to endow true being with a logical, and not a psy-
chological nor a physical existence. For the nature of a
purely logical existence ia such that it seems to be self-
sufficient and to posit itself by the effect alone of the force
immanent in truth. If I ask myself why bodies or minds
exist rather than nothing, I find no answer; but that a
logical principle, such aa A = A, should have the power
of creating itself, triumphing over the nought through-
F
out eten
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
277
I
I
If I ask myself why bodies or minds
exist rather than nothing, I find no answer; but that a
logical principle, such aa A = A, should have the power
of creating itself, triumphing over the nought through-
F
out eten
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
277
I
I
out eternity, seems to me natural. A circle drawn with
chalk on a blackboard is a thing which needs explanation:
this entirely physical existence has not by itself where-
with to vanquish non-existence. But the " logical essence"
of the circle, that is to say, the possibility of drawing it
according to a certain law — in short, its definition — is a
thing which appears to me eternal: it has neither place
nor date; for nowhere, at no moment, has the drawing
of a circle begun to be possible. Suppose, then, that the
principle on which all things reat, and which all things
manifest possesses an existence of the same nature as that
of the definition of the circle, or as that of the axiom
A=A: the mystery of existence vanishes, for the being
that is at the base of everything posits itself then in eternity,
as logic itself does. True, it will cost us rather a heavy
sacrifice: if the principle of all things exists after the
manner of a logical axiom or of a mathematical defini-
tion, the things themselves must go forth from this principle
like the applications of an axiom or the consequences of a
definition, and there will no longer be place, either in the
things nor in their principle, for efficient causaUty under-
stood in the sense of a free choice. Such are precisely
the conclusions of a doctrine like that of Spinoza, or even
that of Leibniz, and such indeed has been their genesis.
Now, if we could prove that the idea of the nought,
in the sense in which we take it when we oppose it to
that of existence, is a pseudo-idea, the problems that are
raised around it would become pseudo-problems. The
hypothesis of an absolute that acts freely, that in an
eminent sense endures, would no longer raise up intel-
lectual prejudices. The road would be cleared for a
philosophy more nearly approaching intuition, and which
would no longer ask the same sacrifices of common
278
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lOH^^^^
Let us then see what we are thinking about when we
speak of "Nothing." To represent "Nothing," we must
either imagine it or conceive it. Let us examine what
this image or this idea may be. First, the image.
Let us examine what
this image or this idea may be. First, the image.
I am going to close my eyes, stop my ears, extinguish
one by one the sensations that come to me from the outer
world. Now it is done; all my perceptions vanish, the
material universe sinks into silence and the night. — I
subsist, however, and cannot help myself subsisting. I
am still there, with the organic sensations which come to
me from the surface and from the interior of my body,
with the recollections which my past perceptions have
left behind them — nay, with the impression, most positive
and full, of the void I have just made about me. How can
I suppress all this? How eliminate myself? I can even,
it may be, blot out and forget my recollections up to my
immediate past; but at least I keep the consciousness
of my present reduced to its extremest poverty, that is to
say, of the actual state of my body. I will try, however,
to do away even with this consciousness itself. I will
reduce more and more the sensations my body sends in to
me: now they are almost gone; now they are gone, they
have disappeared in the night where all things else have
already died away. But no! At the very instant that
my consciousness is extinguished, another consciousness
hghts up — or rather, it was already alight : it had arisen
the instant before, in order to witness the extinction of the
first; for the first could disappear only for another and
in the presence of another. I see myself annihilated only
if I have already resuscitated myself by an act which is
positive, however involuntary and unconscious. So, do
what I will, I am always perceiving something, either from
without or from within. When I no longer know anything
of external objects, it is because I have taken refuge in
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
279
the consciousness that I have of myself. If I abolish this
inoer self, its very abolition becomes an object for an
imaginary self which now perceives as an external object
the self that is dying away. Be it external or internal,
some object there always is that my imagination is repre-
senting. My imagination, it is true, can go from one to
the other, I can by turns imagine a nought of external
perception or a nought of internal perception, but not both
at once, for the absence of one consists, at bottom, in the
exclusive presence of the other. But, from the fact that
two relative noughts are imaginable in turn, we wrongly
conclude that they are imaginable together; a conclusion
the absurdity of which must be obvious, for we cannot
imagine a nought without percei\ing, at least confusedly,
that we are imagining it, consequently that we are acting,
that we are thinldng, and therefore that something still
subsists.
The image, then, properly so called, of a suppression
of everything is never formed by thought. The effort
by which we strive to create this image simply ends in
making us swing to and fro between the vision of an outer
and that of an inner reality. In this coming and going
of our mind between the without and the within, there ia
a point, at equal distance from both, in which it seems to
us that we no longer perceive the one, and that we do not
yet perceive the other: it is there that the image of
"Nothing" is formed. In reality, we then perceive both,
having reached the point where the two terms come to-
gether, and the image of Nothing, so defined, is an image
full of things, an image that includes at once that of the
subject and that of the object and, besides, a perpetual
leaping from one to the other and the refusal ever to come
to rest finally on either. Evidently this is not the nothing
that we can oppose to beings and put before or be-
280 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
neath being, for it already includes existence in general.
But we shall be told that, if the representation of Noth-
ing, visible or latent, entera into the reasonings of philoso-
phers, it is not as an image, but as an idea. It may be
agreed that we do not imagine the annihilation of every-
thing, but it will be claimed that we can conceive it. We
conceive a polygon with a thousand sides, said Descartes,
although we do not see it in imagination: it is enough that
we can clearly represent the possibility of constructing it.
So with the idea of the annihilation of everything. Noth-
ing simpler, it will be said, than the procedure by which
we construct the idea of it. There is, in fact, not a single
object of our experience that we cannot suppose annihilate'l.
Extend this annihilation of a first object to a second,
then to a third, and so on as long as you please: the nought
is the limit toward which the operation tends. And the
nought so defined is the annihilation of everything. That
is the theory. We need only consider it in this form to see
the absurdity it involves.
An idea constructed by the mind is an idea only if
its pieces are capable of coexisting; it is reduced to a
mere word if the elements that wo bring together to com-
pose it are driven away as fast as we a.ssemble thera.
When I have defined the circle, I easily represent a black
or a white circle, a circle in cardboard, iron, or brass, a
transparent or an opaque circle — but not a square circle,
because the law of the generation of the circle excludes
the possibihty of defining this figure with straight lines.
So my mind can represent any existing thing whatever
as annihilated; — but if the annihilation of anything by
the mind is an operation whose mechanism implies that it
works on a part of the whole, and not on the whole itself,
then the extension of such an operation to the totahty
of things becomes self-contradictory and absurd, and the
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
28t
idea of an annihilation of everything presents the same
character as that of a square circle: it is not an idea, it
is only a word. So let us examine more closely the
mechanism of the operation.
In fact, the object suppressed is either external or
internal: it is a thing or it is a state of consciousness.
Let U3 consider the first case. I annihilate in thought
an external object: in the place where it was, there is
no longer anything. — No longer anything of that object,
of course, but another object has taken its place: there is
no absolute void in nature. But admit that an absolute
void ia possible : it is not of that void that I am thinking
when I say that the object, once annihilated, leaves its
place unoccupied; for by the hypothesis it is a place, that
is s void limited by precise outlines, or, in other words, a
kind of thing. The void of which I speak, therefore, is, at
bottom, only the absence of some definite object, which
was here at first, is now elsewhere and, in so far as it is no
longer in its former place, leaves behind it, so to speak, the
void of itself. A being unendowed with memory or
prevision would not use the words "void" or "nought;"
he would express only what is and what is perceived;
now, what is, and what is perceived, is the presence of
one thing or of another, never the absence of anything.
There is absence only for a being capable of remem-
bering and expecting. He remembered an object, and
perhaps expected to encounter it again; he finds another,
and he expresses the disappointment of his expectation
(an expectation sprung from recollection) by saying that
he no longer finds anything, that he encounters "nothing."
Even if he did not expect to encounter the object, it is a
possible expectation of it, it is still the fabitication of his
eventual expectation that he expresses by saying that the
object is no longer where it was. What he perceives in
282 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
reality, what he will succeed in effectively thinking of,
is the presence of the old object in a new place or that of a
new object in the old place; the rest, all that is expressed
negatively by such words as "nought" or the "void," is
not so much thought as feeling, or, to speak more exactly,
it is the tinge that feeling gives to tliought. The idea
of annihilation or of partial nothingness is therefore
formed here in the course of the substitution of one
thing for another, whenever this substitution is thought
by a mind that would prefer to keep the old thing in
the place of the new, or at least conceives this prefer-
ence as possible. The idea imphes on the subjective
side a preference, on the objective side a substitution,
and is nothing else but a combination of, or rather an
interference between, this feehng of preference and tins
idea of substitution.
The idea imphes on the subjective
side a preference, on the objective side a substitution,
and is nothing else but a combination of, or rather an
interference between, this feehng of preference and tins
idea of substitution.
Such is the mechanism of the operation by which our
mind annihilates an object and succeeds in represent-
ing in the external world a partial nought. Let us now
see how it represents it within itself. We find in our-
selves phenomena that are produced, and not phenomena
that are not produced. I experience a sensation or an
emotion, I conceive an idea, I form a resolution: my
consciousness perceives these facts, which are bo many
presences, and there is no moment in which facts of this
kind are not present to me. I can, no doubt, interrupt
by thought the course of my inner life; I may suppose
that I sleep without dreaming or that I have ceased to
exist; but at the very instant when I make this suppoa-
tion, I conceive myself, I imagine myself watching over my
slumber or surviving my annihilation, and I give up per-
ceiving myself from within only by taking refuge in the
perception of myself from without. That is to say that
here again the full always succeeds the full, and that an
rr.i
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
283
intelligence that was only intelligence, that had neither
regret nor desire, whose movement was governed by
the movement of ita object, could not even conceive an
absence or a void. The conception of a void arises
here when consciousness, lagging beliind itself, remains
attached to the recollection of an old state when another
state is already present. It is only a comparison be-
tween what is and what could or ought to be, between
the full and the full. In a word, whether it be a void of
matter or a void of consciousness, the representation of
the void is always a representaticm which is full and which
resolves itself on analysis ivio two positive elements: the idea,
distinct or confused, of a substitution, and the feeling, ex-
perienced or imagined, of a desire or a regret.
It follows from this double analysis that the idea of
the absolute nought, in the sense of the annihilation of
everything, is a self-destructive idea, a pseudo-idea, a
mere word. If suppressing a tiling consists in replacing
it by another, if thinking the absence of one thing is
only possible by the more or less explicit representation
of the presence of some other tiling, if, in short, anni-
hilation signifies before anything else substitution, the
idea of an "annihilation of everytliing" is as absurd as
that of a square circle. The absurdity is not obvious,
because there exists no particular object that cannot be
supposed anniiulated; then, from the fact that there is
nothing to prevent each tiling in turn Ijeing suppressed in
thought, we conclude that it ia possible to suppose them sup-
pressed altogether. We do not see that suppressing each
thing in turn consists precisely in replacing it in proportion
and degree by another, and therefore tliat the suppression
of absolutely everything impliea a downright contradic-
tion in terms, since the operation consists in destroy-
ing the very condition tliat makes the operation possible.
284
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
lOHi^^^
But the illusion is tenacious. Though suppressing
one thing consists in fact in substituting another for it,
we do not conclude, we are unwilling to conclude, that
the annihilation of a thing in thought iraphes the sub-
stitution in thought of a new thing for the old. We
agree that a thing is always replaced by another thing,
and even that our mind cannot think the disappearance
of an object, external or internal, without thinking —
under an indeterminate and confused form, it is true —
that another object is substituted for it. But we add
that the representation of a disappearance is that of a
phenomenon that is produced in space or at least in time,
that consequently it still implies the calling up of an
image, and that it is precisely here that we have to free
ourselves from the imagination in order to appeal to
the pure understanding. "Let us therefore no longer
speak," it will be said, "of disappearance or annihilation;
these are physical operations. Let us no longer repre-
sent the object A as annihilated or absent. Let us say
simply that we think it "non-existent." To annihilate
it is to act on it in time and perhaps also in space; it
is to accept, consequently, the condition of spatial and
temporal existence, to accept the universal connection
that binds an object to all others, and prevents it from
disappearing without being at the same time replaced.
But we can free ourselves from these conditions; all
that is necessary is that by an effort of abstraction we
should call up the idea of the object A by itself, that
we should agree first to consider it as existing, and then,
by a stroke of the intellectual pen, blot out the clause.
The object will then be, by our decree, non-existent."
The object will then be, by our decree, non-existent."
Very well, let us strike out the clause. We must
not suppose that our pen-stroke is self-sufficient — that
U can be isolated from the rest of things. We shall see
IT.I
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
that it carries with it, whether we will or no, all that we
tried to abstract from. Let us compare together the two
ideas — the object A supposed to exist, and the same
object supposed " non-existent."
The idea of the object A, supposed existent, is the
representation pure and simple of the object A, for we
cannot represent an object without attributing to it,
by the very fact of representing it, a certain reality. Be-
tween thinking an object and thinking it existent, there
is absolutely no difference. Kant has put this point
in clear light in his criticism of the ontological argument.
Then, what is it to think the object A non-existent? To
represent it non-existent cannot consist in withdrawing
from the idea of the object A the idea of the attribute
"existence," since, I repeat, the representation of the
existence of the object Is inseparable from the representation
of the object, and indeed is one with it. To represent the
object A non-existent can only consist, therefore, in adding
something to the idea of this object: we add to it, in
fact, the idea of an exclusion of this particular object by
actual reality in general. To think the object A as non-
existent is first to think the object and consequently to
think it existent; it is then to think that another reabty,
with which it is incompatible, supplants it. Only, it is
useless to represent this latter reality explicitly; we are
not concerned with what it is; it is enough for us to know
that it drives out the object A, which alone is of interest
to us. That is why we think of the expulsion rather than
of the cause which expels. But this cause is none the
less present to the mind; it is there in the implicit state,
that which expels being inseparable from the expulsion
as the hand which drives the pen is inseparable from the
pen-stroke. The act by which we declare an object
unreal therefore posits the existence of the real in general.
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
The act by which we declare an object
unreal therefore posits the existence of the real in general.
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
In other words, to represent an object as unreal cannot
consist in depriving it of every kind of existence, since the
representation of an object is necessarily that of the object
existing. Such an act consists simply in declaring that the
existence attached by our mind to the object, and in-
separable from its representation, is an existence wholly
ideal — that of a mere possible. But the "ideality" of an
object, and the "simple possibility" of an object, have
meaning only in relation to a reality that drives into the
region of the ideal, or of the merely possible, the object
which is incompatible with it. Suppose the stronger and
more substantial existence annihilated: it is the attenuated
and weaker existence of the merely possible that becomes
the reality itself, and you will no longer be representing
the object, then, as non-existent. In other words, and
however strange our assertion may seem, there is more,
and not less, in the idea of an object conceived as "not exist-
ing" than in the idea of this saine abject conceived as "existr-
ing"; for the idea of the object "n^t existing" is necessariiy
the idea of the object "existing" vjith, in addition, the repre-
sentation of an exclusion of this c^ject by the actual realUy
taken in block.
But it will be claimed that our idea of the non-existent
is not yet sufficiently cut loose from every imaginative
element, that it is not negative enough. "No matter,"
we shall be told, "though the unreality of a thing consist
in its exclusion by other things; we want to know nothing
about that. Are we not free to direct our attention where
we please and how we please? Well then, after having
called up the idea of an object, and thereby, if you will
have it so, supposed it existent, we shall merely couple
to our affirmation a ' not,' and that will be enough to make
U3 think it non-existent. This is an operation entirely
intellectual, independent of what happens outside the
nr.i
THE roEA OF 'NOTHING'
2S7
This is an operation entirely
intellectual, independent of what happens outside the
nr.i
THE roEA OF 'NOTHING'
2S7
mind. So let us think of anything or let us tlunk of the
totality of things, and then write in the margin of our
thought the 'not,' which prescribes the rejection of what it
contains: we annihilate everything mentally by the
mere fact of decreeing its annihilation."— Here we have
it! The very root of all the difficulties and errors with
which we are confronted is to be found in the power ascribed
here to negation. We represent negation as exactly
symmetrical with affirmation. We imagine that negation,
like affirmation, is self-sufficient. So that negation, like
affirmation, would have the power of creating ideas, with
this sole difference that they would be negative ideas.
By affirming one thing, and then another, and so on ad
infinitum, I form the idea of "All;" so, by denying one
thing and then other things, finally by denying AH, I
arrive at the idea of Nothing.— But it is just this assimila-
tion which is arbitrary. We fail to see that while affirma-
tion is a complete act of the mind, which can succeed in
building up an idea, negation is but the half of an intel-
lectual act, of which the other half is understood, or rather
put off to an indefinite future. We fail to see that while
affirmation is a purely intellectual act, there enters into
negation an element which is not intellectual, and that it
is precisely to the intrusion of this foreign element that
negation owes its specific character.
To begin with the second point, let ua note that to
deny always consists in setting aside a possible affirmsr
tion." Negation is only an attitude taken by the mind
toward an eventual affirmation. When I say, " This
table is black," I am speaking of the table; I have seen
'Kant, Critique of Pure Reason. 2nd edition, p. 727: "From the point
of view of our knowledge la general . . . the pec^uliar function of
negative propoisitionB ia simply U> prevent error." Ct. Sigwart, Loi/ik,
2nd edition, vol. i. pp. ISO ff.
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
2nd edition, p. 727: "From the point
of view of our knowledge la general . . . the pec^uliar function of
negative propoisitionB ia simply U> prevent error." Ct. Sigwart, Loi/ik,
2nd edition, vol. i. pp. ISO ff.
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
it black, and my judgment expresses what I have seen.
But if I say, "This table is not white," I surely do not
express something I have perceived, for I have seen black,
and not an absence of white. It is therefore, at bottom,
not on the table itself that I bring this judgment to bear,
but rather on the judgment that would declare the table
white. I judge a judgment and not the table, The
proposition, "This table is not white," implies that you
might beheve it white, that you did believe it such, or that
I was going to believe it such. I warn you or myself that
this judgment is to be replaced by another (which, it is
true, I leave undetermined). Thus, while affirmation
bears directly on the thing, negation aims at the thing only
indirectly, through an interposed affirmation. An affirma^
tive proposition expresses a judgment on an object; a
negative proposition expresses a judgment on a judgment,
Negaiion, therefore, differs from ajjirmation properly so
called in that it is an affirmation of the second degree:
it affirms something of an affirmation which itself affirms
something of an object.
But it follows at once from this that negation is not
the work of pure mind, I should say of a mind placed
before objects and concerned with them alone. When
we deny, we give a lesson to others, or it may be to our-
selves. We take to task an interlocutor, real or possible,
whom we find mistaken and whom we put on his guard.
He was afiinning something: we tell him he ought to
affirm something else (though without specifying the
affirmatioQ which must be substituted). There is no
longer then, simply, a person and an object; there is,
in face of the object, a person speaking to a person, oppos-
ing him and aiding him at the same time; there is a be-
ginnin g of society. Negation aims at some one, and not
only, like a purely intellectual operation, at some thing.
r
I
I
iT-l THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING' 289
It is of a pedagogical and social nature. It sets straight
or rather warns, the person warned and set straight being
possibly, by a kind of doubling, the very person that
apeaka.
r
I
I
iT-l THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING' 289
It is of a pedagogical and social nature. It sets straight
or rather warns, the person warned and set straight being
possibly, by a kind of doubling, the very person that
apeaka.
So much for the second point; now for the first. We
said that negation is but the half of an intellectual act,
of which the other half is left indeterminate. If I pro-
nounce the negative proposition, "This table is not white,"
I mean that you ought to substitute for your judgment,
"The table is white," another judgment. I give you an
admonition, and the admonition refera to the necessity
of a substitution. As to what you ought to substitute
for your affirmation, I tell you nothing, it is true. This
may be because I do not know the color of the table;
but it is also, it is indeed even more, because the white
color is that alone that interests us for the moment, so that I
only need to tell you that some other color will have to be
substituted for white, without having to say which. A
negative judgment is therefore really one which indicates
a need of substituting for an affirmative judgment another
affirmative judgment, the nature of which, however, is
not specified, sometimes because it is not known, more
often because it fails to offer any actual interest, the
attention bearing only on the substance of the first.
Thus, whenever I add a " not" to an affirmation, when-
ever I deny, I perform two very definite acts: (!) I interest
myself in what one of my fellow-men affirms, or in what he
was going to say, or in what might have been said by an-
other Me, whom I anticipate; (2) I announce that some
other affirmation, whose content I do not specify, will
have to be substituted for the one I find before me. Now,
in neither of these two acts ia there anj-thing but affirma-
tion. The sui generis character of negation is due to
superimposing the first of these acts upon the second.
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[OHAP.
^
It is in vain, then, that we attribute to negation the power
of creating ideas sui generis, symmetrical with those that
affirmation creates, and directed in a contrary sense. No
idea will come forth from negation, for it has no other
content than that of the affirmative judgment which it
judges.
No
idea will come forth from negation, for it has no other
content than that of the affirmative judgment which it
judges.
To be more precise, let us consider an existential, in-
stead of an attributive, judgment. If I say, "The object
A does not exist," I mean by that, first, that we might
beheve that the object A exists: how, indeed, can we think
of the object A without thinking it existing, and, once
again, what difference can there be between the idea of
the object A existing and the idea pure and simple of the
object A? Therefore, merely by saying "The object A,"
I attribute to it some kind of existence, though it be that
of a mere possible, that is to say, of a pure idea. And
consequently, in the judgment "The object A is not,"
there is at first an affirmation such as "The object A has
been," or "The object A will be," or, more generally,
"The object A exists at least as a mere possible." Now,
when I add the two words " is not," I can only mean that
if we go further, if we erect the possible object into a real
object, we shall be mistaken, and that the possible of which
I am speaking is excluded from the actual reality as
incompatible with it. Judgments that posit the non-
existence of a thing are therefore judgments that formu-
late a contrast between the possible and the actual (that
is, between two kinds of existence, one thought and the
other found), where a person, real or imaginary, wrongly
believes that a certain possible is realized. Instead of
this possible, there is a reality that differs from it and re-
jects it: the negative judgment expresses this contrast,
but it expresses the contrast in an intentionally incomplete
form, because it is addressed to a person who is sup-
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
291
posed to be interested exclusively in the possible that is
indicated, and is not concerned to know by what kind
of reality the possible is replaced. The expression of
the substitution is therefore bound to be cut short. In-
stead of affirming that a second term is substituted for
the first, the attention which was originally directed to
the first tenn will be kept fixed upon it, and upon it alone.
And, without going beyond the first, we shall implicitly
affirm that a second term replaces it in saying that the
first "is not." We shall thus judge a judgment instead
of jud^ng a thing. We shall warn others or warn our-
selves of a possible error instead of supplying positive
information. Suppress every mtention of this kind, give
knowledge back its exclusively scientific or philosophical
character, suppose in other words that reality comes itself
to inscribe itself on a mind that cares only for things and
is not interested in persons; we shall affirm that such or
such a thing is, we shall never aflirm that a thing is not.
How comes it, then, that affirmation and negation
are so persistently put on the same level and endowed
with an equal objectivity? How comes it that we have
so much difficulty in recognizing that negation is sub-
jective, artificially cut short, relative to the human mind
and still more to the social Lfe? The reason is, no doubt,
th&tboth negation and affirmation are expressed in propo-
sitions, and that any proposition, being formed of words,
which symbolize concepts, is something relative to social
life and to the hxunan intellect. Whether I say "The
ground is damp" or "The ground is not damp," in both
cases the terms "ground" and "damp" are concepts more
or less artificially created by the mind of man — extracted,
by his free initiative, from the continuity of experience.
In both cases the concepts are represented by the same
conventioDal words. In both cases we can say indeed
292 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
that the proposition aims at a social and pedagogical end,
since the first would propagate a truth as the second would
prevent an error. From this point of view, which is
that of formal logic, to affirm and to deny are indeed
two mutually symmetrical acts, of which the first estab-
lishes a relation of agreement and the second a relation
of disagreement between a subject and an attribute.
But how do we fail to see that the symmetry is altogether
external and the likeness superficial? Suppose language
fallen into disuse, society dissolved, every intellectual
initiative, every faculty of self-reflection and of self-
judgment atrophied in man: the dampness of the ground
will subsist none the less, capable of inscribing itself auto-
matically in sensation and of sending a vague idea to the
deadened intellect. The intellect will still affirm, in implicit
terms. And consequently, neither distinct concepts, nor
words, nor the desire of spreading the truth, nor that of
bettering oneself, are of the very essence of the affirmation.
But this passive intelligence, mechanically keeping step
with experience, neither anticipating nor following the
course of the real, would have no wish to deny. It could
not receive an imprint of negation; for, once again, that
which exists may come to be recorded, but the non-ex-
istence of the non-existing cannot. For such an intellect
to reach the point of denying, it must awake from its torpor,
formulate the disappoiatment of a real or possible expect-
ation, correct an actual or possible error — in short, propose
to teach others or to teach itself.
It is rather difficult to perceive this in the example
we have chosen, but the example is indeed the more in-
structive and the argument the more cogent on that
account. If dampness is able automatically to come and
record itself, it is the same, it will be said, with non-damp-
nesa; for the dry as well as the damp can give impressions
rm
If dampness is able automatically to come and
record itself, it is the same, it will be said, with non-damp-
nesa; for the dry as well as the damp can give impressions
rm
to sense, which will transmit them, as more or less distinct
ideas, to the intelligence. In this sense the negation
of dampness is as objective a thing, as purely intellectual,
as remote from every pedagogical intention, as affirmation.
— But let us look at it more closely: we shall see that the
negative proposition, "The ground is not damp," and the
affirmative proposition, "The ground is dry," have en-
tirely different contents. The second implies that we
know the dry, that we have experienced the specific
sensations, tactile or visual for example, that are at the
base of this idea. The first requires nothing of the sort;
it could equally well have been formulated by an intelligent
fish, who had never perceived anything but the wet. It
would be necessary, it is true, that this fish should have
risen to the distinction between the real and the possible,
and that he should care to anticipate the error of his
fellow-fishes, who doubtless consider as alone possible
the condition of wetness in which they actually live. Keep
strictly to the terms of the proposition, "The ground is
not damp," and you will find that it means two things:
(1) that one might believe that the ground is damp, (2)
that the dampness is replaced in fact by a certain quality x.
This quality is left indeterminate, either because we have
no positive knowledge of it, or because it has no actual
interest for the person to whom the negation is addressed.
To deny, therefore, always consists in presenting in
an abridged form a system of two affirmations; the one
determinate, which applies to a certain possible; the
other indeterminate, referring to the unknown or in-
different reality that supplants this possibility. The
second affirmation is \'irtually contained in the judgment
we apply to the first, a judgment which is negation it-
self. And what gives negation its subjective character
is precisely this, that in the discovery of a replacement
294
it takes account only of the replaced, and is not con-
cerned with what replaces. The replaced exists only
as a conception of the mind. It is necessary, in order
to continue to see it, and consequently in order to speak
of it, to turn our back on the reality, which flows from the
past to the present, advancing from behind. It is this
that we do when we deny. We discover the change,
or more generally the substitution, as a traveller would
see the course of his carriage if he looked out behind, and
only knew at each moment the point at which he had
ceased to be; he could never determine his actual position
except by relation to that which he had just quitted, in-
stead of grasping it in itself.
To sum up, for a mind which should follow purely
and simply the thread of experience, there would be no
void, no nought, even relative or partial, no p>ossible
negation. Such a. mind would see facts succeed facts,
states succeed states, things succeed things. What it
would note at each moment would be things existing,
states appearing, events happening. It would live in
the actual, and, if it were capable of judging, it would
never affirm anything except the existence of the present.
Endow this mind with memory, and especially with
the desire to dwell on the past; give it the faculty of
dissociating and of distinguishing: it wilt no longer only
note the present state of the passing reality; it will repre-
sent the passing as a change, and therefore as a contrast
between what has been and what is. And as there is no
essential difference between a past that we remember
and a past that we imagine, it will quickly rise to the idea
of the "possible" in general.
It will thus be shunted on to the siding of negation.
And especially it will be at the point of representing
a disappearance. But it will not yet have reached it.
THE IDEA OF 'NOTHING'
To represent that a thing has disappeared, it is not enough
to perceive a contrast between the past and the present;
it is necessary besides to turn our back on the present,
to dwell on the past, and to think the contrast of the past
with the present in terms of the past only, without letting
the present appear in it.
The idea of annihilation is therefore not a pure idea;
it implies that we regret the past or that we conceive it
as regrettable, that we have some reason to linger over
it. The idea arises when the phenomenon of sutetitition
is cut in two by a mind which considers only the first half,
because that alone interests it. Suppress all interest,
all feeling, and there is nothing left but the reality that
flows, together with the knowledge ever renewed that it
impresses on us of its present state.
From annihilation to negation, which is a more general
operation, there is now only a step, All that is necessary
is to represent the contrast of what is, not only with what
has been, but also with all that might have been. And
we must express this contrast as a function of what might
have been, and not of what is; we must affirm the existence
of the actual while looking only at the possible. The
formula we thus obtain no longer expresses merely a
disappointment of the individual; it is made to correct
or guard against an error, which is rather supposed to be
the error of another. In this sense, negation has a peda-
gogical and social character.
The
formula we thus obtain no longer expresses merely a
disappointment of the individual; it is made to correct
or guard against an error, which is rather supposed to be
the error of another. In this sense, negation has a peda-
gogical and social character.
Now, once negation is formulated, it presents an aspect
symmetrical with that of affirmation; if affirmation affirms
an objective reality, it seems that negation must affirm
a non-reality equally objective, and, so to say, equally
real. In which we are both right and wrong: wrong,
because negation cannot be objectified, in so far as it is
negative; right, however, in that the negation of a thins
296
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[OHAF. I
impliee the latent afSrmstion of its replacement by some-
thing else, which we systematically leave on one eide.
But the negative form of negation benefits by the affirma-
tion at the bottom of it. Bestriding the positive solid
reality to which it is attached, this phantom objectifies
itself. Thus is formed the idea of the void or of a partial
nought, a thing being supposed to be replaced, not by
another thing, but by a void which it leaves, that is, by
the negation of itself. Now, as this operation works on
anything whatever, we suppose it performed on each thing
in turn, and finally on all things in block. We thus obtain
the idea of absolute Nothmg. If now we analyze this idea
of Nothing, we find that it is, at bottom, the idea of
Everything, together with a movement of the mind that
keeiis jumping from one thing to another, refuses to stand
Btill, and concentrates all its attention on this refusal by
never determining its actual position except by relation
to that which it has just left. It ia therefore an idea
eminently comprehensive and full, as full and compre-
hensive as the idea of AU, to which it is very closely akin.
How then can the idea of Nought be opposed to that
of All? Is it not plain that this is to oppose the full to
the full, and that the question, "Why does something
exist?" is consequently without meaning, a pseudo-
problem raised about a pseudo-idea? Yet we must say
once more why this phantom of a problem haunts the mind
with such obstinacy. In vain do we show that in the
idea of an "annihilation of the real" there is only the image
of all realities expelling one another endlessly, in a circle;
in vain do we add that the idea of non-existence is only
that of the expulsion of an imponderable existence, or a
"merely possible" existence, by a more substantial ex-
istence which would then be the true reality; in vain do we.
find in the sui generis form of negation an element which
n.\
THE IDEA OP 'NOTHING'
297
find in the sui generis form of negation an element which
n.\
THE IDEA OP 'NOTHING'
297
is not intellectiial — negation being the judgment of a
judgment, aa admonition given to some one else or to
oneself, so that it is absurd to attribute to negation the
power of creating ideas of a new kind, viz. ideas without
content; — in spite of all, the conviction persists that before
things, or at least under things, there is "Nothing." If
we seek the reason of this fact, we shall find it precisely
in the feeling, in the social and, so to speak, practical
element, that gives its specific form to negation. The
greatest philosophic difficulties arise, as we have said,
from the fact that the forms of human action venture
outside of their proper sphere. We are made in order
to act as much as, and more than, in order to think —
or rather, when we follow the bent of our nature, it is in
order to act that we think. It is therefore no wonder
that the habits of action give their tone to those of thought,
and that our mind always perceives things in the same
order in which we are accustomed to picture them when we
propose to act on them. Now, it is unquestionable, as
we remarked above, that everj- human action has its
starting-point in a dissatisfaction, and thereby in a feeling
of absence. We should not act if we did not set before
ourselves an end, and we seek a thing only because we feel
the lack of it. Our action proceeds thus from "nothing"
to "something," and its very essence is to embroider
"something" on the canvas of "nothing." The truth
is that the "nothing" concerned here is the absence not
so much of a thing as of a utility. If I bring a visitor
into a room that I have not yet furnished, I say to him
that "there is nothing in it." Yet I know the room is
full of air; but, a3 we do not sit on air, the room truly
contains nothing that at this moment, for the visitor
and for myself, counts for anything. In a genera! way,
human work consists in creating utility; and, as long as
298 CREATIVE EVOLUTION [chap.
In a genera! way,
human work consists in creating utility; and, as long as
298 CREATIVE EVOLUTION [chap.
the work is not done, there is "nothing" — nothing that we
want. Our life is thus spent in filling voids, which our
intellect conceives und er the influence, by no means
intellectual, of desire and of regret, under the pressure of
vital necessities; and if we mean by void an absence of
utility and not of things, we may say, in this quite relative
sense, that we are constantly going from the void to the
full: such is the direction which our action takes. Our
speculation cannot help doing the same; and, naturally,
it passes from the relative sense to the absolute sense,
since it is exercised on things themselves and not on the
utihty they have for us. Thus is implanted in us the idea
that reality (ills a void, and that Nothing, conceived as
an absence of everything, pre-exists before all things in
right, if not in fact. It is this illusion that we have tried
to remove by showing that the idea of Nothing, if we try
to see in it that of an annihilation of all things, is self-
destructive and reduced to a mere word ; and that if, on
the contrary, it is truly an idea, then we find in it as much
matter as in the idea of All.
This long analysis has been necessary to show that
a self-sufficient reality is not -necessarily a reality foreign
to duration. U we pass (consciously or unconsciously)
through the idea of the nought in order to reach that
of being, the being to which we come is a logical or mathe-
matical essence, therefore non-temporal. And, conse-
quently, a static conception of the real is foreed on us:
everything appears ^ven once for all. in eternity. But
we must accustom ourselves to think being directly,
without making a detour, without first appealing to
the phantom of the nought which interposes itself be-
tween it and us. We must strive to see in order to see,
and no longer to see in order to act. Then the Absolute
^
BECOMING
is revealed very near us and, in a certain measure, in us.
It is of psychological and not of mathematical nor logical
essence. It lives with us. Like us, but in certain aspects
infinitely more concentrated and more gathered up in
itself, it endures.
But do we ever think true duration? Here again
a direct taking possession is necessary. It ia no use
trying to approach duration: we must install ourselves
within it straight away. This is what the intellect gener-
ally refuses to do, accustomed as it is to think the moving
by means of the unmovable.
Here again
a direct taking possession is necessary. It ia no use
trying to approach duration: we must install ourselves
within it straight away. This is what the intellect gener-
ally refuses to do, accustomed as it is to think the moving
by means of the unmovable.
The function of the intellect is to preside over actions.
Now, in action, it is the result that interests us; the means
matter little provided the end is attained. Thence it
comes that we are altogether bent on the end to be reahzed,
generaUy trusting ourselves to it in order that the idea may
become an act; and thence it comes also that only the goal
where our activity will rest is pictured explicitly to our
mind : the movements constituting the action itself dther
elude our consciousness or reach it only confusedly. Let
ua consider a very simple act, like that of lifting the arm.
Where should we be if we bad to imagine beforehand
all the elemental}' contractions and tensions this act
involves, or even to perceive them, one by one, as they
are accomplished? But the mind is carried immediately
to the end, that is to say, to the schematic and simplified
vision of the act supposed accomplished. Then, if no
antagonistic idea neutralizes the effect of the first idea,
the appropriate movements come of themselves to fill out
the plan, drawn in some way by the void of its gaps. The
intellect, then, only represents to the activity ends to
attain, that is to say, points of rest. And, from one end
attained to another end attained, from one rest to another
rest, our activity is carried by a series of leaps, during
300 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
which our consciousness is turned away as much as possible
from the movement going on, to regard only the anticipated
image of the movement accomplished.
Now, in order that it may represent as uomovable
the result of the act which is being accomplished, the
intellect must perceive, as also unmovable, the surround-
ings in which this result is being framed. Our activity
is fitted into the material world. If matter appeared
to us as a perpetual flowing, we should assign no termina-
tion to any of our actions. We should feel each of them
dissolve as fast as it was accomplished, and we should
not anticipate an ever-fleeting future. In order that our
activity may leap from an act to an act, it is necessary
that matter should pass from a state to a state, for it is only
into a state of the material world that action can fit a
result, so as to be accomplished. But is it thus that matter
presents itself?
In order that our
activity may leap from an act to an act, it is necessary
that matter should pass from a state to a state, for it is only
into a state of the material world that action can fit a
result, so as to be accomplished. But is it thus that matter
presents itself?
A priori we may presiune that our perception manages
to apprehend matter with this bias. Sensory organs
and motor organs are in fact coordinated with each other.
Now, the first symbolize our faculty of perceiving, as the
second our faculty of acting. The organism thus evidences,
in a visible and tangible form, the perfect accord of per-
ception and action. So if our activity always aims at a
result into which it is momentarily fitted, our perception
must retain of the material world, at every moment, only
a staie in which it is provisionally placed. This is the most
natural hypothesis. And it is easy to see that experience
confirms it.
From our first glance at the world, before we even
make our bodies in it, we distinguish qiadilies. Color
succeeds to color, sound to sound, resistance to resist-
ance, etc. Each of these qualities, taken separately, is a
state that seems to persist as such, unmovable until an-
IT.)
FORM AND BECOMING
301
Color
succeeds to color, sound to sound, resistance to resist-
ance, etc. Each of these qualities, taken separately, is a
state that seems to persist as such, unmovable until an-
IT.)
FORM AND BECOMING
301
other replaces it. Yet each of these qualities resolves
itself, on analysis, into an enormous number of elementary
movements. Whether we see in it vibrations or whether
we represent it in any other way, one fact is certain, it
is that every quality is change. In vain, moreover, shall
we seek beneath the change the thing which changes:
it is always provisionally, and in order to satisfy our
imagination, that we attach the movement to a mobile.
The mobile flies for ever before the pursuit of science,
which is concerned with mobility alone. In the smallest
discernible fraction of a second, in the almost instantaneous
perception of a sensible quality, there may be trillions
of oscillations which repeat themselves. The permanence
of a sensible quality consists in this repetition of move-
ments, as the persistence of life consists in a series of pal-
pitations. The primal function of perception is precisely
to grasp a series of elementary changes under the form of
a quality or of a simple state, by a work of condensation.
The greater the power of acting bestowed upon an animal
species, the more numerous, probably, are the elementary
changes that its faculty of perceiving concentrates into
one of its instants. And the progress must be continuous,
in nature, from the beings that vibrate almost in unison
with the oscillations of the ether, up to those that embrace
trillions of these oscillations in the shortest of their simple
perceptions. The first feel hardly anj-thing but move-
ments; the others perceive quality. The first are almost
caught up in the running-gear of things; the others react,
and the tension of their faculty of acting is probably pro-
portional to the concentration of their faculty of per-
ceiving. The progress goes on even in humanity itself.
A man is so much the more a "man of action" as he can
embrace in a glance a greater number of events: he who
perceives successive events one by ons will allow himself
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
to be led by them ; he who grasps them as a whole will
dominate them. In short, the qualities of matter are so
many stable views that we take of its instability.
In short, the qualities of matter are so
many stable views that we take of its instability.
Now, in the continuity of sensible qualities we mark
off the boundaries of bodies. Each of these bodies really
changes at every moment. In the first place, it resolves
itself into a group of qualities, and every quality, as we said,
consists of a succession of elementary movements. But,
even if we regard the quality as a stable state, the body
is still unstable in that it changes qualities without ceeising.
The body pre-eminently — ^that which we are most justified
in isolating within the continuity of matter, because it
constitutes a relatively closed system — is the living body;
it is, moreover, for it that we cut out the others within
the whole. Now, life is an evolution. We concentrate
a period of this evolution in a stable view which we
call a form, and, when the change has become considerable
enough to overcome the fortunate inertia of our per-
ception, we say that the body has changed its form. But
in reality the body is changing form at every moment;
or rather, there is no form, since form is immobile and the
reality is movement. What is real is the continual change
of form : form is only a snapshot view of a traTisition . There-
fore, here again, our perception manages to sohdify into
discontinuous images the fluid continuity of the real.
When the successive images do not differ from each other
too much, we consider them all as the waxing and waning
of a single mean image, or as the deformation of this image
in different directions. And to this mean we really allude
when we speak of the essence of a thing, or of the thing
itself.
Finally things, once constituted, show on the surface,
by their changes of situation, the profound changes that
are being accomplished within the Whole. We say then
FORM AND BECOMING 303
And to this mean we really allude
when we speak of the essence of a thing, or of the thing
itself.
Finally things, once constituted, show on the surface,
by their changes of situation, the profound changes that
are being accomplished within the Whole. We say then
FORM AND BECOMING 303
that they ad on one another. This action appears to
u8, no doubt, in the form of movement. But from the
mobihty of the movement we turn away as much aa we
can; what interests us is, as we said above, the unmovable
plan of the movement rather than the movement itself.
Is it a simple movement? We ask ourselves where it is
going. It is by its direction, that is to say, by the position
of its provisional end, that we represent it at every moment.
Is it a complex movement? We would know above all
what is going on, what the movement is doing — in other
words, the result obtained or the presiding intention.
Examine closely what is in your mind when you speak
of an action in course of accomplishment. The idea of
change is there, I am willing to grant, but it is hidden in
the penumbra. In the full light is the motionless plan
of the act supposed accomplished. It is by this, and by
this only, that the complex act is distinguished and defined.
We should be very much embarrassed if we had to imagine
the movements inherent in the actions of eating, drinking,
fighting, etc. It is enough for us to know, in a genera!
and indefinite way, that all these acts are movements.
Once that side of the matter has been settled, we simply
seek to represent the general plan of each of these complex
movements, that is to say the motionless design that under-
lies them. Here again knowledge bears on a state rather
than on a change. It is therefore the same with this third
case as with the others. Whether the movement be
quahtative or evolutionary or extensive, the mind manages
to take stable views of the instability. And thence the
mind derives, as we have just shown, three kinds of repre-
sentations: (1) qualities, (2) forms of essences, (3) acts.
To these three ways of seeing correspond three categories
of words: adjectives, substantices, and verbs, which are the
prinaordial elements of language. Adjectives and sub-
304 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
■tantives therefore symbolize states. But the verb it-
aelf, if we keep to the clear part of the idea it calls up,
hardly expresses anything else.
Adjectives and sub-
304 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
■tantives therefore symbolize states. But the verb it-
aelf, if we keep to the clear part of the idea it calls up,
hardly expresses anything else.
Now, if we try to characterize more precisely our natural
attitude towards Becoming, this is what we find. Be-
coming is infinitely varied. That which goes from yellow
to green is not like that which goes from green to blue:
they are different qualitative movements. That which
goes from flower to fruit is not hke that which goes from
larva to nymph and from nymph to perfect insect: they
are different evoluiiojiary movements. The action of eat-
ing or of drinking is not like the action of fighting: they are
different extensive movements. And these three kinds
of movement themselves — qualitative, evolutionary, ex-
tensive — differ profoundly. The trick of our perception,
like that of our inteUigence, like that of our language,
consists in extracting from these profoundly different
becomings the single representation of becoming in general,
undefined becoming, a mere abstraction which by itself
says nothing and of which, indeed, it Is very rarely that we
think. To this idea, always the same, and always obscure
or unconscious, we then join, in each particular case, one or
several clear images that represent states and which serve
to distinguish all becomings from each other. It is this
composition of a specified and definite state with change
gener^ and undefined that we substitute for the specific
change. An infinite multiplicity of becomings variously
colored, 80 to speak, passes before our eyes: we manage so
that we see only differences of color, that is to say, diffe>
ences of state, beneath which there is supposed to flow,
hidden from our \*iew, a becoming always and every-
where the same, invariably c
Suppose we wish to portray on a screen a living pictm
F
Buch as
FORM AND BECOMING
I
BUch as the marching past of a regiment. There is one
way in which it might first occur to us to do it. That
would be to cut out jointed figures representing the soldiers,
to give to each of them the movement of marching, a
movement var>-ing from individual to individual although
common to the human species, and to throw the whole
on the screen. We should need to spend on this little
game an enormous amount of work, and even then we
should obtain but a very poor result: how could it, at its
best, reproduce the suppleness and variety of life? Now,
there is another way of proceeding, more easy and at
the same time more effective. It is to take a series of
snapshots of the passing regiment and to throw these
instantaneous views on the screco, so that they replace
each other very rapidly. This is what the cinematograph
does. With photographs, each of which represents the
regiment in a fixed attitude, it reconstitutes the mobility
of the regiment marching. It is true that if we had to do
with photographs alone, however much we might look at
them, we should never see them animated : with immobility
set beside immobility, even endlessly, we could never make
movement. In order that the pictures may be animated,
there must be movement somewhere. The movement
does indeed exist here; it is in the apparatus. It is be-
cause the film of the cinematograph unrolls, bringing
in turn the different photographs of the scene to continue
each other, that each actor of the scene recovers his mobil-
ity; he strings all his successive attitudes on the invisible
movement of the film. The process then consists in ex-
tracting from all the movements peculiar to all the figures
an impersonal movement abstract and simple, movement
in general, so to speak: we put this into the apparatus, and
we reconstitute the individuality of each particular move-
ment by combining this nameless movement with the per-
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Bonal attitudes. Such is the contrivauce of the cinemato-
graph. And such is also that of our knowledge. Instead
of attaching ourselves to the inner becoming of things,
we place ourselves outside them in order to recompose
their becoming artificially. We take snapshots, as it were,
of the passing reality, and, as these are characteristic of
the reality, we have only to string them on a becoming,
abstract, unifonn and invisible, situated at the back of
the apparatus of knowledge, in order to imitate what
there is that is characteristic in this becoming itself.
Perception, intellection, language so proceed in general.
Whether we would think becoming, or express it, or
even perceive it, we hardly do anything else than set
going a kind of cinematograph inside us. We may there-
fore sum up what we have been saying in the conclusion
that the mechanism of our ordinary knowledge is of a cine~
mcUographical kind.
Whether we would think becoming, or express it, or
even perceive it, we hardly do anything else than set
going a kind of cinematograph inside us. We may there-
fore sum up what we have been saying in the conclusion
that the mechanism of our ordinary knowledge is of a cine~
mcUographical kind.
Of the altogether practical character of this operation
there is no possible doubt. Each of our acts aims at a
certain insertion of our will into the reality. There is,
between our body and other bodies, an arrangement
like that of the pieces of glass that compose a kaleido-
Bcopic picture. Our activity goes from an arrangement
to a re-arrangement, each time no doubt giving the kaleido-
scope a new shake, but not interesting itself in the shake,
and seeing only the new pictun\ Our knowledge of the
operation of nature must be exactly symmetrical, there-
fore, with the interest we take in our own operation. In
this sense we may say, if we are not abusing this kind of
illustration, that the cinematographical character of our
knowledge of things is due to the kaleidoscopic character
of our adaptation to them.
The cinematographic al method is therefore the only
practical method, since it consists in making the general
IT.I
B chara
FORM AND BECOMING
307
character of knowledge fonn itself on that of action,
while expecting that the detail of each act should depend
in its turn on that of knowledge. In order that action
may always be enlightened, intelligence must always be
present in it; but intelligence, in order thus to accompany
the progress of activity and ensure its direction, must
begin by adopting its rhythm. Action is discontinuous,
like every pulsation of life; discontinuous, therefore, is
knowledge. The mechanism of the faculty of knowing
has been constructed on this plan. Essentially practical,
can it be of use, such as it is, for speculation? Let us try
with it to follow reality in Its windings, and see what will
happen.
The mechanism of the faculty of knowing
has been constructed on this plan. Essentially practical,
can it be of use, such as it is, for speculation? Let us try
with it to follow reality in Its windings, and see what will
happen.
I take of the continuity of a particular becoming a
series of views, which I connect together by "becoming
in general." But of course I cannot stop there. What
is not determinable is not representable: of "becoming
in general" I have only a verbal knowledge. As the
letter x designates a certain unknown quantity, what-
ever it may be, so my "becoming in general," always
the same, symbolizes here a certain transition of which
I have taken some snapshots; of the transition itself
it teaches me nothing, l«t me then concentrate myself
wholly on the transition, and, between any two snap-
shots, endeavor to realize what is going on. As I apply
the same method, I obtain the same result; a third view
merely shps in between the two others. I may begin
again as often as I will, I may set views alongside of views
for ever, I shall obtain nothing else. The application of
the cinematographical method therefore leads to a perpet-
ual recommencement, during which the mind, never able to
satisfy itself and never finding where to rest, persuades
itself, no doubt, that it imitates by its instability the very
movement of the real. But though, by straining itself
308 CREATIVE EVOLUTION (ohap;"
to the point of giddiness, it may end by pving itself the
illusion of mobility, its operation has not advanced it a
step, since it remains as far as ever from its goal. In order
to advance with the reioving reality, you must replace
yourself within it. Install yourself within change, and you
will grasp at once both change itself and the successive
states in which H might at any instant be immobilized.
But with these successive states, perceived from without
as real and no longer as potential immobilities, you will
never reconstitute movement. Call them qualities, forms,
posUions, or intentions, as the case may be, multiply the
number of them as you will, let the interval between
two consecutive states be infinitely small: before the
intervening movement you will always experience the
disappointment of the child who tries by clapping his
hands together to crush the smoke. The movement
slips through the interval, because every attempt to re-
constitute change out ot states implies the absurd propo-
sition, that movement is made of immobilities.
Philosophy perceived this as soon as it opened its eyes.
The arguments of Zeno of Elea, although formulated with
a very different intention, have no other meaning.
Philosophy perceived this as soon as it opened its eyes.
The arguments of Zeno of Elea, although formulated with
a very different intention, have no other meaning.
Take the flj'ing arrow. At every moment, says Zeno,
it is motionlees, for it cannot have time to move, that
is, to occupy at least two successive positions, unless at
least two moments are allowed it. At a given moment,
therefore, it is at rest at a given point. Motionlees in
each point of its course, it is motionlees duiing all the time
that it ia moving.
Vea, if we suppose that the arrow can ever 6« in a point
of its course. Yes again, if the arrow, which is moving,
ever coincides with a position, which is motionless. But
the arrow never is in any point of its course. The most
we can say is that it might be there, in this sense, that it
FORM AND BECOMING
309
passes there and might stop there. It is true that if it
did atop there, it would be at rest there, and at this point
it is no longer movement that we should have to do with.
The truth is that if the arrow leaves the point A to fall
down at the point B, its movement AB is as simple, aa
indecomposable, in so far as it is movement, as the tension
of the bow that shoots it. As the shrapnel, bursting before
it falls to the ground, covers the explosive zone with an
indivisible danger, so the arrow which goes from A to B
displays with a single stroke, although over a certain extent
of duration, its indivisible mobility. Suppose an elastic
stretched from A to B, could you divide its extension?
The course of the arrow is this very extension; it is equally
simple and equally undivided. It is a single and unique
bound. You fix a point C in the interval passed, and say
that at a certain moment the arrow was in C. If it had
been there, it would have been stopped there, and you
would no longer have had a flight from A to B, but two
flights, one from A to C and the other from C to B, with an
interval of rest. A single movement is entirely, by the
hypothesis, a movement between two stops; if there are
intermediate stops, it is no longer a single movement.
At bottom, the illusion arises from this, that the movement,
once effected, has laid along its course a motionless tra-
jectory on which we can count aa many immobilities as
we will. From this we conclude that the movement,
whilst being effected, lays at each instant beneath it a position
with which it coincides. We do not see that the trajectory
is created in one stroke, although a certain time is re-
quired for it; and that though we can divide at will the
trajectory once created, we cannot divide its creation,
which is an act in progress and not a thing. To suppose
that the moving body is at a point of its course is to cut
the course in two by a snip of the scissors at this point,
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
To suppose
that the moving body is at a point of its course is to cut
the course in two by a snip of the scissors at this point,
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
and to substitute two trajectories for the single trajectory
which we were first coDsidering. It is to distioguisb
two successive acts where, by the hypothesis, there is
only one. In short, it is to attribute to the course itself
of the arrow everything that can be said of the interval
that the arrow has traversed, that is to say, to admit
a -pnori the absurdity that movement coincides with
immobility.
We shall not dwell here on the three other arguments
of Zeno. We have examined them elsewhere. It ia
enough to point out that they all consist in applying the
movement to the line traversed, and supposing that what
is true of the line is true of the movement. The line, for
example, may be divided into as many parts as we wish,
of any length that we wish, and it ia always the same line.
From this we conclude that we have the right to suppose
the movement articulated as we wish, and that it is always
the same movement. We thus obtain a series of absurdi-
ties that all express the same fundamental absurdity. But
the possibility of applying the movement to the line tra-
versed exists only for an observer who keeping outside
the movement and seeing at every instant the possibility
of a stop, tries to reconstruct the real move.n -nt with these
possible immobilities. The absurdity vanishes as soon
as we adopt by thought the continuity of the real move-
ment, a continuity of which every one of us is conscious
whenever he lifts an arm or advances a step. We feel
then indeed that the line passed over between two stops is
described with a single indivisible stroke, and that we seek
in vain to practice on the movement, which traces the line,
divisions corresponding, each to each, with the divisions
arbitrarily chosen of the line once it has been traced. The
line traversed by the moving body lends itself to any kind
of division, because it has no internal organization. But
FORM AND BECOMING
311
an movement is articulated inwardly. It is either an
indivisible bound (which may occupy, nevertheless, a
very long duration) or a series of indivisible bounds.
Take the articulations of this movement into accomit,
or give up speculating on its nature.
But
FORM AND BECOMING
311
an movement is articulated inwardly. It is either an
indivisible bound (which may occupy, nevertheless, a
very long duration) or a series of indivisible bounds.
Take the articulations of this movement into accomit,
or give up speculating on its nature.
When Achilles pursues the tortoise, each of his steps
must be treated as indivisible, and so must each step of
the tortoise. After a certain number of steps, Achilles
will have overtaken the tortoise. There is nothing more
simple. If you insist on dividing the two motions further,
distinguish both on the one side and on the other, in the
course of Achilles and in that of the tortoise, the sub-
mulHj)les of the steps of each of them; but respect the
natural articulations of the two courses. As long as you
respect them, no difficulty will arise, because you will
follow the indications of experience. But Zeno's device
is to reconstruct the movement of Achilles according to a
law arbitrarily chosen. Achilles with a first step is sup-
posed to arrive at the point where the tortoise was, with a
second step at the point which it has moved to while he
was making the first, and so on. In this case, AchiUea
would always have a new step to take. But obviously,
to overtake the tortoise, he goes about it in quite another
way. The movement considered by Zeno would only be
the equivalent of the movement of Achilles if we could
treat the movement as we treat the interval passed through,
decomposable and recomposable at will. Once you sub-
scribe to this first absurdity, all the others follow.'
1 That is, we do not cooaider the sophism of Zcno refuted bj the fact
th»t the geometrical progresBion 0(1 +^ + ^ + ia+ ■•• etc.)— in
which a deaignatea the initial distance between Achillea and the tortoise,
&nd n the reUtion of their reapeotive velocities— has a finite aum if
n ia greater than 1. On thia point we may refer to the arguments of
P. Evellin. which we regard aa conclusive (see Eveltin, Infini et qiianli/i,
Paris, 1880, pp. 63-97; ct. Revue phSoeophiqwt, vol. xi., 1881, pp. 564-
312
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
On thia point we may refer to the arguments of
P. Evellin. which we regard aa conclusive (see Eveltin, Infini et qiianli/i,
Paris, 1880, pp. 63-97; ct. Revue phSoeophiqwt, vol. xi., 1881, pp. 564-
312
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
Nothing would be easier, now, than to extend Zeno's
argument to quaUtative becoming and to evolutionary
becoming. We should find the same contradictions
in these. That the child can become a youth, ripen to
maturity and decline to old age, we understand when we
consider that vital evolution is here the reality itself.
Infancy, adolescence, maturity, old age, are mere views
of the mind, possible stops imagined by us, from without,
along the continuity of a progress. On the contrary, let
childhood, adolescence, maturity and old age be given as
integral parts of the evolution, they become reoi stops, and
we can no longer conceive how evolution is possible, for
rests placed beside rests will never be equivalent to a
movement. How, with what is made, can we reconsti-
tute what is being made? How, for instance, from child-
hood once posited as a thing, shall we pass to adolescence,
when, by the hypothesis, childhood only ia given? If we
look at it closely, we shall see that our habitual manner of
speaking, which is fashioned after our habitual manner
of thinking, leads us to actual logical deadlocks — dead-
locks to which we allow ourselves to be led without anxiety,
because we feel confasedly that we can always get out of
them if we like: all that we have to do, in fact, is to give
up the cinematographical habits of our intellect. \\'heii
we say "The child becomes a man," let us take care not to
fathom too deeply the literal meaning of the expression,
or we shall find that, when we posit the subject "child,"
the attribute "man" does not yet apply to it, and that,
568). The truth is that mstbomatica, &b we have tried to show in a
former work, deals and can deal only with length*. It baa therefor*
had to seek devices, trat. U> transrer to the movement, which it not a
length, the divisibility of the line pasted over, and then to reooneila
with experience the idea (contrary to experience and full of abiunlitiM)
of movemeat that is a length, that ia, of a movement pkutd upeii its
tnjectoi7 and arbitrarily deoompoaable like it.
rrv.i
wher
toth
FORM AND BECOMING
313
I
rrv.i
wher
toth
FORM AND BECOMING
313
I
when we express the attribute "man," it applies no more
to the subject " child." The reahty, which is the transition
from childhood to manhood, has slipped between our
fingers. We have only the imaginary stops "child" and
"man," and we are very near to saying that one of these
stops is the other, just as the arrow of Zeno is, according
to that philosopher, at all the points of the course. The
truth is that if language here were molded on reahty, we
should not say "The child becomes the man," but "There
is becoming frona the child to the man." In the first
proposition, " becomes" is a verb of indeterminate meaning,
intended to mask the absurdity into which we fall when we
attribute the state "man" to the subject "child." It
behaves in much the same way as the movement, always
the same, of the cinematographical film, a movement
bidden m the apparatus and whose function it is to super-
pose the successive pictures on one another in order to
imitate the movement of the real object. In the second
proposition, "becoming" is a subject. It comes to the
front. It is the reahty itself; childhood and manhood
are then only possible stops, mere views of the mind;
we now have to do with the objective movement itself,
and no longer with its cinematographical imitation. But
the first manner of expression is alone conformable to
our habits of language. We must, in order to adopt
the second, escape from the cinematographical mechanism
of thought.
We must make complete abstraction of this mechan-
ism, if we wish to get rid at one stroke of the theoretical
absurdities that the question of movement raises. All
is obscure, all is contradictory when we try, with states,
to build up a transition. The obscurity is cleared up,
the contradiction vanishes, as soon as we place ourselves
along the transition, in order to distinguish states in it
314
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(CHA^:
by maldiig cross cuts therein in thought. The reason
is that there is more in the transition than the series of
states, that is to say, the possible cuts — more in the move-
ment than the scries of positions, that is to say, the possible
stops. Only, the first way of looking at things is con-
formable to the processes of the human mind ; the second
requires, on the contrary, that we reverse the bent of our
intellectual habits. No wonder, then, if philasophy at first
recoiled before such an effort. The Greeks trusted to nature,
trusted the natural propensity of the mind, trusted language
above all, in so far as it naturally externalizes thought.
Rather than lay blame on the attitude of thou^t and
language toward the course of things, they preferred to
pronounce the course of things itself to be wrong.
Rather than lay blame on the attitude of thou^t and
language toward the course of things, they preferred to
pronounce the course of things itself to be wrong.
Such, indeed, was the sentence passed by the philoso-
phers of the Eleatic school. And they passed it with-
out any reservation whatever. As becoming shocks the
habits of thought and fits ill into the molds of language,
they declared it unreal. In spatial movement and in
change in general they saw only pure illusion. This con-
clusion could be softened down without changing the
premisses, by saying that the reality changes, but that it
ought not to change. Experience confronts us with be-
coming: that is sensible reality. But the intelliffible reality,
that which ought to be, is more real still, and that reality
does not change. Beneath the qualitative becoming,
beneath the evolutionary becoming, beneath the extensive
becoming, the mind must seek that which defies change,
the definable quality, the form or essence, the end. Such
was the fundamental principle of the philosophy which
developed throughout the classic age, the philosophy of
Forms, or, to use a term more akin to the Greek, the philoso-
phy of Ideas.
The wordei^oa, which we translate here by "Idea," has,
1T.1
PLATO AND ARISTOTLE
in fact, this threefold meaning. It denotes (1) the quality,
(2) the form or essence, (3) the end or design (in the sense
of intention) of the act being performed, that is to say, at
bottom, the design (in the sense of dramng) of the act sup-
posed accomplished. These three aspects are those of the
adjective, substantive and verb, and correspond to lite three
essential categories of language. After the explanations
we have given above, we might, and perhaps we ought to,
translate ci3oa by "view" or rather by "moment." For
tidot is the stable view taken of the instability of things:
the quality, which is a moment of becoming; the/arm, which
is B moment of evolution; the essence, which is the mean
form above and below which the other forms are arranged
as alterations of the mean; finally, the intention or mental
design which presides over the action being accomplished,
and which is nothing else, we said, than the nmlerial design,
traced out and contemplated beforehand, of the action
accomplished. To reduce things to Ideas is therefore to
resolve becoming into its principal moments, each of these
being, moreover, by the hypothesis, screened from the laws
of time and, as it were, plucked out of eternity. That is to
say that we end in the philosophy of Ideas when we apply
the cinematographical mechanism of the intellect to the
analysis of the real.
That is to
say that we end in the philosophy of Ideas when we apply
the cinematographical mechanism of the intellect to the
analysis of the real.
But, when we put immutable Ideas at the base of the
moving reality, a whole physics, a whole cosmology, a whole
theology follows necessarily. We must insist on the point.
Not that we mean to summarize in a few pages a philosophy
BO complex and so comprehensive as that of the Greeks,
But, since we have described the cinematographical mech-
anism of the intellect, it is important that we ^ould show to
what idea of reality the play of this mechanism leads. It
is the very idea, we believe, that we find in the ancient
philosophy. The main lines of the doctrine that was
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
developed from Plato to Plotinus, passing through Aristotla
(and even, in a certain measure, through the Stoics), have
nothing accidental, nothing contingent, nothing that must
be regarded as a philosopher's fancy. They indicate the
vision that a systematic intellect obtains of the universal
becoming when regarding it by means of snapshots, taken
at intervals, of its flowing. So that, even to-day, we shall
philosophize in the manner of the Greeks, we shall re-
discover, without needing to know them, such and such
of their general conclusions, in the exact proportion that
we trust in the cinematographical instioct of our thought.
We said there is more in a movement than in the suc-
cessive positions attributed to the moving object, more
in a becoming than in the forms passed through in turn,
more in the evolution of form than the forms assumed one
after another. Philosophy can therefore derive terms of
the second kind from those of the first, but not the first
from the second: from the first terms speculation must
take its start. But the intellect reverses the order of the
two groups; and, on this point, ancient philosophy pro-
ceeds as the intellect does. It installs itself in the im-
mutable, it posits only Ideas. Yet becoming exists: it
is a fact. How, then, having posited immutability alone,
shall we make change come forth from it? Not by the
addition of anything, for, by the hypothesis, there exists
nothing positive outside Ideas. It must therefore be by a
diminution. So at the base of ancient philosophy lies
necessarily this postulate : that there is more in the motion-
less than in the moving, and that we pass from immuta-
bility to becoming by way of diminution or attenuation.
It is therefore something negative, or zero at most, that
must be added to Ideas to obtain change. In that consists
the Platonic "non-being," the Aristotelian "matter" — a
r
PLATO AND ARISTOTLE
317
It is therefore something negative, or zero at most, that
must be added to Ideas to obtain change. In that consists
the Platonic "non-being," the Aristotelian "matter" — a
r
PLATO AND ARISTOTLE
317
metaphysical zero which, joined to the Idea, Hke the arith-
metical zero to unity, multiplies it in space and time. By
it the motionless and simple Idea is refracted into a move-
ment spread out indefinitely. In right, there ought to be
nothing but immutable Ideas, immutably fitted to each
other. In fact, matter comes to add to them its void, and
thereby lets loose the universal becoming. It is an elusive
nothing, that creeps between the Ideas and creates endless
agitation, eternal disquiet, like a suspicion insinuated be-
tween two loving hearts. Degrade the immutable Ideas:
you obtain, by that alone, the perpetual flux of things.
The Ideas or Forms are the whole of intelligible reality, that
IB to say, of truth, in that they represent, all together, the
theoretical equilibrium of Being. As to sensible reality,
it is a perpetual oscillation from one aide to the other of
this point of equilibrium.
Hence, throughout the whole philosophy of Ideas there
is a certain conception of duration, as also of the relation
of time to eternity. He who installs himself in becoming
sees in duration the very life of things, the fundamental
reality. The Forms, which the mind isolates and stores
up in concepts, are then only snapshots of the changing
reaUty. They are moments gathered along the course
of time; and, just because we have cut the thread that
binds them to time, they no longer endure. They tend to
withdraw into their owti definition, that is to say, into the
artificial reconstruction and symbolical expression which
is their intellectual equivalent. They enter into eternity,
if you will; but what is eternal in them is just what is un-
real. On the contrary, if we treat becoming by the cine-
matographical method, the Forms are no longer snapshots
taken of the change, they are its constitutive elements, they
represent all that is positive in Becoming. Eternity no
longer hovers over time, as an abstraction; it underhes
318
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
time, as a reality. Such 19 exactly, on this point, the atti-
tude of the philosophy of Forms or Ideas. It establishes
between eternity and time the same relation as between
a piece of gold and the small change — change bo small that
payment goes on for ever without the debt being paid off.
The debt could be paid at once with the piece of gold. It
is this that Plato expresses in his magnificent language
when he says that God, unable to make the world eternal,
gave it Time, "a moving image of eternity,"'
The debt could be paid at once with the piece of gold. It
is this that Plato expresses in his magnificent language
when he says that God, unable to make the world eternal,
gave it Time, "a moving image of eternity,"'
Hence also arises a certain conception of extension,
which is at the base of the philosophy of Ideas, although
it has not been so explicitly brought out. Let us imagine
a mind placed alongside becoming, and adopting its move-
ment. Each successive state, each quality, each form, in
short, will be seen by it as a mere cut made by thought in
the universal becoming. It will be found that form is
essentially extended, inseparable as it is from the extenaity
of the becoming which has materialized it in the course of
its flow. Every form thus occupies space, as it occupies
time. But the philosophy of Ideas follows the inverse
direction. It starts from the Form; it sees in the Form the
very essence of reality. It does not take Form as a snap-
shot of becoming; it posits Forms in the eternal; of this
motionless eternity, then, duration and becoming are sup-
posed to be only the degradation. Form thus posited, in-
dependent of time, is then no longer what is found in a
perception; it is a concept. And, as a reality of the con-
ceptual order occupies no more of extension than it does of
duration, the Forms must be stationed outside space as
well as above time. Space and time have therefore neces-
sarily, in ancient philosophy, the same origin and the same
value. The same diminution of being is expressed both
by extension in space and detention in time. Both of these
> Plato, Timaeui, 37 o.
iT.i PLATO AND ARISTOTLE 319
Space and time have therefore neces-
sarily, in ancient philosophy, the same origin and the same
value. The same diminution of being is expressed both
by extension in space and detention in time. Both of these
> Plato, Timaeui, 37 o.
iT.i PLATO AND ARISTOTLE 319
are but the distance between what ia and what ought to be.
From the standpoint of ancient philosophy, space and
time can be nothing but the field that an incomplete reality,
or rather a reality that has gone astray from itself, needs in
order to run in quest of itself. Only it must be admitted
that the field is created as the hunting progresses, and that
the hunting in some way deposits the field beneath it.
Move an imaginary pendulum, a mere mathematical point,
from its position of equilibrium: a perpetual oscillation
is started, along which points are placed next to points,
and moments succeed moments. The space and time
which thus arise have no more "positivity" than the move-
ment itself. They represent the remoteness of the position
artificially given to the pendulum from its normal position,
what it lacks in order to regain its natural stability. Bring
it back to its normal position: space, time and motion
shrink to a mathematical point. Just so, human reason-
ings are drawn out into an endless chain, but arc at once
swallowed up in the truth seized by intuition, for their
extension in space and time is only the distance, so to speak,
between thought and truth.' So of extension and duration
in relation to pure Forms or Ideas. The sensible forma are
before us, ever about to recover their ideality, ever pre-
vented by the matter they bear In them, that is to say, by
their inner void, by the interval between what they are and
what they ought to be. They are for ever on the point
of recovering themselves, for ever occupied in losing them-
selves. An inflexible law condemns them, like the rock of
Sisyphus, to fall back when they are almost touching the
summit, and this law, which has projected them into space
and time, is nothing other than the very constancy of their
oints of the universe are their positions on
their respective trajectories. To each virtual stop of the
moving body T at the points of division T|, Ta, T3, . . ,
we make correspond a virtual stop of all the other mobiles
at the points where they are passing. And when we say
that a movement or any other change has occupied a time
*, we mean by it that we have noted a number ( of corre-
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
. ,
we make correspond a virtual stop of all the other mobiles
at the points where they are passing. And when we say
that a movement or any other change has occupied a time
*, we mean by it that we have noted a number ( of corre-
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
spondences of this kind. We have therefore counted
simultaneities; we have not concerned ourselves with the
flux that goes from one to another. The proof of this is
that I can, at discretion, vary the rapidity of the flux of
the universe in regard to a consciousness that is independent
of it and that would perceive the variation by the quite
qualitative /eeZiTig that it would have of it: whatever the
variation had been, since the movement of T would partici-
pate in this variation, I should have nothing to change in
my equations nor in the numbers that figure in them.
Let us go further, Suppose that the rapidity of tjie
flux becomes inflnite. Imagine, as we said in the first pages .
of this book, that the trajectory of the mobile T is given
at once, and that the whole history, past, present and future,
of the material universe is spread out instantaneously
in space. The same mathematical correspondences will
subsist between the moments of the history of the world
unfolded like a fan, so to speak, and the divisions Tp Tj, T,,
... of the line which will be called, by definition, "the
course of time." In the eyes of science nothing will have
changed. But if, time thus spreading itself out in space
and succession becoming juxtaposition, science has noth-
ing to change in what it tells us, we must conclude that,
in what it tells us, it takes account neither of succession
in what of it is specific nor of ti?ne in what there is in it that
is fluent. It has no sign to express what strikes our con-
sciousness in succession and duration. It no more applies
to becoming, so far as that is moving, than the bridges
thrown here and there across the stream follow the water
that flows under their arches.
Yet succession exists; I am conscious of it; it ia a fact.
When a physical process is going on before my eyes, my
perception and my inclination have nothing to do with
accelerating or retarding it. What is important to the
I
MODERN SCIENCE 339
Yet succession exists; I am conscious of it; it ia a fact.
When a physical process is going on before my eyes, my
perception and my inclination have nothing to do with
accelerating or retarding it. What is important to the
I
MODERN SCIENCE 339
physicist is the number of units of duration the process
fills; he does not concern himself about the units themselves
and that is why the successive states of the world might
be spread out all at once in space without his having to
change anything in his science or to cease talking about
time. But for us, conscious beings, it is the units that
matter, for we do not count extremities of intervals, we
feel and Uve the inten,'al3 themselves. Now, we are con-
scious of these intervals as of definite inter\'als. Let me
come back again to the sugar in my glass of water;' why
must I wait for it to melt? While the duration of the
phenomenon is relative for the physicist, since it is reduced
to a certain number of units of time and the units them-
selves are indifferent, this duration is an absolute for my
consciousness, for it coincides with a certain degree of
impatience which is rigorously dctennined. Whence
comes this determination? What is it that obliges me to
wait, and to wait for a certain length of psychical duration
which is forced upon me, over which I have no power?
If succession, in so far as distinct from mere juxtaposition,
has no real efficacy, if time is not a kind of force, why does
the universe unfold its successive states with a velocity
which, in regard to ray consciousness, is a veritable abso-
lute? Why with this particular velocity rather than any
other? Why not with an infinite velocity? \\Tiy, in other
words, is not everything given at once, as on the film of the
cinematograph? The more I consider this point, the more
it seems to me that, if the future is bound to sxicceed the
present instead of lieing given alongside of it, it is because
the future is not altogether determined at the present
moment, and that if the time taken up by this succession
is something other than a number, if it has for the con-
sciousness that is installed in it abeolute value and reality,
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
it, not
t class '
840
it ifl because there is unceasingly being created in it,
indeed in any such artificiatly isolated system as a gli
of sugared water, but in the concrete whole of which every
such system forms part, something unforeseeable and new.
This duration may not be the fact of matter itself, but that
of the life which reascends the course of matter; the two
movements are none the less mutually dependent upon each
other. The duration of the universe must therefore be one
with the latitude of creation which can find place in it.
This duration may not be the fact of matter itself, but that
of the life which reascends the course of matter; the two
movements are none the less mutually dependent upon each
other. The duration of the universe must therefore be one
with the latitude of creation which can find place in it.
When a child plays at reconstructing a picture by putting
together the separate pieces in a puzzle game, the more he
practices, the more and more quickly he succeeds. The
reconstruction was, moreover, instantaneous, the child
found it ready-made, when he opened the box on leaving
the shop. The operation, therefore, does not require a
deSnite time, and indeed; theoretically, it does not require
any time. That is because the result is given. It is be-
cause the picture is already created, and because to obtain
it requires only a work of recomposing and rearranging —
a work that can be supposed going faster and faster, and
even infinitely fast, up to the point of being instantaneous.
But, to the artist who creates a picture by drawing it from
the depths of his soul, time is no longer an accessory; it is
not an interval that may be lengthened or shortened with-
out the content being altered. The duration of his work
is part and parcel of his work. To contract or to dilate
it would be to modify both the psychical evolution that
fills it and the invention which is its goal. The time taken
up by the invention, is one with the invention itself. It
is the progress of a thought which is changing in the degree
and measure that it is taking form. It is a vital process,
■omething like the ripening of an idea.
The painter is before his canvas, the colore are on the
palette, the modcJ is sitting — all this we see, and also we
MODERN SCIENCE
341
F
know the painter's style: do we foresee what will appear
on the canvas? We possess the elements of the problem;
we know in an abstract way, how it will be solved, for the
portrait will surely resemble the model and will surely
resemble also the artist; but the concrete solution brings
with it that unforeseeable nothing which is everything
We possess the elements of the problem;
we know in an abstract way, how it will be solved, for the
portrait will surely resemble the model and will surely
resemble also the artist; but the concrete solution brings
with it that unforeseeable nothing which is everything
_ in a work of art. And it is this nothing that takes time.
Nought as matter, it creates itself as form. The sprouting
and flowering of this form are stretched out on an un-
shrinkable duration, which is one with their essence. So
of the works of nature. Their novelty arises from an inter-
nal impetus which is progress or succession, which confers
on succession a peculiar virtue or which owes to succes-
sion the whole of its virtue — which, at any rate, makes
succession, or continuity of inlerpenetration in time, irre-
ducible to a mere instantaneous juxtaposition in space,
This is why the idea of reading in a present state of the
material universe the future of living forms, and of unfold-
ing now their history yet to come, involves a veritable
absurdity. But this absurdity is difficult to bring out,
because our memory is accustomed to place alongside of
each other, in an ideal space, the terms it perceives in turn,
because it always represents past succession in the form of
I juxtaposition. It is able to do so, indeed, just because the
past belongs to that which is already invented, to the dead,
and no longer to creation and to Ufe, Then, as the succes-
sion to come will end by being a succession past, we per-
suade ourselves that the duration to come admits of the
same treatment as past duration, that it is, even now, un-
rollable, that the future is there, rolled up, already painted
on the canvas. An illusion, no doubt, but an illusion that
_ is natural, ineradicable, and that will last as long as the
human mind !
Time is invention or it is TWthing at aU. But of time-
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
An illusion, no doubt, but an illusion that
_ is natural, ineradicable, and that will last as long as the
human mind !
Time is invention or it is TWthing at aU. But of time-
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
invention physics can take no account, restricted as it is
to the cinematographical method. It is limited to count-
ing simultaneities between the events that make up thJa
time and the positions of the mobile T on its trajectory.
It detaches these events from the whole, which at every
moment puts on a new form and which communicates to
them somethiDg of its novelty. It considers them in the
abstract, such as they would be outside of the living whole,
that is to say, in a time unrolled in space. It retains only
the events or systems of events that can be thus isolated
without being made to undergo too profound a deformation,
because only these lend themselves to the application of
its method. Our physics dates from the day when it was
known how to isolate such systems. To siun up, white
modem physics is distinguished from ancient physics by the
fact thai it considers any moment of time whatever, it rests
altogether on a sybstitution of time-length for time-invention.
It seems then that, parallel to this physics, a second
kind of knowledge ought to have grown up, which could
have retained what physics allowed to escape. On the
8ux itself of duration science neither would nor could lay
hold, bound as it was to the cinematographical method.
This second kind of knowledge would have set the cinemato-
graphical method aside. It would have called upon the
mind to renounce its most cherished habits. It is within
becoming that it would have transported us by an effort of
sympathy. We should no longer be asking where a mov-
ing body will be, what shape a system wiU take, through
what state a change will pass at a given moment : the mo-
ments of time, which are only arrests of our attention,
would no longer exist; it is the flow of time, it is the very
flux of the real that we should be trying to follow. The
first kind of knowledge has the advantage of enabling us to
foresee the future and of making us in some measure masters
MODERN SCIENCE
343
The
first kind of knowledge has the advantage of enabling us to
foresee the future and of making us in some measure masters
MODERN SCIENCE
343
of events; in return, it retains of the moving reality only
eventual immobilities, tliat is to say, views taken of it by
our mind. It symbolizes the real and transposes it into
the human rather than expresses it. The other knowledge,
if it is possible, is practically uselesa, it will not extend
our empire over nature, it will even go against certain
natural aspirations of the intellect; but, if it succeeds, it is
reality itself that it will hold in a firm and final embrace.
Not only may we thus complete the intellect and its know-
ledge of matter by accustoming it to install itself within
the moving, but by developing also another faculty, com-
plementary to the intellect, we may open a perspective on
the other half of the real. For, as soon as we are con-
fronted with true duration, we see that it means creation,
and that if that which is being unmade endures, it can only
be becaase it is inseparably bound to what is making itself.
Thus will appear the necessity of a continual growth of the
universe, I should say of a life of the real. And thus will
be seen in a new light the life which we find on the surface
of our planet, a life directed the same way as that of the
universe, and inverse of materiality. To intellect, in short,
there will be added intuition.
The more we reflect on it, the more we shall find that this
conception of metaphysics is tkat which modem science
For the ancients, indeed, time is theoretically negligible,
because the duration of a thing only manifests the degra-
dation of its essence: it is with this motionless essence
that science has to deal. Change being only the effort of a
form toward its own realization, the realization is all that
it concerns us to know. No doubt the realization is never
complete: it is this that ancient philosophy expresses by
Baying that we do not perceive form without matter. But
if we consider the changing object at a certain essential
344
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
[crf^^^
moment, at its apogee, we may say that there it just touches
its intelligible fonn. This intelligible form, this ideal and,
BO to speak, limiting form, our science seizes upon. And
possessing in this the gold-piece, it holds eminently the
small money which we call becoming or change. This
change is less than being. The knowledge that would take
it for object, supposing such knowledge were possible,
would be less than science.
And
possessing in this the gold-piece, it holds eminently the
small money which we call becoming or change. This
change is less than being. The knowledge that would take
it for object, supposing such knowledge were possible,
would be less than science.
But, for a science that places all the moments of time
in the same rank, that admits no essential moment, no
culminating point, no apogee, change is no longer a dimin-
ution of essence, duration is not a dilution of eternity. The
flux of time is the reality itself, and the things which we
study are the things which flow. It is true that of this
flowing reality we are limited to taking instantaneous
views. But, just because of this, scientiflc knowledge must
appeal to another knowledge to complete it. While the
ancient conception of scientiflc knowledge ended in making
time a degradation, and change the diminution of a fonn
given from all eternity — on the contrary, by foUowing the
new conception to the end, we should come to see in time
a progressive gronlh of the absolute, and in the evolution
of things a continual invention of forms ever new.
It is true that it would be to break with the metaphyMcs
of the ancients, They saw only one way of knowing defi-
nitely. Their science consisted in a scattered and frag-
mentary metaphysics, their metaphysics in a concentrated
and systematic science- Their science and metaphj-sica
were, at most, two species of one and the same genus. In
our hypothesis, on the contrary, science and metaphysics
are two opposed although complementary ways of knowing,
the first retaining only moments, that is to say, that which
does not endure, the second bearing on duration itself.
Now, it was natural to hesitate between so novel a cod-
■^.I
DESCARTES
345
ception of metaphysics and the traditional conception.
The temptation must have been strong to repeat with the
new science what had been tried on the old, to suppose
our scientific knowledge of nature completed at once, to
unify it entirely, and to give to this unification, as the
Greeks had already done, the name of metaphysics. So,
beside the new way that philosophy might have prepared,
the old remained open, that indeed which physics trod.
And, as physics retained of time only what could as well be
spread out aU at once in space, the metaphysics that chose
the same direction had necessarily to proceed as if time
created and annihilated nothing, as if duration had no
efficacy. Bound, Hke the physics of the modems and the
metaphysics of the ancients, to the cinematographical
method, it ended with the conclusion, implicitly admitted
at the start and immanent in the method itself: AU is
Bound, Hke the physics of the modems and the
metaphysics of the ancients, to the cinematographical
method, it ended with the conclusion, implicitly admitted
at the start and immanent in the method itself: AU is
That metaphysics hesitated at fiist between the two paths
seems to us unquestionable. The indecision is visible in
Cartesianisra. On the one hand, Descartes affirms uni-
versal mechanism; from this point of view movement
would be relative,' and, as time has just as much reality
as movement, it would follow that past, present and future
are given from all eternity. But, on the other hand (and
that is why the philosopher has not gone to these extreme
consequences), Descartes believes in the free will of man.
He superposes on the determinism of physical phenomena
the indetenninism of human actions, and, consequently, on
time-length a time in which there is invention, creation,
true succession. This duration he supports on a God
who is unceasingly renewing the creative act, and who,
being thus tangent to time and becoming, sustains them,
communicates to them necessarily something of hia absolute
> Descartea, Prindpet, ii. { 29.
346 CREATira EVOLUTION [ohap
reality. When he places himself at this second point of
view, Descartes speaks of movement, even spatial, as of an
absolute."
{ 29.
346 CREATira EVOLUTION [ohap
reality. When he places himself at this second point of
view, Descartes speaks of movement, even spatial, as of an
absolute."
He therefore entered both roads one after the other, hav-
ing resolved to follow neither of them to the end. The
first would have led him to the denial of free will in man
and of real will in God. It was the suppression of alt
efficient duration, the likening of the universe to a thing
given, which a superhuman intelligence would embrace
at once in a moment or in eternity. lo following the second,
on the contrary, he would have been led to all the conse-
quences which the intuition of true duration implies. Cre-
ation would have appeared not simply as continued, but
also as continuous. The universe, regarded as a whole,
would really evolve. The future would no longer be deter-
minable by the present; at most we might say that, once
reahzed, it can be found again in its antecedents, as the
sounds of a new language can be expressed with the letters
of an old alphabet if we agree to enlarge the value of the
letters and to attribute to them, retro-actively. sounds
which no combination of the old sounds could have pro-
duced beforehand. Finally, the mechanistic explanation
might have remained universal in this, that it can indeed
be extended to as many systems as we choose to cut out
in the continuity of the universe; but mechanism would
then have become a method rather than a doctrine. It
would have expressed the fact that science must proceed
after the cinematographical manner, that the function of
science is to scan the rhythm of the flow of things and not
to fit itself into that flow, — Such were the two opposite con-
ceptions of metaphysics which were offered to philosophy.
It chose the first. The reason of this choice is undoubt-
edly the mind's tendency to follow the cinematographical
Descartes, Prineipta, ii. jj 3S ff.
SPINOZA AND LEIBNIZ
347
I
F
method, a method so natural to our intellect, and so well
adjusted also to the requirements of our science, that we
must feel doubly sure of its speculative impotence to re-
nounce it in metaphysics. But ancient philosophy also
influenced the choice. Artists for ever admirable, the
Greeks created a type of suprasensible truth, as of sensible
beauty, whose attraction Is hard to resist. As soon as we
incline to make metaphysics a systematization of science,
we glide in the direction of Plato and of Aristotle. And,
Artists for ever admirable, the
Greeks created a type of suprasensible truth, as of sensible
beauty, whose attraction Is hard to resist. As soon as we
incline to make metaphysics a systematization of science,
we glide in the direction of Plato and of Aristotle. And,
I once in the zone of attraction in which the Greek philoso-
phers moved, we are drawn along in their orbit.
Such was the case with Leibniz, as also with Spinoza.
We are not blind to the treasures of originality their doc-
trines contain. Spinoza and Leibniz have poured into
them the whole content of their souls, rich with the in-
ventions of their genius and the acquisitions of modem
thought. And there are in each of them, especially in
Spinoza, flashes of intuition that break through the system.
But if we leave out of the two doctrines what breathes life
into them, if we retain the skeleton only, we have before
us the very picture of Platonism and Aristotehanism seen
through Cartesian mechanism. They present to us a
systematization of the new physics, constructed on the
model of the ancient metaphysics.
What, indeed, could the unification of physics be? The
inspiring idea of that science was to isolate, within the uni-
verse, systems of material points such that, the position
of each of these points being known at a given moment,
we could then calculate it for any moment whatever. As,
moreover, the systems thus defined were the only ones on
which the new science had hold, and as it could not be
known beforehand whether a system satisfied or did not
satisfy the desired condition, it was useful to proceed always
and everywhere as if the condition was realized. There
348
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
There
348
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
was in this a methodological rule, a very natural rule —
ao natural, indeed, that it was not even necessary to formu-
late it. For simple common sense tells us that when we
are possessed of an effective instrument of research, and
are ignorant of the limits of its applicability, we should
act as if it3 applicability were unlimited ; there will always
be time to abate it. But the temptation must have been
great for the philosopher to hypostatize this hope, or rather
this impetus, of the new science, and to convert a general
rule of method into a fundamental law of things. So he
transported himself at once to the limit ; he supposed ph>'sics
to have become complete and to embrace the whole of the
sensible world. The universe became a system of points,
the position of which was rigorously determined at each
instant by relation to the preceding instant and theoretically
calculable for any moment whatever. The result, in short,
was universal mechanism. But it was not enough to
fonnulate this mechanism; what was required was to
found it, to give the reason for it and prove its necessity.
And the essential affirmation of mechanism being that of a
reciprocal mathematical dependence of all the points of
the universe, as also of all the moments of the universe,
the reason of mechani.'im had to be discovered in the unity
of a principle into which could be contracted all that is
juxtaposed in space and successive in time. Hence, the
whole of the re^l was supposed to be given at once. The
reciprocal determination of the juxtaposed appearances in
space was explained by the indivisibility of true being, and
the inflexible determinism of successive phenomena in time
simply expressed that the whole of being is ^ven in the
eternal.
The new philosophy was going, then, to be a recommence-
ment, or rather a transposition, of the old. The ancient
philosophy had taken each of the concepts into which a
SPINOZA AND LEIBNIZ
349
r
becoming is concentrated or which mark its apogee: it
supposed them all known, and gathered them up into a
single concept, form of forms, idea of ideas, like the God
of Aristotle- The new philosophy was going to take each
»of the laws which condition a beconaing in relation to others
and which are as the permanent eubstratum of phenomena:
it would suppose them all known, and would gather them
up into a unity which also would express them eminently,
but which, like the God of Aristotle and for the same
(reasons, must remain immutably shut up in itself.
True, this return to the ancient philosophy was not with-
out great difficulties. \Vhen a Plato, an Aristotle, or a
Flotinus melt all the concepts of their science into a single
one, in so doing they embrace the whole of the real, for
concepts are supposed to represent the things themselves,
and to possess at least as much positive content. But a
law, in general, expresses only a relation, and physical
laws in particular express only qvantitaiii'e relations be-
tween concrete things, So that if a modern philosopher
works with the laws of the new science as the Greek philoso-
pher did with the concepts of the ancient science, if he makes
»all the conclusions of a physics supposed omniscient con-
Verge on a single point, he neglects what is concrete in the
phenomena — the qualities perceived, the perceptions them-
selves. His synthesis comprises, it seems, only a fraction
of reality. In fact, the first result of the new science was
to cut the real into two halves, quantity and quality, the
former being credited to the account of bodies and the latter
to the account of souls. The ancients had raised no such
barriere either between 'quahty and quantity or between
soul and body. For them, the mathematical concepts
were concepts hke the others, related to the others and
fitting quite naturally into the hierarchy of the Ideas.
Neither was the body then defined by geometrical extension,
350
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
(CK^^^^
nor the soul by consciousness. If the (f'^x^ of Aristotle,
the entelechy of a living body, is less spiritual than our
"soul," it is because his o^/ui, already impregnated with the
Idea, is less corporeal than our " body." The scission was
not yet irremediable between the two terms. It has be-
come so, and thence a mctaphysic that aims at an abstract
unity must resign itself either to comprehend in its synthe-
sis only one half of the real, or to take advantage of the
absolute heterogeneity of the two halves in order to con-
sider one as a translation of the other. Different phrases
will express different things if they belong to the same
language, that is to say, if there is a certain relationship
of sound betwesn them. But if they belong to two different
languages, they might, just because of their radical di-
veraity of sound, express the same thmg. So of quality
and quantity, of soul and body. It is for having cut all
connection between the two terms that philosophers have
been led to establish between them a rigorous parallelism,
of which the ancients had not dreamed, to regard them as
translations and not as inversions of each other; in short,
to posit a fundamental identity as a substratum to their
duality. The synthesis to which they rose thus became
capable of embracing everjlhing. A divine mechanism
made the phenomena of thought to correspond to those of
extension, each to each, qualities to quantities, soula to
bodies.
The synthesis to which they rose thus became
capable of embracing everjlhing. A divine mechanism
made the phenomena of thought to correspond to those of
extension, each to each, qualities to quantities, soula to
bodies.
It is this parallelism that we find both in Leibniz and in
Spinoza — in different forms, it is true, because of the un-
equal importance which they attach to extension. With
Spinoza, the two terms Thought and Extension are placed,
in principle at least, in the same rank. They arc, there-
fore, two translations of one and the same original, or, as
Spinoza says, two attributes of one and the same substance,
which we must call God. And these two translations,
SPINOZA AND LEIBNIZ
351
H as also an inanity of others into languages which we know
not, are called up and even forced into existence by the
original, just as the essence of the circle is translated auto-
matically, so to speak, both by a figure and by an equation.
For Leibniz, on the contrary, extension is indeed still a
translation, but it is thought that is the original, and
thought might dispense with translation, the translation
being made only for us. In positing God, we necessarily
posit also all the possible views of God, that is to say, the
t monads. But we can always imagine that a view has been
taken from a point of view, and it is natural for an imperfect
mind like ours to class views, qualitatively different, ac-
cording to the order and position of points of view, quali-
tatively identical, from which the views might have been
taken. In reality the points of view do not exist, for there
are only views, each given in an indivisible block and
representing in its ov/n way the whole of reality, which Ui
God. But we need to express the plurality of the views,
that are unlike each other, by the multiplicity of the points
of view that are exterior to each other; and we also need
to symbolize the more or less close relationship between
the views by the relative situation of the points of view to
one another, their nearness or their distance, that is to say,
by a magnitude. That is what Leibniz means when he
says that space is the order of coexistents, that the per-
ception of extension is a confused perception (that is to say,
a perception relative to an imperfect mind), and that
nothing exists but monads, expressing thereby that the
real Whole has no parts, but is repeated to infinity, each
time integrally (though diversely) within itself, and that
all these repetitions are complementary to each other.
In just the same way, the visible relief of an object is equiva-
lent to the whole set of stereoscopic views taken of it from
all points, so that, instead of seeing in the relief a juxta-
352 CREATIVE EVOLUTION tOHAP.
In just the same way, the visible relief of an object is equiva-
lent to the whole set of stereoscopic views taken of it from
all points, so that, instead of seeing in the relief a juxta-
352 CREATIVE EVOLUTION tOHAP.
position of solid parts, we might quite as well look tipon it
as made of the reciprocal complementarity of these whole
views, each given in block, each indivisible, eacii different
from all the others and yet representative of the same thing.
The Whole, that is to say, God, is this very relief for Leibmx,
and the monads are these complementary plane views;
for that reason he defines God as "the substance that has
no point of view," or, again, as " the universal harmony,"
that is to say, the reciprocal complementarity of monads.
In short, Leibniz differs from Spinoza in this, that he looks
upon the universal mechanism as an aspect which reality
takes for us, whereas, Spinoza makes of it an aspect which
reality takes for itself.
It is true that, after having concentrated in God the
whole of the real, it became difficult for them to pass from
God to things, from eternity to time. The difficulty was
even much greater for these philosophers than an Aristotle
or a Plotinus. The God of Aristotle, indeed, had been
obtained by the compression and reciprocal compene-
tration of the Ideas that represent, in their finished state
or in their culminating point, the changing things of the
world. He was, therefore, transcendent to the world,
and the duration of things was juxtaposed to His eternity,
of which it was only a weakening. But in the principle
to which we are led by the consideration of universal
mechanism, and which must serve as its substratum, it
ifl not concepts or things, but laws or relations that are
condensed. Now, a relation does not exist separately.
A law connects changing terms and is immanent in what
it governs. The principle in which all these relations
are ultimately summed up, and which is the basis of the
unity of nature, cannot, therefore, be transcendent to
sensible reality; it is immanent in it, and we must suppose
that it IB at once both in and out of time, gathered up in the
SPINOZA AND LEIBNIZ
353
unity of its substance and yet condemned to wind it off in
an endless chain. Rather than formulate so appalling a
contradiction, the philosophers were necessarily led to
sacrifice the weaker of the two terms, and to regard the
temporal aspect of things as a mere illusion, Leibniz says
so in explicit terms, for he makes of time, as of space, a
confused perception. While the multiplicity of his monads
expresses only the diversity of views taken of the whole,
the history of an isolated monad seems to be hardly any-
thing else than the manifold views that it can take of its
own substance: so that time would consist in all the points
of view that each monad can assume towards itself, as
space consists in all the points of view that all monads
can assume towards God. But the thought of Spinoza
is much less clear, and this philosopher seems to have sought
to establish, between eternity and that which has duration,
the same difference as Aristotle made between essence and
accidents: a most difficult undertaking, for the uHij of
Aristotle was no longer there to measure the distance and
fffplnin the passage from the essential to the accidental,
Descart«s having eliminated it for ever. However that
may be, the deeper we go into the Spinozistic conception
of the "inadequate," as related to the "adequate," the
more we feel ourselves moving in the direction of Aristote-
tianism — just as the Leibnizian monads, in proportion as
they mark themselves out the more clearly, tend to ap-
proximate to the Intelligibles of Plotinus.' The natural
trend of these two philosophies brings them back to the
conclusions of the ancient philosophy.
To sum up, the resemblances of this new metaphysic
to that of the ancients arise from the fact that both suppose
In a course of lectures on Plotinus, given at the College de France in
1897-1898, we tried to bring out these resemblftaces. They are numerous
and impressive. Tbe analogy is continued even in the formulae em-
ployed on each aide.
354 CREATIVE EVOLUTION
ready-made — ^the former above the sensible, the latter
within the sensible — a science one and complete, with
which any reality that the sensible may contain is believed
to coincide. For both, reality as well as truth are integraUy
given in etemiiy. Both are opposed to the idea of a reality
that creates itself gradually, that is, at bottom, to an ab-
solute duration.
For both, reality as well as truth are integraUy
given in etemiiy. Both are opposed to the idea of a reality
that creates itself gradually, that is, at bottom, to an ab-
solute duration.
Now, it might easily be shown that the conclusions of
this metaphysic, springing from science, have rebounded
upon science itself, as it were, by ricochet. They penetrate
the whole of our so-called empiricism. Physics and chem-
istry study only inert matter; biology, when it treats the
living being physically and chemically, considers only
the inert side of the living: hence the mechanistic expla-
nations, in spite of their development, include only a small
part of the real. To suppose a -priori that the whole of
the real is resolvable into elements of this kind, or at least
that mechanism can ^ve a complete translation of what
happens in the world, is to pronounce for a certain meta-
physic— the very metaphysic of which Spinoza and Leib-
niz have laid down the principles and drawn the conse-
quences. Certainly, the psycho-physiologist who Actios
the exact equivalence of the cerebral and the psyclucal
state, who imagines the possibility, for some superhuman
intellect, of reading in the brain what is going on in con-
sciousness, believes himself very far from the metaphy^-
cians of the seventeenth century, and very near to experi-
ence. Yet experience pure and simple tells us nothing of the
kind. It shows us the interdependence of the mental and
the physical, the necessity of a certain cerebral substratum
for the psychical state — nothing more. From the fact
that two things are mutually dependent, it does not follow
that they are equivalent. Because a certain screw ia
XT.]
355
It shows us the interdependence of the mental and
the physical, the necessity of a certain cerebral substratum
for the psychical state — nothing more. From the fact
that two things are mutually dependent, it does not follow
that they are equivalent. Because a certain screw ia
XT.]
355
I necessary to a certain machine, because the machine works
when the screw is there and stops when the screw is taken
away, we do not say that the screw is the equivalent of
the machine. For correspondence to be equivalence,
it would be necessary that to any part of the machine a
definite part of the screw should correspond — as in a hteral
translation in which each chapter renders a chapter, each
sentence a sentence, each word a word. Now, the re-
lation of the brain to consciousness seems to be entirely
different. Not only docs the hypothesis of an equivalence
between the psychical state and the cerebral state imply a
downright absurdity, as we have tried to prove in a former
essay,' but the facts, examined without prejudice, cer-
tainly seem to indicate that the relation of the psychical
to the physical is just that of the machine to the screw.
To speak of an equivalence between the two is simply
to curtail, and make almost unintelligible, the Spinozis-
tic or Leiboizian metaphysic. It is to accept this philos-
ophy, such as it is, on the side of Extension, but to mutilata
it on the side of Thought, With Spinoza, with Leibniz,
we suppose the unifying synthesis of the phenomena of
matter achieved, and everything in matter explained
mechanically. But, for the conaciouB facts, we no longer
push the synthesis to the end. We atop half-way. We
suppose consciousness to be coextensive with a certain
part of nature and not with all of it. We are thus led,
sometimes to an " epiphenomenalism" that associates
consciousness with certain particular vibrations and puts
it here and there in the world in a sporadic state, and some-
times to a "monism" that scatters consciousness into as
many tiny grains as there are atoms; but, in either case,
it is to an incomplete Spinozism or to an incomplete Leib-
'"Le Pftfalogisme psycho-physio logique" (Rrvue de mtlaphysique tt
dt mortdt, Kov. 1904, pp. S95-908). Cf. Matiere et memmre, Paris, 1809,
356
CREATIVE EVOLUTION
nizianism that we come back. Between this conception
of nature and Cartesianism we find, moreover, intermediate
historical stages. The medical philosophers of the eight-
eenth century, with their cramped Cartesianism, have had a
great part in the genesis of the " epiphenomenalism" and
"monism" of the present day.
Between this conception
of nature and Cartesianism we find, moreover, intermediate
historical stages. The medical philosophers of the eight-
eenth century, with their cramped Cartesianism, have had a
great part in the genesis of the " epiphenomenalism" and
"monism" of the present day.
These doctrines are thus foimd to fall short of the ICantian
criticism. Certainly, the philosophy of Kant is also im-
bued with the belief in a science single and complete, em-
bracing the whole of the real. Indeed, looked at from one
aspect, it is only a continuation of the metaphysics of the
modems and a transposition of the ancient metaphysics.
Spinoza and Leibniz had, following Aristotle, hypoetatized
in God the unity of knowledge. The Kantian criticism,
on one side at least, consists in asking whether the whole
of this hypothesis is necessary to modern science as it was
to ancient science, or if part of the hypothesis is not suf-
ficient. For the ancients, science applied to concepts,
that is to say, to kinds of things. In compressing all con-
cepts into one, they therefore necessarily arrived at a
being, which we may call Thought, but which was rather
thought^object than thought-subject. When Aristotle
defined God the mijoscus i^otjaca, it is probably on t»5' 3, 344-5. 34S,
349-Gl. 364. 369
and modem science, 329-30,
S3S, 342-3, 341-5, 357
motion In. 30T-S. 312-3
neceaalty in, 327
Don-beIng, 316. 337
« TZOCtlTlKOS, 322
oacUlatlon about being, senBlbte
reality as. 317-S
fnyalcB ot Arlatotle, 227-8 note,
324 note, 33D-I
Plato. 48, 156, 131. 210 note,
316-3. 321-t, 327, 330. 348. 349
Plotlnua. 21D. 316. 333. 326 note,
349, 352-1
procession In Alexandrian phl-
loiopliy. 323
ibvTJ), 210 «o(s, 360
realism In. 232
n of Idea through mat-
ter or non-being. 317
■ecllonlng of becoming, 31S-B
sensible reality, 314. 3I6-t, 321,
327-9, 362-3
21. 126. 129. 131-2. 1
g, 139, 179, 184-6
AnlmalB, 106-47. 167, 170. 181. 133.
I ST, 212. 114, 216. 251, 263,
264. 262-5, 267, 271, 2B3, 301
deduction In, 212
Induction in. 211
and man, 139-43, 183, 137, IH,
213, 263. 261, 267
respect to brain,
133. 181-5. 263-5
nd man In respect to COQ-
Hclousness, 139-13. 180. 133,
187. ISS, 192, 212. 263-8
mathemattcKl order, 218. 5s«
Archimedes. SIS -4
Arlatotte. See Ancient Philoso-
phy, Arialotle
Arrow, Flying, of Zeno. SOR->,
310. 312-3
Art, «-7, 39 nole, 4K. 89. 177
Artemla Sallna, trBnsfoniia.tlona
t>I.
. 73
ArthropodB In i
11!
Artlculats speclea. 1SS
. 367
of I
, 310-1
I time. 332-3
Artificial, how fa
knowledEe Is, 1ST. 21S-9
InBtruments. 138, 139. 140-
Artist. In Illustration of tlie c
ttveneaB of duration, 340-
Ascendlng coHmlc movement.
203, 2TE. 369
' Ascent toward God. In Arlat
In Arlat
Buoclatton
259, 260. See Socie-
ties
Aitninomy and deduction. 213
and the Inert order, 224
modem. In reference to nnclent
Kicnce. 334-6
Atmosphere of spatial Ity bsthlnr
IntelllEence. 204
Atom. 240. 364. IGG
as an Intellc
ter. 20S 2E0
movement, etc..
Automatism. 12T. ItS-
Baclcground of Instinct and Intel-
ligence, consciousness as. IM
Backward -looklnE attitude of ths
Intellect. 47, 48. 237
Baldwin. J. M.. 27 nolo
Ballast of Intelligence, 153. 331).
239. 369-70
Bastlan. 21! note
Bateson. 63
Becoming. 164. 336. 348-8. 113.
29R-304, 307-8, S13-t. 316. 137-
8. 342-3. 346, 363
In ancient philosophy, 313-4,
317
In Descartes-s philosophy. IM
In Eleatlc philosophy. S13-», 31t
In general, or abstract becom-
ing. 304. 3DG-7
ini
. 373, :
9 of, falsely so called. 1(4.
247-8. 273, 298-3D1, 307-B
In the successors of Ksint, SSS.
See Change, wew, Duration.
Time, Views o( reality
Bees. 101. 140, 142, 146, 166. 171
Beethoven. 334
Berth old,
Beth«
176 J
Sw
Attention. 3, 148-B. 1E4, ISI. 20t
discontinuity of, 3
In man and In lower animals,
St 1 net. Tension as Inverted
eirtenslon. Tension of pernon-
ellty. Sympathellc apT)recla-
tlon. etc.. Relaxation and In-
tellect
Attraction and Impulsion In
Greek philosophy. 32S. 334
Attribute and subject, 143
Automatic activity. 146
as Instrument Of voluntary. iSt
order, 224. 231-4. Bea NcgatlTe
Bifurcations of tendency. 54.
Divergent lines of evolution
Biology, 12, !S. 26. 31-2. 43, 161-
9, 174-5. 194-6
evolutionist. 16S-9
and philosophy. 43. 194-6
and physico -chemistry. 36
Blaringhem, 85
Bodies. 156, 1S8, 189, SOO-1, 360.
tlon of the unextended Into
defined as bundles of qualities.
Bola-Revmond (Du). 38
,246
oclal instincts fn, ITl
Bomblnc
Bow, strain of. Illustrating Indl-
vlalblllly of motion, 3011-10
Brain and consciousness. 5, IW.
110. 179-SO, 1S3-4. 312 aoW,
252. 281-4. 270. 354. 3S«. J66.
Bet Nervous System
Nervoufl ajrstem ClrcumstancM tContlnuedt
CortBlnty o( Induellon, 3IS, ifig, ijo-l. 193, 19*. 151. UC
„ ^" , ^. ^ '" '*!»"'"' to special ln.tlncta.
Chance snaloROUS to aiaorder. IBS 168 193
233, m. Sec AflecHon classes ot words corre-Dondloi
In evolution. 36-7. 104. lll-B, to the Ihreo kinds ot repre-
126. 169-70, 171, 252, 254, 255. sentatlon 303-4
2«S, 2S7, 826-7. Sea Indeter- Claualus, 241
mlnatlon Clearneai chBracteriallc of intel-
ChanBe, I, 7-8. IS, S5-)t, 24B. 275, [get, IflO
iin. 3ia-v. 34d-4, BM-tt j||e unorganlKed, 190. l»g-»
cSrr3p'SSe^^^^ "'""arrr^aV2T;o7."?44'"^'"
63 ff.
of evolutionary rank. 133. 28S
Criticism, Kantian, 205. 287 not«,
356. 360-2
of knotvledge. 194-E
through becoming by
Intellect, 311. Bee Views of
through matter by perception.
of vital tendency. Bl.
G2. 54. 110. 126
CrUBtacea, 19, 111. 129-30
Crystal Illustrating (by contnst)
Individuation. 13
:, 7B note
Culminating points of evolution-
Creation, It, T, It, 12, 22. 29, 30. Cuvler. 126 note
15. 13. 100, 101. 103, 105, lOS.
114. 128-31, 161, 163-1. 178. Dantec (L«). IS note, 81 not*
200, 217. 218, 223, 226, 230. 237- Darwin, 63-5, 66, 72. lOg, 170 not*
10. 261. 270. 276, 339-40 Darwinism. 56, gS, SC
in Desoartes's philosophy, 315 Dastre. 36 note
. 218-9 Dead, the. Is the object Of IQ-
DlaaodaUon as a cosmic principle
oppoBeil to aaaoclBtlon, 280
of tendencies, 54, 89. 1S5, Z54,
265, 257, 2fiS. Sea Divergent
llnea ot evolution
Distance, extension as the, be-
tween what is and what
ought to be. 318-9. 32T-S. 331
Distinct multiplicity In the dream
state, 201. 210
of the Inert, 26T
DlstlnetneBS characteristic ot the
intellect 160, Z3T. 251
characteristic of perception.
Duration xlv note, 2, 4-S,
16, 17, 21, 22. 37, 39. 40. SI.
199, 201, 208, 213, »«, 240.
27Z, 373. 276, Z9S-3, 308-9, IIT-
8. 319 not*. 334. 328, 332, 33S.
342. 343, 345, 351. 391, 363-4
abHolulenens ot, 205
and deduction. 213
in Descartes 's philosophy, S4C
IndlvlBlbilily of. 8. 308-9
and Induction. 315
I the philosophy ot the Ideaa,
3ie-T, 31S nolt. 324, J2T, 338-9
as spatlality. 203, 207-8. 244. rhythm of, U, 138, 346. Sta
250 Creation. Evolution, Invui-
Dlvereent lines of evolution, xf!, tlon. Time, Unforeieeable-
E4, 55. ST. 97-101. 103-4, 106, ness. Uniqueness
107, 109, 112. 113, 116, 119. „ ^, ^ . ,
130 132, 134-6. 142, 149, 150, B:chlnodenns In reference to anl-
168 173. 181, 254, 256. 266, 267. ""'I mobility. 130. 131
a— DIssoclaUon of tenden- Efficient cause in conception of
cles. Complementarity, etc.. chance. 234 i
Schl-ras in the primitive Im- Splno^a and. 269 ^^^
pulsion of lite Effort In evolution, 170 ^^H
Blvaralty. sensible. 205, 220-1. £ido3 314-5 ^^^H
331. 235. 336 Elmer. 55, 72, 73. 86 I^^H
Divination, Instinct as. 17S. SeB Elaborateneaa of the mattMH^^H
Sympathy, etc. eal order. 208-10, 217, 161 |
Dlvlslblllly of extension. 154. 102 Elcallc philosophy, 308, 314-6
DlvlsoQ SB function of Intellect, Emanation, logical thought an,
162. 164. 162-3, 1B9 Issue, aspect or deposit of
of labor, 99, 110. IIB, 157. 166, lite, Ix. xll, xlll, 49
260 Embroidering "aomething" on
of labor in cells. 166 the canvas of "nothing." 397
330
of Lelbnli and Spinoza. 366-7
skepticism, and relativism, 196-
7. !30
Dors and the law of correlation,
46
Domefltication of animals and
heredity. SO
Dominants of Relnke. 42 nots
Dorfmelster. 72
Dream. 144, 180-1. 202, SOS. 266.
Bet Interpenelratlon. Relaxa-
tion. Detention, Recollection
aa relaxation. 202
DHeach, 41 noM
Drosera, 107. 101, 10*
Embryo, IS. 19, 26, 37. 75, 81. 19.
101. 166
Kmbryogeny. comparative, and
Embryonic life, 27, 166
Empirical study of evolution th«
centre of the theory of know-
ledge and of the theory of
life. 178
theories of knowledge. 106
Empty, thinking the full by
means of the empty, STS-4
End In Eleallc phlloBophy. 114-6
of science Is practical utility.
329
Eventual actions, 11, 9E. Bee
Posalblo activity of apecles product of the vital
BiTolutlon, U'^tv. IS. !0. 12, 2i, Impetus opposed by matter,
2S. 26-7. 37, *B-66. 63, BS, 79 3 -. 116. IIH, 120. 2*t ot tlilnklng motion by the
of organlEatlon. 92 motlonlesB. 272, 27S, 19I-S,
Cxploalves, manufacture of. by 3il7-S. 30B-I4
planls and use by antmala, Fallibility of Instinct. 172-)
246. 354 Falling back of matter upon con-
Bxtenslon. 149. 154. 161, 20£, 203, sclousness. 2H
207, 211. 223, 236. 246, 313-20. bodies, comparison of Aristotle
324, S37, 361. 362 and Galileo, 328, 33t-I. 334
continuity of. 1G4 weight, figure of material
discontinuity of. relative to Be- world, 346. 246
tlon, 1B4. Ifl2 Familiar, the. la the ohject of la-
■s the distance between what tellect. 163, 184, 199, 170
IB and what ought to be. 318 Faraday. 203
divisibility of, 154. 16! Fasting. In reference to primacy
the moat general property of of Dervous system over the
matter. 154, 250, 2Gt other physiological ayBtems,
■Ion. 245 Fauna, menace of torpor In
Of knowledge, 150 primitive. 130
In IJelbnlz'B philosophy, 361, Feeling In the conception o(
352 chance, 207
of matter In space, 204, 311 and Instinct. 143, 174-5
In the philosophy of Ideas. 318- Fenclng-maaler. Illitatratlng tie-
9, 323-4. 327 redltary Iranstnlsslon. 79
and relaxation, 202. 207, 206, Ferments, certain characteristics
211. 212, 218. 223. 245 Of, 106
In Spinoza'a philosophy. 360 Fer(ill2Htlon of orchids by
In the Transcendental Aea- Insects, by Darwin. 170
Ihetic, 203 note
unity of. 168-B Ftchte'a conception of the talol-
BS weakening of the esaence of lect. 189-90, 167
being. In Plodnus. 210 »io(B FlllneB. iron. In Illustration of
40. 46, 234. 32G
183. 170, 1S2. 193, 252. 2&6. 257 conception of. Involves eon-
nnallty. 41 ceptlon of mechanical cause,
Externality of concepts. 160. 1S8. (4
174. 177. 199, 261. 305. 311-4 Ood as. In Aristotle, S23-)
the most general property ot Flnsllsm. 39-53, 53. 14. 88-97. 101-
matter. 1E4, 260, S61 5. 126-3
Bitemal1»d action In distinction Finality. 41, 1E4. 17T-B, ISB. lU.
from Intemsllzed, 147. 166. 224. 268
See -"omnambullBm. etc., external and Internal, It
Automatic activity, etc. mlstlt for the 9, Its
fallibility of Instinct In, ITl-J
In general in, 1S9. I7I-4
InaectB (Contina§d)
laneuBiSe oC anU, 15T-S
object or Inatinct In. 146
paralyzlns Insllncl In. 146. 171.
172-3
■oclBl Inatinct In. 101. lGT-8. 171
special Instincta aa varlallona
on a theme, 1S7. See Ar-
tliroyodi In evolution
Insenalble variation, £3, Efi
Inipl ration of a poem an un-
divided Intuitive act, con-
trasted vlth Ita Intellectual
Imitation in words. 203. 210,
ZGS. Bea Sympathy
Inatantanelty ot the Intellectual
view. 31, TO. 84. S9. 199, 301-Z,
207. 228. 249. 2Gg, 273, 300-6.
311. 314. 331-3. 342. 3B1. 3G2
Initlnct and action on Inert mat-
ter, 136. 141
In animals as dlstineulahed
from plants, ITO
In cells, 166
and consciousness. 143-5, 166.
167, 17S, 174. 175. ISa
culmination of. In evolution,
133. 174-6. See Arttiropoda In
evolution, Evolutionary su-
periority
raiiibiiity of, 171-4
In Insects In eeneral, 169. 173-t
and intelllsence. xll. EI. 100.
103. 113. 116-8, 132-7. 141-S.
14G. ISO, 163. 159. lES-TO, 173-
9. 1S4-6. 186. 197-8, 238. 246.
ZG4, 25 G, 259. 267. 268. 343.
S4G, 36G
and Intuition. 177. 17S-S, 131
object ot, 146-52, I6G, 1GB, 172-
B, 186. 1E9, 195. 334. 254
and organization. 23-4, 133-40,
14G, 166-8. 171-3, 173, 176. 193,
194, 2B4
paralyzlnK. In certain hymen-
optera. 146. 171. 172-3
In plants. 170. 171
social, of Inaecta. 101, 15T-3. 171
Instinctive knowledge, 148. 167,
168, 173-4
leamlnK. 193
metaphysics, 192, 269. 270. 277
iDStnimenl, action as. ot con-
t of voluntary. 2G2
Ttl-
Inatrument (Oontinued)
Inlelllgence: tbe function of In-
tel Ueence 19 to conatruct
Inatrumenta, 159, 192-3
IntclIlEence traneforma life Into
160
of Inatinct, 140-1.
i4e.
Intellect and action, \x. It, 29.
44-8, 93, 116, 142, 152-7. 162,
179, 1S6, 187. 192, 105, 1B7-8,
219, 220, 226-9, ZGl, 270. 273,
297-9. 301. 302. 306, 329. 346-7
In I
1S7
FIchte-a conception of the, 189.
190, 357
function of tho, 6, 11. 12, 44-
GO, 92, 93, 126, 137-45, 149-60,
162-4. 168. 174, 176. 181, 187-
99, 204-8. 214-9, 229, 233. 237,
241, 242. 246, 347, 251. 170. 290.
2«S, 299, 318. 336. 337, 341, 342.
347. 34S 356. 357
168. 174, 176. 181, 187-
99, 204-8. 214-9, 229, 233. 237,
241, 242. 246, 347, 251. 170. 290.
2«S, 299, 318. 336. 337, 341, 342.
347. 34S 356. 357
genesis of the, xl-xv. 49. 103,
104-G. I26-T, 152. 153. 186. 187,
189, 193. 194. 195, 193, 207.
247-9, 358, 369. 366
11, 12. 46, 49. 51, 86, ' Ss'-Sl!
93, 94. 103-4, 113, 116-3. 129.
13E, 133, 135, 136, 139-43, KG.
167. 161, 168-80, 181, 183. 184.
185. 190-204. 207-12. 216-S. 221.
223, 226-6, 230-3. 235, 236, 238,
245-52. 254-9, 264. 267-71. 276,
277. 813, 330, 339, 342-5, 361.
3«9
and language, 4, 118, 163-60,
2eS. SAG. 292, 303, 304. 312.
313. 126
and matter, Ix-xv. 10, 11, 43-9,
92. 13G. 136, 141, 142. 162-4,
1EG, 160. 161. 165. 168, 175. 179.
IBl, 182, 186-7, 190. 193. 194.
195, 198. 199. 201-1. 2UG-10, 211.
21G, 218-20, 224. 22S-30, 240-S,
245, 246. 218-52, 264, 2Gt-*,
Se4. 270, 271, 172, 371, 275. 397-
8. 306, 319. 321. 329, 340, 341-
1. 347-9. 355, 368-61. 368, 169
1 of t
(V. 4. 10.
Intellect (CTonHnued)
18*. 16&. 167. 16S, nS, 174,
176. 177, 186. 1S7, 190-3. 1B4-
218. 223-40, 244. 246-T. 34S-S1.
254, ZEE, I&7. 258. 2«S, 370,
273, 276-T. 292. 300-21, 325.
32», 310, 332, 337, 33S, 339,
S41-8, 351, 3&S-t, S61-Z, 363-
4, 366, 367
oWecl of the. li-KV. 7, 8, 10,
17, 20, 21. 30, 31. 34. 35. 37,
*6-». 52, Tl. T4, S4. 87-92, 93,
SB, 103, 103, 139. 140. 14S, 152-
66, 16S, 173. ITB-9. 180, 131.
ISe. ISO, 193-211, 213, 216-20.
123, 224, 226. 228-30, 233, 237,
138, 240, ilB. 249-61, 264, ZEE,
Z5T-9. 261. 2S
In representation at "nought"
Bat Affection, r6la
^^^^^^^ INDEX 391 ^^1
H POtltlvlty. :ig, 346. 24T-S. 318-
Janet. Paul, note ^^^^|
^T ZO. aes Inverse relation, etc
Jennings, 35 note ^^^^H
^ Interval of lime. 8-9. S3. 33
Jourdaln and the two kinds of ^^^H
between what Is done and what
221 ^^^^H
might be done covered by
JuxtapoalClon, 207-8, 33S. 338, ^^^H
341. Cf. Succession ^^^^H
Intuition, continuity between sen-
sible and ultra -Intellectual,
Kaleidoscopic variation, 74 ^^^|
380-1
Kant, antinomies of, 204-S, 206 ^^^H
becoming In Kant's successors, ^^^H
362 ^^^m
alon Of Intuition
coincidence of matter with ^^^^1
■^ Irlnee of. around the nucleus
space In Kant's philosophy, ^^^^^|
^m at Intellect, xlU. 12. IG, 49,
344 ^^^1
193
construction the method ot ^^^H
and InsUnct, 1T6.9, 182
Kant's Euccessora, 364-5 ^^^H
knowlege. 17S-B, 2J0-1.
205. 287 364 ^^^|
degrees ot being in Kant's suo- ^^^^H
paycholOBy. 207-8
^^^^H
metaphysics contrasted with In-
duration In Kane's auccesaort, ^^^H
34T-8
space and time In Kant's phll- ^^^H
and tntellectuallsin la Des-
onophy. ^^^H
and Spencer, 3G4 ^^^H
5eB Ulnd and matter. Sensuous ^^^H
treedom. 364, 37o.i
nuinlfold. Thing- In -Itself ^^H
creaUvenesB of, 164, 237, 340,
341
disproportion between, and [la
Kepler. 223-9. 332-E ^^^H
196. 197. 206-7. 303, 318 ^^^M
B^fOluUon as. 102-3. 255, 344-G
criticism of. 193-4 ^^^H
fervor of. 164
discontinuity of. 306 ^^^^M
tndlvialblllly of. 1«4
Intereneo a beBlnoIng of. 13S
[orm o(. 148. 194-6. 3Gg-JtI ^^^H
formal. 152 ^^^H
genesis 190 ^^^H
Ins. 138-9
Innate or natural, 146-GO ^^^H
time aa. 341
Instinct In, 143, 144, 166-9, 178, ^^^M
unforeseeablenesB of. 164
177, 192-3. 198, 269 ^^^H
upsprlnglng o(. 164
Intellect In, li-iv. 43. 149, 161- ^^^H
See New
4. 1T7, 179, 193-t, 196-9. 106-T. ^^^H
Inverse relation of the physical
208. 218. 23T. 238, 261, 270, ^^^H
and psychical. 126-J, 143-4,
306, 806. 313. 313. SIG. 31T. ^^^|
14E, lTS-4, 177-8. 201. 202. 206-
3E5, 331-2. 342. 343, 3IT-8. 868- ^^^H
H T. 308. 210-1, 212. 217. 218. 222,
361 ^^^H
K »i. 386, 210, 34E, 246. Z47-S.
intension 149-60 ^^^M
149. 266. 2E7. 261, 264. 266,
oC reality viewed as the Intern- ^^^^H
ITO. 319-20
allty or subject In object, ^^^^|
35S-9 ^^^H
Repetition
Intuition and Intellect In theo- ^^^^1
Isolated ayatems of matter, 204,
retlca) knowledge, 1T4-7, IT9. ^^^H
213. 216, 241. 242, 341. 342,
343-4 ^^^H
346, 347-». See Bodies
matter 191-5, 8fiT-S, SBS-M ^^H
XJfe (CoHHnutd)
1*7. 101, ZOI. SOT, lOR-9. ZlO-1.
211. its. ZIT. Its, ZZ:-3. Z2S-«.
231. 235. ISI, »R, J39. lU-EO.
3S1. 129-11
ft llmlled tores, lie, UT, 111,
lis, 141, tE4
Knil memory. 167
penetntltiK matter. 16. IT. El.
1T9, 181, 182. 13T, 119. ISe.
269-70
u teadency to mobility. IZS. 131,
133
■nd physics and chemlaCry. 31.
Si, SG, S6, JlG-e
In other planets. ZC8
as potentlntlty, 2h&
repetition In. and In the inert,
II! 4. ZIO. 230. 231
■Inuousness of. 71. 9S, 99, 102.
112. 113. lis. 119-30, 111
■oclal, 138. 140, 1E7>8. 2S5
In other solar systems. 2E6
and evolution at species. S4T-8,
»4, 2«9
theory of. and theory of linow-
ledse, 111, 177, 179, 197
unforeneeableneEa of. S, S-9, 20,
»lll.»lv. 49,
103. 104-E. 130. 191-Z. 193, 301.
SE9. 166
and sMmetrV. il, IGl, 176. ZIZ
Logic (Contlnuedy
Impotent to sraap life, z. 13. 31.
2S, 16, M-t. 89, 101, 161. 16i-(.
191-101, 205. 106, 111. 219, 110,
IZS, 223, 116-6, 168-61. 161,
ITO. 313. lES. 360-1, 366
194 -S
of n
, 208
, 260. 168, 270
r« flowing over matter,
261. 26E
Sea Impulse of. Organic sub-
stance. Organism. Orcanlia-
tlon. Vital Impetus, Vital or-
der. Vital principle, Vltollsm,
Willed order
Umltatlons of Instinct and of In-
tel Usence. 163
Llmltedness of the scope of Gali-
leo's physics. 367. 370
Of the vital Impetus, 128. 127,
and physics. 319-20, 331
and time, 4, 377
Bee Intellect. IntelllBencs, Un-
derstanding, Order, natbo-
LoBlca.1 e»lBtence contrasted with
ILiyclilcul and physical. 17T,
29S. 32g, 361 -Z
cateBorles. x. 48. 186, IBS
and physical contrasted, 376-7
Logik, by aigwart, SST note
ioj-os, Ih Plotlnua, 210 note
Looking backward, the attltudi
of Intellect. 46, 13T
Lumbrlculus, 13
Machinery and IntelllgenM, 141
Machines, natural and arlinclal.
139. See Implement, Inatru-
Uagnltude, certainty of Induction
approached as factors ap-
proach pure magnitudes. HE*
16
and modem science. 333. 335
Man In evolution, attention, 184
brain. 183, 184. 263-E
conscIousneBs. 139-43. 180. 181,
ISS. ISS. IS7. 188, 191-1, 111.
262-B
goal. 134, 174-6. 186, ZE6. 16T,
Z69, 270
hsblt and Invention, 186
Intelligence. 133. 137-9, 141, 148,
174, 175. 187, 188, Z13, 166, 36T
language, 168
Manacelne
Seo Uultlpllctty
Martin. J., 102 noM
Marlon. 107 note
Material knowledge, IGt
Materialists, 240
Materially the Inversion oF splrl
Mallieniatlcal order. Bee Inc
Matter. Sea Inert matter
Maturation as creative , iEl.
■2
ot Ins 1 1 net and IntetUKenco
about a mean pOBlIlon. ISG
or pendulum. llluBtratlne Bpaes
and time In undent phllo.
phy. 318-9, 320
between repreHentatlon ot Innsr
and outer reality, 279-80
of sensible reality In ancient
plillosopliy about being, 316-8
Outlines of perception the plan of
6. 11, U, 9S, 188. IBS.
2tH-5. 10«-7, 2Ze-T, 228-9. HO,
250, 299-300, 308
Oxygen, 114. S51. 2S5
OTKantsm and action, 123-t. 12G.
174, 2B3. 2S4. SOO-l
ambiguity of primitive, 99. 112,
113. lie. i:;9, iso
delation of organlBmB. 260
cbange and the. 3U1. 302-3
complementarity of intelligence
be, 141-2, lEO,
ISl. 184, 18E
compie^iily of the, 162. 250. 3S2,
261. 2 GO
conaclousnesB and the, 11
US. 179. 180, 262, 270
contingency of the actual chcit
He. 26B, 257
aifTerentlatlon ot parts In, 252.
260. Bee Organism,
Ity of
eitenslon of, by artlflclal in-
. 141. 161
38. 93-4, 106-110. lU, I
IIT. 120, 121. 126-7. 12S. 1
I73-B. 230. 231. 246. S47. 2
lEl, 2S4, 256, 256. 258. 270
tuneUon and structure, EG. 61,
C2, (9. 74, 7G. T6-T, 36. SS-91,
93-4, 95. 96-7. i:
140, 1S7-S, 161-3.
generality ty pitied by similar-
organlsmB,
224. 228-3. 230
hive as, IGE
and Individuation, x. 12. 13, IE,
33, 26-7. 42. 149. 195-6. 225-6,
228 -9. 259, 260. 261. 270
ganlsms.
philosophy and the, 195-6
unity sf the. 1T6-8
Organization of action, 142, 146,
147-8, 160. 131. 184. IBE
of duration, 5-6. 15. 25. 26
explosive
ftnd InBtlnct. 24. I3S-46. 150.
16S-7. 171-2. 173. 17E. 192-3.
PlBBtlc Buhatsncea. ZSG
FlatO. 49, IBG. 191. 210 note
818, 319, 320, 321. 337,
StT. 349
Platonic Ideas, 49, 315-6, 331
327, 330, 353
Flotlnus,
nore, 349. 3EZ, 3G3
Plurality. conCuaed, o( II
Bee Interpenetratlon
Poem. Bounds of, distinct
ceptlon; the aense Ini
!. 267.
J per-
flelble
lIlustralinE
240. 319-20
imnjTlKoa, nous, of ArUtotle,
Polymorphism ot anta, bees.
wasps. 14D
Primary Instlnet. 133-9. 188
(Primitive organisms, ambiguous
forms of, 9S, 112, 113. 116, 129.
"Procession" In Alexandrian pht-
loaophy, 323
ProgTess, adaptation and. 101 ft.
evolutionary, 50. 133. 134. 138.
141-2. 173-4, 17S. 185. 264-6,
2 66
Prose and verse, lIluatratlnK tho
t-wo kinds of orders, 221. 232
ProtophyteH, col on 1 1 log of. 269
Protoplasm, circulation of, 33-3,
us sys-
99. 108.
213. 8m
PoBltlvlty,
I
and the vital principle. 43-3
Protozoa, association of, 269-61
_ _^ __^ EKHlng of, 16
216, 247-8, 319-20 ' ' "' ambiguous form, 113
POMlble activity aa a factor In ^"^ Individuation, 14, 259-61
conselousnesa. 11. 12, 96. 144, mechanical explanation of
148, 14S-7, 1B8-S, 165, 179, 180. movements of, 33
ISl. 189. 2B4, 3K8 ""^ nervous oystem, 126
raitatence, 290, 2S5 reproduction of, 14
Post-Kantian philosophy, 362, 3GS Pseudo-ldeaa and problems, in.
Potential activity. See Possible ^''^- '^' ^'^
activity Pseudoneuroptera, division of
Bensra, 22S 'a*""" "mong, 140
knowledge, 143-T. 150, 166 tppfl) of Aristotle. 3G0
Potentiality, life as an Immense, ot Plotlnus, 210 nota
358. 2T0 Psychic activity, two-fold nature
zone of, Hurroundlng acts. 179. ot. 135, 140-1. 14Z-3
180. 181, 254. Bee Possible Ufa. continuity of, I-ll. 29-30
activity Psychical existence contrasted
Powers of life, complemeutaHty with logical, 376, 19T-B. 327-
Of. xll, illl. 26, 27. 61-6, S7-105, 8, 361
160. 191- 194, 19B-6. 197
4. 196. 197. 20G. 207-8, 218. Inlultlonal cosmology as re-
247-8. 373. 281. 305. 306-7. 323. versed. 20S-J
Psycho -physio log! cat parallelism,
ISO, 360. 351. 3G5, 366
Puberty. Illustrating
evolution, 19, 320-'
Preeatabllahed harmony.
205-6
400 INDEX
Qualities, acts, forms, the clkrael
Reality (Cm (blued)
or rapreaentallon. 303. 3U
o( genera in ancient phlloso.
bodies as bundles at, 109-1
phy. 226-7
and movements. 29B-300
Imitation of. by the Intellect.
and natural .RBometry, 211
89-90, 3KB
Bupertmpoaltlon of. In Induc-
and Ilie intellect, 63. 89-SO. 1S».
191. 1B2. 3H.B, 366-6
Quallty is change, 2»S-iOD
Intelligible. In ancient phlloM-
in Eleatlc philosophy. 314-6
Phy. 31 T
and quantity In ancient plil-
knowledge ot. 307-S. 317. »l-l
loiopliy. 323-4
and quantity In modern phi-
losophy, seo
and not-being. 276. 280. 386
and rhythm, BOO-S
of the person. 269
Quaternary substances. 121
refraction of. through the forms
Qulnton. Reno. 184 no(e
ot perception. 304. 238, Si9-
60
and science, 194. IBS, 198, 199.
Radius-vector. Heliocentric. In
Kepler's taws, 334
308-4. 206-g. 364, 367
Rank, evolutionary. BO. 133-6. 1T3-
sensible. In ancient philosophy.
4. see
314, 317. 311. 337. 328, 363
Reaction, r&le of. In perception.
symbol of. XI. 30-1, 71. 8S-t,
93-4. 196-S. 19T, 309. 340, 343.
Ready-made calegorlps. x. xlv,
360-1, 3S9
48. 237. ZBO. 2B1, 373. 311. 321.
339, 364. 369
49
Real activity as distinguished
unknowable In Kant. 306
from possible, 146
unknowable In Spencer, x1
common -sensB Is condnuous ex-
views of. 30-1. 71, 84. 88. 199.
perience of the. 213
301. 206-7, 326-6. 249, 368, lit.
continuity o( the. 302, 329
300-7, 311, 314, 331-2, 843, Ul.
dichotomy of the. In modem
362
Reason and life. 7. 8, 48. IBl
IroltaUon of the. by Intelit-
cannot transcend itself. «».«
Bence, 90. 204. SES. 370. 307,
Reasoning and actln8;, I9J.>
366
and experience, 203-4
Obliteration of outlines In the.
and matter, 204-6, 308-B
ll-i. ISS. 189. 20T-g
on matter and life, 7. 8
»I
ceplion, 304. 238, 3t9-M
f
M
Rwenentlon and Individuality.
13, 14
Reelsler or time, IS, 20. 31
Relnke. 43 nets
He Lb tlon. imprint ol
INDEX 401
Reproduction Knd [ndlvlduaUoa,
. ISS
u law. I!>.
BDd IMnE, 147'&2. liS-T, ItO.
ISl, 1B7, lOS. 3S3, 3ET
HelatlvLim, epUtemotoKlcol, lit,
197. 230
Relativity of Immobility. IGE
Of the Intellect. »1. 48-9. IBI,
IBS. IBT. 19E-E. 197-g, 19», Zl»,
173, SOB -7. 380-1
of knowledge. ISZ, 191. 330
of perception, 2ZS-T, S!8. 300-1
Relaxation In the dream itate,
SOI, 209-10
and eiunslon, 20], 207-8, 201.
ZID. 112. 218. !23, 24G
Uid Intellect, 200. 207 -8. 209,
logic a, of virtual geometry, 211
matter a. of unextended Into
extended, 218
memory vaalshes In complete,
200
necesiity as, of freedom, 21S
present continually recom-
mences In the atate of relaxa-
tion. 200
will vanishes In complela, ZOO,
207 -8
See Tension
Releaslne cause, 72, 74. 115. 118-
a. 130
Repetition and general Izatlon.
»nd fabrication. tt-S. 48, 165-1
illecl. 16G-7, 199. :i4-(
I. e-S, 7-8, 2S-9, SO, 34,
4-«
4E-S. 47
action, 143-4.
jalltli
■eta. 302-3. 314
and consciousness, 143-4
of motion. IGS-eO, 301-4. SOE,
30«-7. 308. 313, 3ie, 344-G
Of the Nought, 273-10, 2B1-4,
28«-317, 327
Btpresented or Internalized ac-
tion dIMInculihed from ei
cal evolution In divergent
Ilnea. 96
Sexual cells. II, 26. 27, T9-gl
Sexuality parallel in plants an4
animals. GS-flO. 119-21
Shaler. N. S.. 133 r
of animal tendency to mo-
bllity, 130-1
of. 168, IB*. IM
science, J2S-
Instrument c
SIgwart, 287 no(9
Silurian epoch.
Similarity among Individuals ot
same species the type of gto-
erality, 224-S, !2g-B. 280-1
and mechanical cauaallty, It,
INDEX
403
Snapshot (Continued)
Uon, 305, 306, 313, 315, 844.
Bee View of reality, Cinema-
tographical character, etc.
form defined as a, of transition,
301-2. 317, 318, 321-2. 345
Social instinct. 101, 140. 158, 171-2
Ufe. 138. 140, 158. 265
and peda^o£rical character of
negation, 287-97
Societies. 101, 131-2, 158, 171-2,
259
Society and the individual, 260,
265
Solar energy stored by plants, re-
leased by animals, 246. 254
systems, 241-4, 246 note, 256,
270
systems, life in other, 256
Solid, concepts analogous to
solids, ix
intellect as a solid nucleus, 193,
194
the material of construction
and the object of the intel-
lect. 153. 154. 161. 162. 251
Solidarity between brain and
consciousness. 180. 262
of the parts of matter. 203, 207-
8. 241, 271
Solidification operated by the un-
derstanding. 249
Otbfin in Aristotle. 850
Somnambulism and conscious-
ness. 144. 145. 159
Soul and body, 350
818. 819
and concepts. 160-1. 163, 174-5,
176-7. 188-9. 257-9
geometrical. 203
homogeneity of, 156, 212
and induction. 216
in Kant's philosophy, 205. 206.
207. 244
in Leibniz's philosophy. 851
and matter. 189, 202-13. 244.
257. 264. 361-2. 368
and time in Kant's philosophy.
205-6
unity and multiplicity determi-
nations of. 357-9
Bee Extension
Spatiality atmosphere of. bath-
ing intelligence. 205
degradation of the extra-spa-
tial. 207
and distinctness, 203, 207, 244,
KO, 257-9
SpaUality iConHnued)
and geometrical space, 203, 211,
213, 218
and mathematical order, 208,
209
Special instincts and environ-
ment. 138. 168, 192-3, 194
and recollections. 167, 168. 180
as variations on a theme, 167,
172. 264
Species, articulate, 133
evolution of. 247, 255, 269
and external finality, 128-9, 180-
1. 132. 266
fossil. 102
human, as goal of evolution,
266. 267
human, styled homo faber, 139
and insUnct, 140, 167, 170-2,
264
and life. 167
similarity within, 223-6, 228-9,
230-1
Speculation, dead -locks in, xii,
155. 156. 312. 313-4
object of philosophy. 44. 152,
196. 198. 220. 225-6. 227, 261,
270-1. 273, 297-8, 306-7, 317,
347-8
Spencer, Herbert, xi. xiv. 78-9,
153. 188. 189. 190. 364, 365
Spencer's evolutionism, corres-
pondence between mind and
matter in. 368
cosmogony in. 188
imprint of relations and laws
upon consciousness in, 188
matter in. 365. 367
mind in, 365, 367
Spheres, concentric, in Aristotle's
philosophy. 328
Sphex. paralyzing instinct in,
172-5
Spiders and paralsrzing hymenop-
tera, 172
Spinal cord. 110
Spinoza, the adequate and the
inadequate, 353
cause. 277
dogmatism. 356, 357
eternity. 353
extension. 350
Qod. 351. 357
intuitionism. 347
mechanism. 348. 352, 855, 356
time. 362
Spirit, 251. 269. 270
Spirituality and materiality. 128-
9. 201-3. 316-7. 208-9. 210-1,
212-3, 217. 218. 219. 222-3,
287, 288, 846, 847-8. 849, 861,
ibt. SES, SET, SE9. 261. 367.
310-1, ■iU. Z7B. 343
Spontaneity of lite. S6. £37. flea
lorn
and mei^hiinlan], W
In vegetables. lOH
and the willed order. 2H
Bporl (blolj, 63
Starch, In the function oF vege-
table kingdom. 114
States of becomlns- 1, 13. 163 1
247 -S. 299, 300. SOT
Btatic character of the Intellect,
lES-6. 163. ST4, S9S
-views of becoming. £73
Stehaany. 1S4
m-englne and bronte. paral-
el as epoch -mark Ins, 13S-9
I Individuality, 360
Superman, tCT
SupraconBCiouaness, S61
Survival Of the (It. 169. 8te Nftt-
Swlm. learning to. as inatlnetlre
learning. 193. 194
Symbol, the concept Is a. Itt,
209, 341-Z
at reality, xl, SO-l, 71. S)-9. 9t.
196-6, 210, 310, B43, 360-1,
Symbolism. ITE. ISO. 3«0
Sympathetic or Int '
Feeling. Inspiration
Systematic metaphyslca.
hemoitaneouB. 17. II. 1(8-4, and Keometry. Ix, xlt
til -I and Innateneas of eatejK>TiM,
•a Independent variable, 20. 147. 148-9
tlG-7 and Intuition. 48-T
Interval of, 9. 22. 23 and life, li-xv. IS. 82-3. 41-60.
t S8-9. 101, 14T-I. 149. lEl. 163>
In L^lbnls'B philosophy. 3E1, G. 173-4, 178-7. 178, 19G-301,
tES. )I8 213. 210. 311-1. 114. 231. 2f-7-9.
■nd loglo. 4. 3T7 2S1. 2CS. 370. 271. SIS. 361-1.
asfl •imnltasMty. a. 338. 33T, »S
UI and Inert SMttw, 166. 1 j, 328-9. 330
Vaneaaa levttna and Faneaia
prarta, transformation of, 7!
Variable, time as an Independent.
20. 336
Variation, accidental. E6. «-l,
63, 35, 168-9
of color. In llxarda. 7!. 74
171-3
163,
In plar
physical, and th
order. 2SS. 275
duration of. 10, 11. 241
evolution of, 241. 246 tiata
growth of. 342-3. 344
movement of. In ArlElotle,
mutahllUr of. 244. 246
as organism, 81. 241
rhythm of. 337. 3S9, 3J».7
atntes of, considered by aclence,
386. 337
n of physio. 343-9,
Unknowable, tbe, of evolutlonUm,
the. in Kant, 104, lOG. 20(
lenslble, 03, 68
,erest as cause of, 111-3
Is. 86-86
I kingdom. 8ee Plant*
Verb, relation expressed by. 143
Verba, Bubatantlves and adjec-
tives, 303
Verse end prose. In lIlaBtrallon
of the two kinds of order, lit.
232
Vertebrate. Ix. 126. 130, Itl-I. Ill
Vlbratlona. matter analyied lute
elementary, 201
Vicious circle, apparent, o( In-
tultlonlsm, 192-4. 196-7
of Inlellectuailam, 194. 191, 313-
view.
of b«camlBg,
of reality, 306
Vignon, P., 36 not*
Virtual a
INDEX
407
in a. 179
Vision of God, in Alexandrian
philosophy, 822
in molluscs. See Eye of mol-
luscs, etc.
in Salamandra m(iculata, 75
Vital activity, 134-6, 139, 140, 166-
9, 246, 247-8
current, 26, 27, 53-5, 80. 85, 87,
88. 96-105. 118-9, 120. 230-1.
232. 239, 257, 266. 270
impetus, 50-1. 53-5. 85. 87. 88,
98-105, 118-9, 126-7, 128, 131-
2, 141-2, 148-9, 150, 218, 230-1,
232, 247-8. 250, 252. 254-5, 261
order, cause in, 34, 35. 94-5. 164
order, finality and. 223-5, 226
order, generalization in the,
and in the mathematical or-
der contrasted. 225, 226. 230-1
order, and the geometrical
order, 222-3. 225, 226, 230, 231,
235, 236, 330-1
order, imitation of physical
order by vital, 230
principle, 42, 43, 225, 226
order, repetition in the vital
and the mathematical orders
contrasted. 225, 226, 230, 231
process, 166-7
Vitalism, 42, 43
Void, representation of, 273, 274,
275, 277-8. 281. 283-4. 289-90,
291, 292, 294, 296, 298
Voisin, 80
Volition and cerebral mechan-
ism, 253-4
Voluntary activity, 110, 252
Vries (de), 24, 63 note, 85
Wasps, instinct in, 140, 172
Weapons and intellect, 137
Weismann, 26, 78, 80-1
Will and caprice, 47
and cerebral mechanism, 252
current of, penetrating matter,
6, 307
and relaxation, 201, 207-8
and mechanism in disorder, 238
tension of, 199, 201, 207-8
Willed order, mutual contingency
of willed order and mathe-
matical order, 231-3
unforeseeability in the, 224,
342-3
Willing, coincidence of seeing
and. in intuition, 237
Wilson, E. B., 36
Wolff, 75 note
Words and states, 4, 302-8
three classes of, corresponding
to three clases of representa-
tion, 302-3. 313-4
World, intelligible, 162-8
principle: conciousness, 237, 261
Worms, in illustration of am-
biguity of primitive organ-
isms, 130
Yellow-winged sphex, paralyzing
instinct in, 172
Zeno on motion, 308-13
Zone of potentialities surround-
ing acts. 179-80, 181, 264
Zoology, 128-9
Zoospores of algae, in illustra-
tion of mobility In plants, 112
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