George Stuart Fullerton - An Introduction to Philosophy

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38. IN WHAT SENSE MENTAL PHENOMENA HAVE A TIME AND PLACE.--We have seen
in Chapters VI and VII what space and time--real space and time--are.
They are the plan of the real external world and its changes; they are
aspects of the objective order of experience.

To this order no mental phenomenon can belong. It cannot, as we have
seen (section 35), occupy any portion of space or even have a location
in space. It is equally true that no series of mental changes can
occupy any portion of time, real time, or even fill a single moment in
the stream of time. There are many persons to whom this latter
statement will seem difficult of acceptance; but the relation of mental
phenomena to space and to time is of the same sort, and we can consider
the two together.

Psychologists speak unhesitatingly of the localization of sensations in
the brain, and they talk as readily of the moment at which a sensation
arises and of the duration of the sensation. What can they mean by
such expressions?

We have seen that sensations are not in the brain, and their
localization means only the determination of their concomitant physical
phenomena, of the corresponding brain-change. And it ought to be clear
even from what has been said above that, in determining the moment at
which a sensation arises, we are determining only the time of the
concomitant brain process. Why do we say that a sensation arises later
than the moment at which an impression is made upon the organ of sense
and earlier than the resulting movement of some group of muscles?
Because the change in the brain, to which we refer the sensation,
occurs later than the one and earlier than the other. This has a place
in real time, it belongs to that series of world changes whose
succession constitutes real time. If we ask _when_ anything happened,
we always refer to this series of changes. We try to determine its
place in the world order.

Thus, we ask: When was Julius Caesar born? We are given a year and a
day. How is the time which has elapsed since measured? By changes in
the physical world, by revolutions of the earth about the sun. We ask:
When did he conceive the plan of writing his Commentaries? If we get
an answer at all, it must be an answer of the same kind--some point in
the series of physical changes which occur in real time must be
indicated. Where else should we look for an answer? In point of fact,
we never do look elsewhere.

Again. We have distinguished between apparent space and real space
(section 34). We have seen that, when we deny that a mental image can
occupy any portion of space, we need not think of it as losing its
parts and shrivelling to a point. We may still attribute to it
apparent space; may affirm that it seems extended. Let us mark the
same distinction when we consider time. The psychologist speaks of the
duration of a sensation. Has it real duration? It is not in time at
all, and, of course, it cannot, strictly speaking, occupy a portion of
time. But we can try to measure the duration of the physical
concomitant, and call this the real duration of the sensation.

We all distinguish between the real time of mental phenomena, in the
sense indicated just above, and the apparent time. We know very well
that the one may give us no true measure of the other. A sermon
_seems_ long; was it _really_ long? There is only one way of measuring
its real length. We must refer to the clock, to the sun, to some
change in the physical world. We _seem_ to live years in a dream; was
the dream _really_ a long one? The real length can only be determined,
if at all, by a physical reference. Those apparent years of the dream
have no place in the real time which is measured by the clock. We do
not have to cut it and insert them somewhere. They belong to a
different order, and cannot be inserted any more than the thought of a
patch can be inserted in a rent in a real coat.

We see, thus, when we reflect upon the matter, that mental phenomena
cannot, strictly speaking, be said to have a time and place. He who
attributes these to them materializes them. But their physical
concomitants have a time and place, and mental phenomena can be
ordered by a reference to these. They can be assigned a time and
place of existing in a special sense of the words not to be confounded
with the sense in which we use them when we speak of the time and place
of material things. This makes it possible to relate every mental
phenomenon to the world system in a definite way, and to distinguish it
clearly from every other, however similar.

We need not, when we come to understand this, change our usual modes of
speech. We may still say: The pain I had two years ago is like the
pain I have to-day; my sensation came into being at such a moment; my
regret lasted two days. We speak that we may be understood; and such
phrases express a truth, even if they are rather loose and inaccurate.
But we must not be deceived by such phrases, and assume that they mean
what they have no right to mean.

39. OBJECTIONS TO PARALLELISM.--What objections can be brought against
parallelism? It is sometimes objected by the interactionist that it
abandons the plain man's notion of the mind as a substance with its
attributes, and makes of it a mere collection of mental phenomena. It
must be admitted that the parallelist usually holds a view which
differs rather widely from that of the unlearned.

But even supposing this objection well taken, it can no longer be
regarded as an objection specifically to the doctrine of parallelism,
for the view of the mind in question is becoming increasingly popular,
and it is now held by influential interactionists as well as by
parallelists. One may believe that the mind consists of ideas, and may
still hold that ideas can cause motions in matter.

There is, however, another objection that predisposes many thoughtful
persons to reject parallelism uncompromisingly. It is this. If we
admit that the chain of physical causes and effects, from a blow given
to the body to the resulting muscular movements made in self-defense,
is an unbroken one, what part can we assign to the mind in the whole
transaction? Has it _done_ anything? Is it not reduced to the
position of a passive spectator? Must we not regard man as "a physical
automaton with parallel psychical states"?

Such an account of man cannot fail to strike one as repugnant; and yet
it is the parallelist himself whom we must thank for introducing us to
it. The account is not a caricature from the pen of an opponent. "An
automaton," writes Professor Clifford,[2] "is a thing that goes by
itself when it is wound up, and we go by ourselves when we have had
food. Excepting the fact that other men are conscious, there is no
reason why we should not regard the human body as merely an exceedingly
complicated machine which is wound up by putting food into the mouth.
But it is not _merely_ a machine, because consciousness goes with it.
The mind, then, is to be regarded as a stream of feelings which runs
parallel to, and simultaneous with, a certain part of the action of the
body, that is to say, that particular part of the action of the brain
in which the cerebrum and the sensory tracts are excited."

The saving statement that the body is not _merely_ a machine, because
consciousness goes with it, does not impress one as being sufficient to
redeem the illustration. Who wants to be an automaton with an
accompanying consciousness? Who cares to regard his mind as an
"epiphenomenon"--a thing that exists, but whose existence or
nonexistence makes no difference to the course of affairs?

The plain man's objection to such an account of himself seems to be
abundantly justified. As I have said earlier in this chapter, neither
interactionist nor parallelist has the intention of repudiating the
experience of world and mind common to us all. We surely have evidence
enough to prove that minds count for something. No house was ever
built, no book was ever written, by a creature without a mind; and the
better the house or book, the better the mind. _That_ there is a fixed
and absolutely dependable relation between the planning mind and the
thing accomplished, no man of any school has the right to deny. The
only legitimate question is: _What is the nature_ of the relation? Is
it _causal_, or should it be conceived to be _something else_?

The whole matter will be more fully discussed in Chapter XI. This
chapter I shall close with a brief summary of the points which the
reader will do well to bear in mind when he occupies himself with
parallelism.

(1) Parallelism is a protest against the interactionist's tendency to
materialize the mind.

(2) The name is a figurative expression, and must not be taken
literally. The true relation between mental phenomena and physical is
given in certain common experiences that have been indicated, and it is
a unique relation.

(3) It is a fixed and absolutely dependable relation. It is impossible
that there should be a particular mental fact without its corresponding
physical fact; and it is impossible that this physical fact should
occur without its corresponding mental fact.

(4) The parallelist objects to calling this relation _causal_, because
this obscures the distinction between it and the relation between facts
both of which are physical. He prefers the word "concomitance."

(5) Such objections to parallelism as that cited above assume that the
concomitance of which the parallelist speaks is analogous to physical
concomitance. The chemist puts together a volume of hydrogen gas and a
volume of chlorine gas, and the result is two volumes of hydrochloric
acid gas. We regard it as essential to the result that there should be
the two gases and that they should be brought together. But the fact
that the chemist has red hair we rightly look upon as a concomitant
phenomenon of no importance. The result would be the same if he had
black hair or were bald. But this is not the concomitance that
interests the parallelist. The two sorts of concomitance are alike
only in the one point. Some phenomenon is regarded as excluded from
the series of causes and effects under discussion. On the other hand,
the difference between the two is all-important; in the one case, the
concomitant phenomenon is an accidental circumstance that might just as
well be absent; in the other, it is nothing of the sort; it _cannot_ be
absent--the mental fact _must_ exist if the brain-change in question
exists.

It is quite possible that, on reading this list of points, one may be
inclined to make two protests.

First: Is a parallelism so carefully guarded as this properly called
_parallelism_ at all? To this I answer: The name matters little. I
have used it because I have no better term. Certainly, it is not the
parallelism which is sometimes brought forward, and which peeps out
from the citation from Clifford. It is nothing more than an insistence
upon the truth that we should not treat the mind as though it were a
material thing. If any one wishes to take the doctrine and discard the
name, I have no objection. As so guarded, the doctrine is, I think,
true.

Second: If it is desirable to avoid the word "cause," in speaking of
the relation of the mental and the physical, on the ground that
otherwise we give the word a double sense, why is it not desirable to
avoid the word "concomitance"? Have we not seen that the word is
ambiguous? I admit the inconsistency and plead in excuse only that I
have chosen the lesser of two evils. It is fatally easy to slip into
the error of thinking of the mind as though it were material and had a
place in the physical world. In using the word "concomitance" I enter
a protest against this. But I have, of course, no right to use it
without showing just what kind of concomitance I mean.

[1] "First and Fundamental Truths," Book I, Part II, Chapter II. New
York, 1889.

[2] "Lectures and Essays," Vol. II, p. 57. London, 1879.

CHAPTER X

HOW WE KNOW THERE ARE OTHER MINDS

40. IS IT CERTAIN THAT WE KNOW IT?--I suppose there is no man in his
sober senses who seriously believes that no other mind than his own
exists. There is, to be sure, an imaginary being more or less
discussed by those interested in philosophy, a creature called the
Solipsist, who is credited with this doctrine. But men do not become
solipsists, though they certainly say things now and then that other
men think logically lead to some such unnatural view of things; and
more rarely they say things that sound as if the speaker, in some
moods, at least, might actually harbor such a view.

Thus the philosopher Fichte (1762-1814) talks in certain of his
writings as though he believed himself to be the universe, and his
words cause Jean Paul Richter, the inimitable, to break out in his
characteristic way: "The very worst of it all is the lazy, aimless,
aristocratic, insular life that a god must lead; he has no one to go
with. If I am not to sit still for all time and eternity, if I let
myself down as well as I can and make myself finite, that I may have
something in the way of society, still I have, like petty princes, only
my own creatures to echo my words. . . . Every being, even the highest
Being, wishes something to love and to honor. But the Fichtean
doctrine that I am my own body-maker leaves me with nothing
whatever--with not so much as the beggar's dog or the prisoner's
spider. . . . Truly I wish that there were men, and that I were one of
them. . . . If there exists, as I very much fear, no one but myself,
unlucky dog that I am, then there is no one at such a pass as I."

Just how much Fichte's words meant to the man who wrote them may be a
matter for dispute. Certainly no one has shown a greater moral
earnestness or a greater regard for his fellowmen than this
philosopher, and we must not hastily accuse any one of being a
solipsist. But that to certain men, and, indeed, to many men, there
have come thoughts that have seemed to point in this direction--that
not a few have had doubts as to their ability to _prove_ the existence
of other minds--this we must admit.

It appears somewhat easier for a man to have doubts upon this subject
when he has fallen into the idealistic error of regarding the material
world, which seems to be revealed to him, as nothing else than his
"ideas" or "sensations" or "impressions." If we will draw the whole
"telephone exchange" into the clerk, there seems little reason for not
including all the subscribers as well. If other men's bodies are my
sensations, may not other men's minds be my imaginings? But doubts may
be felt also by those who are willing to admit a real external world.
How do we know that our inference to the existence of other minds is a
justifiable inference? Can there be such a thing as _verification_ in
this field?

For we must remember that no man is directly conscious of any mind
except his own. Men cannot exhibit their minds to their neighbors as
they exhibit their wigs. However close may seem to us to be our
intercourse with those about us, do we ever attain to anything more
than our ideas of the contents of their minds? We do not experience
these contents; we picture them, we represent them by certain proxies.
To be sure, we believe that the originals exist, but can we be quite
sure of it? Can there be a _proof_ of this right to make the leap from
one consciousness to another? We seem to assume that we can make it,
and then we make it again and again; but suppose, after all, that there
were nothing there. Could we ever find out our error? And in a field
where it is impossible to prove error, must it not be equally
impossible to prove truth?

The doubt has seemed by no means a gratuitous one to certain very
sensible practical men. "It is wholly impossible," writes Professor
Huxley,[1] "absolutely to prove the presence or absence of
consciousness in anything but one's own brain, though by analogy, we
are justified in assuming its existence in other men." "The existence
of my conception of you in my consciousness," says Clifford,[2]
"carries with it a belief in the existence of you outside of my
consciousness. . . . How this inference is justified, how
consciousness can testify to the existence of anything outside of
itself, I do not pretend to say: I need not untie a knot which the
world has cut for me long ago. It may very well be that I myself am
the only existence, but it is simply ridiculous to suppose that anybody
else is. The position of absolute idealism may, therefore, be left out
of count, although each individual may be unable to justify his dissent
from it."

These are writers belonging to our own modern age, and they are men of
science. Both of them deny that the existence of other minds is a
thing that can be _proved_; but the one tells us that we are "justified
in assuming" their existence, and the other informs us that, although
"it may very well be" that no other mind exists, we may leave that
possibility out of count.

Neither position seems a sensible one. Are we justified in assuming
what cannot be proved? or is the argument "from analogy" really a proof
of some sort? Is it right to close our eyes to what "may very well
be," just because we choose to do so? The fact is that both of these
writers had the conviction, shared by us all, that there are other
minds, and that we know something about them; and yet neither of them
could see that the conviction rested upon an unshakable foundation.

Now, I have no desire to awake in the mind of any one a doubt of the
existence of other minds. But I think we must all admit that the man
who recognizes that such minds are not directly perceived, and who
harbors doubts as to the nature of the inference which leads to their
assumption, may, perhaps, be able to say that _he feels certain_ that
there are other minds; but must we not at the same time admit that he
is scarcely in a position to say: _it is certain_ that there are other
minds? The question will keep coming back again: May there not, after
all, be a legitimate doubt on the subject?

To set this question at rest there seems to be only one way, and that
is this: to ascertain the nature of the inference which is made, and to
see clearly what can be meant by _proof_ when one is concerned with
such matters as these. If it turns out that we have proof, in the only
sense of the word in which it is reasonable to ask for proof, our doubt
falls away of itself.

41. THE ARGUMENT FOR OTHER MINDS.--I have said early in this volume
(section 7) that the plain man perceives that other men act very much
as he does, and that he attributes to them minds more or less like his
own. He reasons from like to like--other bodies present phenomena
which, in the case of his own body, he perceives to be indicative of
mind, and he accepts them as indicative of mind there also. The
psychologist makes constant use of this inference; indeed, he could not
develop his science without it.

John Stuart Mill (1806-1873), whom it is always a pleasure to read
because he is so clear and straightforward, presents this argument in
the following form:[3]--

"By what evidence do I know, or by what considerations am I led to
believe, that there exist other sentient creatures; that the walking
and speaking figures which I see and hear, have sensations and
thoughts, or, in other words, possess Minds? The most strenuous
Intuitionist does not include this among the things that I know by
direct intuition. I conclude it from certain things, which my
experience of my own states of feeling proves to me to be marks of it.
These marks are of two kinds, antecedent and subsequent; the previous
conditions requisite for feeling, and the effects or consequences of
it. I conclude that other human beings have feelings like me, because,
first, they have bodies like me, which I know, in my own case, to be
the antecedent condition of feelings; and because, secondly, they
exhibit the acts, and other outward signs, which in my own case I know
by experience to be caused by feelings. I am conscious in myself of a
series of facts connected by a uniform sequence, of which the beginning
is modifications of my body, the middle is feelings, the end is outward
demeanor. In the case of other human beings I have the evidence of my
senses for the first and last links of the series, but not for the
intermediate link. I find, however, that the sequence between the
first and last is as regular and constant in those other cases as it is
in mine. In my own case I know that the first link produces the last
through the intermediate link, and could not produce it without.
Experience, therefore, obliges me to conclude that there must be an
intermediate link; which must either be the same in others as in
myself, or a different one. I must either believe them to be alive, or
to be automatons; and by believing them to be alive, that is, by
supposing the link to be of the same nature as in the case of which I
have experience, and which is in all respects similar, I bring other
human beings, as phenomena, under the same generalizations which I know
by experience to be the true theory of my own existence. And in doing
so I conform to the legitimate rules of experimental inquiry. The
process is exactly parallel to that by which Newton proved that the
force which keeps the planets in their orbits is identical with that by
which an apple falls to the ground. It was not incumbent on Newton to
prove the impossibility of its being any other force; he was thought to
have made out his point when he had simply shown that no other force
need be supposed. We know the existence of other beings by
generalization from the knowledge of our own; the generalization merely
postulates that what experience shows to be a mark of the existence of
something within the sphere of our consciousness, may be concluded to
be a mark of the same thing beyond that sphere."

Now, the plain man accepts the argument from analogy, here insisted
upon, every day of his life. He is continually forming an opinion as
to the contents of other minds on a basis of the bodily manifestations
presented to his view. The process of inference is so natural and
instinctive that we are tempted to say that it hardly deserves to be
called an inference. Certainly the man is not conscious of distinct
steps in the process; he perceives certain phenomena, and they are at
once illuminated by their interpretation. He reads other men as we
read a book--the signs on the paper are scarcely attended to, our whole
thought is absorbed in that for which they stand. As I have said
above, the psychologist accepts the argument, and founds his
conclusions upon it.

Upon what ground can one urge that this inference to other minds is a
doubtful one? It is made universally. We have seen that even those
who have theoretic objections against it, do not hesitate to draw it,
as a matter of fact. It appears unnatural in the extreme to reject it.
What can induce men to regard it with suspicion?

I think the answer to this question is rather clearly suggested in the
sentence already quoted from Professor Huxley: "It is wholly
impossible absolutely to prove the presence or absence of consciousness
in anything but one's own brain, though, by analogy, we are justified
in assuming its existence in other men."

Here Professor Huxley admits that we have something like a proof, for
he regards the inference as _justified_. But he does not think that we
have _absolute proof_--the best that we can attain to appears to be a
degree of probability falling short of the certainty which we should
like to have.

Now, it should be remarked that the discredit cast upon the argument
for other minds has its source in the fact that it does not satisfy a
certain assumed standard. What is that standard? It is the standard
of proof which we may look for and do look for where we are concerned
to establish the existence of material things with the highest degree
of certainty.

There are all sorts of indirect ways of proving the existence of
material things. We may read about them in a newspaper, and regard
them as highly doubtful; we may have the word of a man whom, on the
whole, we regard as veracious; we may infer their existence, because we
perceive that certain other things exist, and are to be accounted for.
Under certain circumstances, however, we may have proof of a different
kind: we may see and touch the things themselves. Material things are
open to direct inspection. Such a direct inspection constitutes
_absolute proof_, so far as material things are concerned.

But we have no right to set this up as our standard of absolute proof,
when we are talking about other minds. In this field it is not proof
at all. Anything that can be directly inspected is not another mind.
We cannot cast a doubt upon the existence of colors by pointing to the
fact that we cannot smell them. If they could be smelt, they would not
be colors. We must in each case seek a proof of the appropriate kind.

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