{515}
At first thought, some forms of art, as architecture, seem incapable of making the just-mentioned double appeal to the mastery motive. Architecture can certainly present problems for the beholder to solve, but how can the beholder possibly identify himself with a tower or arch? If, however, we remember the "empathy" that we spoke of under the head of play, we see that the beholder may project himself into the object, unintentionally of course, and thus perhaps get satisfaction of his mastery impulse.
Look at a pillar, for example. If the pillar is too massive for the load supported, it gives you the unsatisfactory impression of doing something absurdly small for your powers. If on the contrary the pillar is too slender for the load that seems to rest upon it, you get the feeling of strain and insecurity; but if it is rightly proportioned, you get the feeling of a worthy task successfully accomplished. The pillar, according to empathy, pleases you by arousing and gratifying your mastery impulse; and many other architectural effects can be interpreted in the same way.
Empathy can perhaps explain the appeal of thebigin art and nature. In spite of the warnings put forth against thinking of mere bigness as great or fine, we must admit that size makes a very strong appeal to something in human nature. The most perfect miniature model of a cathedral, however interesting and attractive as it rests on the table before you, fails to make anything like the impression that is made by the giant building towering above you. Big trees, lofty cliffs, grand canyons, tremendous waterfalls, huge banks of clouds, the illimitable expanse of the sea, demonstrate cogently the strong appeal of the big. Perhaps the big is not necessarily grand, but the grand or sublime must be big or somehow suggest bigness. The question is, then, what it is in us that responds to the appeal of the big.
{516}
Perhaps it is the submissive tendency that is aroused. This great mountain, so far outclassing me that I am not tempted in the least to compete with it, affords me the joy of willing submission. The escape motive may come in along with submissiveness--at the first sight of the mountain a thrill of fear passes over me, but I soon realize that the mountain will not hurt me in spite of its awe-inspiring vastness; so that my emotion is blended of the thrill of fear, the relief of escape, and the humble joy of submission. That is one analysis of the esthetic effect of bigness.
Empathy suggests a very different analysis. According to this, projecting myself into the mountain, identifying myself with it, I experience the sensation of how it feels to be a mountain. It feels big--I feel big. My mastery impulse is gratified. To decide between these two opposing interpretations ought to be possible from the behavior or introspection of a person in the presence of some big object. If he feels insignificant and humble and bows reverently before the object, we may conclude that the submissive tendency is in action; but if the sight of the grand object makes him feel strong and fine, if he throws out his chest and a gleam comes into his eye, then everything looks like the mastery motive. Quite possibly, the effect varies with the person and the occasion.
We have to think of art as a great system or collection of inventions that owes its existence to its appeal to human nature, and that has found ways, as its history has progressed, of making its appeal more and more varied. Art is a type in these respects of many social enterprises, such as sport, amusement, and even such serious matters as politics and industry. Each of these is a collection of inventions that persists because it appeals to human impulses, and each one appeals to a variety of different impulses.
{517}
To the consumer, art is play, but to the producer it is work, in the sense that it is directed towards definite ends and has to stand criticism according as it does or does not reach those ends. What is true of the producer of art works is true also of other inventors, and we may as well consider all sorts of controlled imagination together.
In spite of the element of control that is present in productive invention, the really gifted inventor seems to make play of his work to a large extent. Certainly the inventive genius does not always have his eyes fixed on the financial goal, nor on the appeal which his inventions are to make to the public. It is astonishing to read in the lives of inventors what a lot of comparatively useless contrivances they busied themselves with, apparently from the pure joy of inventing. One prolific writer said that he "never worked in his life, only played". The inventor likes to manipulate his materials, and this playfulness has something to do with his originality, by helping to keep him out of the rut.
That "necessity is the mother of invention" is only half of the truth; it points to the importance of a directive tendency, but fails to show how the inventor manages to leave the beaten path and really invent. Necessity, or some desire, puts a question, without which the inventor would not be likely to find the answer; but he needs a kind of flexibility or playfulness, just because his job is that of seeing things in a new light. We must allow him to toy with his materials a bit, and even to be a bit "temperamental", and not expect him to grind out works of art or other inventions as columns of figures are added.
When inventive geniuses have been requested to indicate their method, they have been able to give only vague hints. How does the musical composer, for example, free himself of{518}all the familiar pieces and bring the notes into a fresh arrangement? All that he can tell about it is usually that he had an "inspiration"; the new air simply came to him. Now, of course the air did not really come to him from outside; he made it, it was his reaction, but it was a quick, free reaction, of which he could observe little introspectively.
Perhaps the best-studied case of invention is that of the learner in typewriting, who, after laboriously perfecting his "letter habits" or responses to single letters by appropriate finger movements on the keyboard, may suddenly find himself writing in a new way, the word no longer being spelled out, but being written as a unit by a coördinated series of finger movements. The amazing thing is that, without trying for anything of the kind, he has been able to break away from his habit of spelling out the word, and shift suddenly to a new manner of writing. He testifies that he did not plan out this change, but was surprised to find himself writing in the new way. He was feeling well that day, hopeful and ambitious, he was striving for greater speed, and, while he was completely absorbed in his writing, this new mode of reaction originated.
We see in this experimentally studied case some of the conditions that favor invention. Good physical condition, freshness, mastery of the subject, striving for some result, and "hopefulness". Now, what is that last? Confidence, enterprise, willingness to "take a chance", eagerness for action and readiness to break away from routine? Some of this independent, manipulating spirit was probably there.
A soldier, so wounded as to paralyze his legs but capable of recovery by training, had advanced far enough to hobble about with a cane and by holding to the walls. One morning, feeling pretty chipper, he took a chance and left the wall, cutting straight across the room; and getting through without a fall, was naturally much encouraged and{519}maintained this advance. This might be called invention; it was breaking away from what had become routine, and that is the essential fact about the inventive reaction. This playful spirit of cutting loose, manipulating, and rearranging things to suit yourself is certainly a condition favorable to invention. It does not guarantee a valuable invention, but it at least helps towards whatever invention the individual's other qualifications make possible.
Another condition favorable to invention is youth. Seldom does a very old person get outside the limits of his previous habits. Few great inventions, artistic or practical, have emanated from really old persons, and comparatively few even from the middle-aged. On the other hand, boys and girls under eighteen seldom produce anything of great value, not having as yet acquired the necessary mastery of the materials with which they have to deal. The period from twenty years up to forty seems to be the most favorable for inventiveness.
Finally, we must return to the question of definition or general description that was left open near the beginning of the chapter. There seem to be two steps in the inventive response, one preliminary, the other strictly inventive. The preliminary step brings the stimuli to bear, and invention is the response that follows.
Typically, the preliminary stage consists in recall; and association by similarity, bringing together materials from different past experiences, is very important as a preliminary to invention. Facts recalled from different contexts are thus brought together, and invention consists in a response to such novel combinations of facts. The two steps in invention are, first, getting a combination of stimuli, and second, responding to the combination.
{520}
Sometimes it has been said that imagination consists in putting together material from different sources, but this leaves the matter in mid-air; recall can bring together facts from different sources and so afford the stimulus for an imaginative response, but the response goes beyond the mere togetherness of the stimuli. Thinking of a man and also of a horse is not inventing a centaur; there is a big jump from the juxtaposition of the data to the specific arrangement that imagination gives them. The man plus the horse may give no response at all, or may give many other responses besides that of a centaur; for example, a picture of the man and the horse politely bowing to each other. The particular manipulation, or imaginative response, that is made varies widely; sometimes it consists in taking things apart rather than putting them together, as when you imagine how a house would look with the evergreen tree beside it cut down; always it consists in putting the data into new relationships.
Imagination thus presents a close parallel to reasoning, where, also, there are two stages, the preliminary consisting in getting the premises together and the final consisting in perceiving the conclusion. The final response in imagination is in general like that in reasoning; both areperceptive reactions; but imagination is freer and more variable. Reasoning is governed by a very precise aim, to see the actual meaning of the combined premises; that is, it is exploratory; while imagination, though it is usually more or less steered either by a definite aim or by some bias in the direction of agreeable results, has after all much more latitude. It is seeking, not a relationship that is there, but one that can be put there.
{521}
1. Outline the chapter.2. Make a list of hobbies and amusements that you specially enjoy, and try to discover the sources of satisfaction in each.3. Recall two stories that you specially enjoyed, and try to discover the sources of satisfaction in each.4. How far does the account of daydreams given in the text square with your own daydreams, and how far does it seem inadequate?5. An experiment on the speed of revery or of daydreaming. Beginning at a recorded time, by your watch, let your mind wander freely for a few moments, stopping as soon as your stream of thoughts runs dry. Note the time at the close. Now review your daydream (or revery), and tally off the several scenes or happenings that you thought of, so as to count up and see how many distinct thoughts passed through your mind. How many seconds, on the average, were occupied by each successive item?6. Why do dreams seem real at the time?7. Analysis of a dream. Take some dream that you recall well, and let your thoughts play about it, and about the separate items of it--about each object, person, speech, and happening in the dream--with the object of seeing whether they remind you of anything personally significant. Push the analysis back to your childhood, by asking whether anything about the dream symbolizes your childish experiences or wishes. To be sure, the psychoanalyst would object that the individual cannot be trusted to make a complete analysis of his own dream--just as the psychologist would object to your accepting the recalled experiences and wishes as necessarily standing in any causal relation to your dream--but, at any rate, the exercise is interesting.8. Problems in invention. Solve some of these, and compare the mental process with that of reasoning.
(a) Devise a game to be played by children and adults together, to everybody's satisfaction.(b) Imagine a weird animal, after the analogy of the centaur.(c) Imagine an interesting incident, bringing in an old man, a little girl, and a waterfall.(d) Design the street plan for an ideal small town, built on both sides of a small river.
9. Show how empathy might make us prefer a symmetrical building to one that is lop-sided.
{522}
On the imagination and play of children, see Norsworthy and Whitley'sPsychology of Childhood, 1918, Chapters IX and XII.
For Freud's views regarding dreams, see hisInterpretation of Dreams, translated by Brill, 1913.
For a view which, though psychoanalytical, diverges somewhat from that of Freud, see Maurice Nicoll,Dream Psychology, 1917; also C. W. Kimmins,Children's Dreams, 1920.
For studies of play, see Edward S. Robinson, "The Compensatory Function of Make-Believe Play", in thePsychological Reviewfor 1920, Vol. 27, pp. 429-439; also M. J. Reaney,The Psychology of the Organized Group Game, 1916.
On invention, see Josiah Royce, "The Psychology of Invention", in thePsychological Reviewfor 1898, Vol. 5, pp. 113-144; also F. W. Taussig'sInventors and Money-Makers, 1915.
{523}
If the psychologist were required to begin his chapter on the will with a clean-cut definition, he would be puzzled what to say. He might refer to the old division of the mind into the "three great faculties" of intellect, feeling, and will, but would be in duty bound to add at once that this "tripartite division" is now regarded as rather useless, if not misleading. It is misleading if it leads us to associate will exclusively with motor action, for we also have voluntary attention and voluntary control in reasoning and inventing, and we have involuntary motor reactions. "Will" seems not to be any special kind of response, but rather to refer to certain relationships in which a response may stand to other responses--but this is certainly too vague a definition to be of use.
"Will" is not precisely a psychological term, anyway, but is a term of common speech which need not refer to any psychological unit. In common speech it has various and conflicting meanings. "Since you urge me", one may say, "Iwilldo this, though much against mywill." Let the dictionary define such words. What psychology should do with them is simply to take them as a mining prospector takes an outcropping of ore: as an indication that it may pay to dig in the neighborhood.
{524}
About the first thing we strike when we start digging is the distinction between voluntary and involuntary. A man has committed homicide, and the question in court is whether he did it "with malice aforethought", i.e., with full will and intention, whether he did it in a sudden fit of anger, i.e., impulsively rather than quite voluntarily, or whether it was an accident and so wholly unintentional or involuntary. The court wishes to know, since a man who has committed one sort of homicide is a very different character from one who has committed another sort; different acts can be expected from him in the future and different precautions need to be taken accordingly.
It is a fact, then, that an act may be performed either with or without foreknowledge--a remarkable fact both ways! An intentional act is remarkable from the side of physics or chemistry or botany--which is to say that it is very exceptional in nature at large. On the other hand, a completely involuntary act is rather exceptional in human behavior and perhaps in animal behavior as well, for almost always there is some striving towards an end, some impulse. The simplest reflexes, to be sure, are completely involuntary. The pupillary reaction to light is not done with malice aforethought, cannot be so done. The lid reflex, or wink of the eye, occurs many times in the course of an hour, without foreknowledge, or after-knowledge for that matter, though the same movement can be made voluntarily. Sneezing and coughing are not voluntary in the full sense, but they are distinctly impulsive, they strive towards desired relief. To sneeze voluntarily is to sneeze when you don't want to, and to sneeze involuntarily is to sneeze when you want to--which seems queer, since we usually think of a voluntary act as one done to further our wishes. The solution of this puzzle is,{525}of course, that a voluntary sneeze is desired not because of a direct impulse but to gain some ulterior end, such as to prove we can do it, or for histrionic purposes--in short, for some purpose beyond the immediate satisfaction of an impulse.
Thus we may classify acts as wholly involuntary or mechanical, as impulsive, and as distinctly voluntary or purposive. Or, we may arrange acts in a scale from those that have no conscious end, through those aimed directly at an immediate end, up to those done to accomplish an ulterior end which is imagined beforehand. The last class of fully voluntary acts belongs under the general head of manipulation, just as imagination does. Weimagine some changeto be produced in the existing situation and then proceed to put our imagination into effect; and this is a typical voluntary act.
We seldom, however, picture acompleteact in imagination before executing it. Even so simple an act as closing the fist cannot be completely pictured beforehand; for if you try to imagine how the closed fist is going to feel and then close it, you will find that you left out of your image many details of the actual kinesthetic sensations. What we imagine and intend issomechange in the situation, and we then proceed to execute that change and other changes incidentally.
Besides the simple reflexes, there is another sort of involuntary and mechanical action. Through practice and repetition, an act may become so habitual as to be done automatically, that is, without being imagined beforehand, and even without conscious impulse. The practised typist responds in this way to the words he is copying. We should notice, however, that this does not mean that the total behavior and state of mind of the typist is mechanical and devoid of impulse. The typist may write the letters{526}mechanically, and if expert may write even words in this way, but all the time he is consciously aiming to copy the passage. His attention and impulse have deserted the fully mastered details and attach themselves to the larger units. In the same way, in signing your name you have no conscious intention or impulse to write each successive letter; but you fully intend to sign your name.
The child's actions are at first impulsive but not voluntary in the full sense, since obviously he cannot imagine and intend an act till he has had experience of that act, and he must usually have experienced doing the act himself before he can effectively imagine it. At least, this is true of the simpler movements; compound movements, made up of familiar elements, may be first observed in other persons and then voluntarily imitated. The child's process of acquiring voluntary control over a movement is illustrated by the story of how the baby learned to put his hand in his mouth. He first made this movement in the course of "aimless" throwing of his arms about, liked the sensation of the hand in the mouth, tried apparently to get it there again, and in the course of a few days was able to put it there at will. The child's "aimless" movements at the start were probably impulsive, but they were not directed towards any preconceived end. Then, having observed a desirable result of one movement, he worked towards that result by trial and error, till finally he had the necessary movement so closely linked to the thought of the result as to follow directly upon the thought.
Once brought under voluntary control, a movement becomes with further repetition habitual and mechanical, and no longer voluntary or even impulsive. Thus the voluntary{527}performance of an act intervenes between the native or instinctive doing of it and the later habitual doing of it. Blowing out a match affords another example of this course of events. A child can of course blow out, instinctively, when he has the natural stimulus for strong expiration, but he cannot at will blow at the lighted match. Being prompted and shown, he comes by degrees to be able to blow out the match; during the learning stage he has to try, and the act is voluntary; but with further practice it becomes involuntary, though it may still be executed as part of a larger voluntary act, such as preventing a burning match from setting fire to something on which it has fallen.
A complex act, or series of movements, may be voluntary as a whole, being directed towards some preconceived result, while the single movements that constitute the series are mechanical, their particular results no longer being thought of separately. This is well illustrated by the instances of typewriting, speaking, and signing the name, mentioned a moment ago. With practice, the interest in a performance goes more and more to the final result and deserts the elements of the act.
It is during the organization of reactions that they require attention and must be thought of before being executed. Organization goes on and on, a thoroughly organized reaction being later combined with others into a still bigger act. New demands constantly made upon the individual prevent him, however well organized, from ever reaching the condition of a wholly automatic machine. Will, in the sense of action aimed at the accomplishment of foreseen results, stays with him to the end.
Involuntary movement is not always "sensorimotor", which means directly aroused by a sensory stimulus; oftener{528}it is "ideomotor", or directly aroused by an idea or thought. It may be so aroused and still be involuntary. We think of a certain result and our muscles produce this result, though we did not really mean to do this act ourselves. The thought arouses the movement because it has previously been linked with the movement. A thought which has previously served as the stimulus to an act will tend to have this effect again, unless inhibited by some contrary stimulus. There is no need of a definiteconsentto the act, provided there is nothing present to inhibit it.
Good examples of ideomotor action can be observed among the audience at an athletic contest. You are watching one of your team do the pole vault, for instance, and are so much absorbed in his performance and so desirous for him to succeed that you identify yourself with him to a degree. He is rising to clear the high bar, and the thought of his clearing it, monopolizing your mind and leaving no room for the inhibitory thought that the performer is down there in the field and you up here in the stand, causes you to make an incipient leg movement as if you yourself were vaulting.
Voluntary action, in the fullest sense, occurs when you realize the situation and are definitely conscious of yourself, that is to say, when you differentiate yourself clearly out of the total situation, and not only imagine some change to be made, but think of that change as to be producedby you, without at the same time having any contrary thought to inhibit actual execution.
It appears that in our "digging" we have now struck another vein, for here we have the fact of one tendency running contrary to another and inhibiting it. Conflict of desires and the consequent necessity ofchoosingbetween{529}them, is thus brought vividly to our attention. Every one would at once agree that "will" and "choice" belong closely together. The most distinctly voluntary acts occur when two alternatives are thought of, and one of them is chosen.
Organized as we are by nature, that is to say, on a large scale, but incompletely--environed as we are, with multitudinous stimuli constantly playing on us and arousing contrary tendencies--we cannot hope to escape conflict of motives and the necessity of making decisions. Every decision made, every conflict resolved, is a step in the further organization of the individual. It may be a step in a good direction, or in a bad direction, but it is a step in organizing the individual's reaction-tendencies into what we call hischaracter--the more or less organized sum total of his native and acquired tendencies to reaction, with emphasis on those reactions that affect his life and social relations in a broad way.
The lowest animals, having few reaction tendencies, and being responsive to only a narrow environment, show little sign of internal conflict, and when it does occur it is resolved very simply by the advantage going to one of the opposing tendencies, with perhaps a shift later to the other, in the way described in our earlier consideration of attention. [Footnote:See p. 251.] This type of decision is fundamental. In the behavior of higher animals, we sometimes detect signs of a longer-persisting conflict, as between curiosity and fear, when a wild creature seems poised between his inclination to approach and examine a strange object and his inclination to run away, veering now towards the one and now towards the other alternative, and unable, as it seems, to reach a decision.
Conflict between the enterprising tendency to explore, manipulate or somehow launch forth into the new, and the negative tendencies of fear, inertia, shyness, etc., is{530}something that recurs again and again in human experience, as illustrated by making up your mind to get up in the morning, or to plunge into the cold water, or to speak up and have your say in a general conversation. There is ahesitancyin such cases, due to a positive and a negative tendency. The conflict may be resolved in favor of the negative tendency by simple prolongation of the hesitation till the occasion for action has passed, or it may be resolved in favor of the positive tendency when this is strong enough for an instant to enable the individual to commit himself to the enterprise, after which he usually stays committed. The positive motive must for an instant be stronger than the negative, in order to get action.
A somewhat different type of conflict, which may be calledvacillation, occurs when two positive tendencies are aroused that are inconsistent with each other, so that gratification of the one entails renunciation of the other. Old Buridan's celebrated problem of the ass, placed equally distant from two equally attractive bundles of hay, and whether he would starve to death from the exact balance of the two opposing tendencies, is a sort of parable to fit this case. Probably the poor ass did not starve--unless he richly deserved his name--but he may conceivably have ended the very uncomfortable state of vacillation by running away altogether, as a human being, who is really more subject to vacillation than any other creature, is sometimes so much disturbed at having to decide between two invitations for the same day as to decline both, and go fishing. Vacillation is certainly a very unpleasant state of mind. We want action, or else we want peace, but vacillation gives us neither. In spite of its irksomeness, we seem sometimes almost powerless to end it, because as soon as we have about decided on the one alternative, what we shall miss by not choosing the other comes vividly to mind, and swings the pendulum its way.
{531}
However it comes about that a decision is reached, it usually is reached, and the curious fact then is that it usually sticks. A student may vacillate long between the apparently equal attractions of two colleges, but when he finally decides on one, the advantages of the other lose their hold on him. Now he is all for one and not at all for the other. Having identified himself with one college, he has completely altered the balance of attractions, his self-assertion now going wholly on the side of the chosen college, and even leading him to pick flaws in the other as if to reinforce his decision. In other words, he "rationalizes", justifies, and fortifies his decision, once he has reached it. Some people, indeed, are abnormally subject to vacillation and seem never to accept their own decisions as final, but normally there are strong influences tending to maintain a decision, once it is made: the unpleasantness of the state of vacillation and relief at having escaped from it; the satisfaction of having a definite course of action; and self-assertion, because we have decided, and now this course of action isours. During vacillation, neither of the alternatives was identified with ourselves, but now we have decided and are not going to be so weak as to change. X is our college now and anything you say against it you say against us. Thus the person who has decided defends himself energetically against reopening the question.
The state of indecision and the state of decision seem thus fairly well understood, but the process of passing from the one to the other is often obscure. It differs from one case to another. In one case we find the rational process of deliberation, in which each alternative is weighed and the decision awarded to the one that promises best. This is essentially a work of imagination: you imagine that you have adopted the one alternative, and see how it suits you, then you do the same with the other alternative. You think each{532}alternative through to see how satisfactory it will be, balance one against the other, and choose accordingly. This is ideal, but often impracticable, since we have not the time for full deliberation, or since we cannot trust imagination to give us a correct picture, or since we have no common measure by aid of which to balance off different sorts of satisfaction. Even when practicable, the deliberate way of reaching a decision is likely to seem irksome, because of the delay involved and the natural propensity for impulsive action. Perhaps the most common process is a sort of partial deliberation, the two alternatives appealing to us by turns till at some moment one makes a strong enough appeal to secure action.
Sometimes there is a deadlock, and then we either give up deciding for the moment, and, sleeping over the matter, find when we next take it up that one alternative has lost its momentary attractiveness and the other has the field; or else, feeling the irksomeness and humiliation, almost, of being unable to make up our mind, we say, "Any decision is better than none; here goes, then;thisis what I will do", so breaking the deadlock by what seems like an arbitrary toss-up.
At other times, without such a distinct "act of will", and without any observable change in the attractiveness of either alternative, we simply find, after awhile, that a decision has emerged, and that we now know what we are going to do. What has happened in us to bring about the decision we cannot see, but here we are with a decision made and perhaps with the act already performed. The two alternatives remain theoretically equal, but one has somehow got hold of us, while the other has lapsed.
Then there is the case where we "see the better, but follow the worse", or are in great danger of so doing. The "worse" is usually something that appeals to the{533}"old Adam" in us, something that strongly arouses a primitive instinctive response; while the "better" is a nobler, more dutiful, or more prudent course. The lower motive being the stronger, how can it ever be that the higher motive gets the decision? Well, the fight is not just a contest between these two. Other motives are drawn into the fray, the whole man is drawn in, and it is a question which side is the stronger. Fear of ridicule or criticism, sense of duty, self-respect, ambition, ideals of oneself, concern for the welfare of another person, loyalty to a social group, may be ranged on the side of the "weaker" motive and give it the advantage over the stronger.
What becomes of the rejected motives?If unimportant and s superficial, they simply lapse into an inactive state and are gradually forgotten, perhaps recurring to mind once in a while with a faint tinge of regret, since after all we should have liked to gratify them. "As a boy, I wanted to be a sailor; well, I would rather like to try it for once." When a motive is deeply rooted in our nature, it cannot be so easily eliminated. Sometimes it is simplydeferredand remains dormant, content to bide its time; "there will be time enough for that later on". Sometimes it isdisguisedand then gratified, as when an apparently courteous deed contains an element of spite. Sometimes it is afforded asubstitute gratification, as when the boastful boy, after having his "conceit taken out of him" by his mates, boasts of his school, profession, town or country. This is often called "sublimation". Sometimes, though denied, it remains insistent, and "defense mechanisms" have to be devised to keep it down; the "sour grapes" mechanism is an example, which may be used not only when the "grapes" are physically out of reach but also when for any reason we decide to leave them alone.
The psychoanalytic school lays great stress on{534}"suppressed" desires, holding that they becomeunconscious while still remaining active, and that they find gratification symbolically in dreams, and at times break into waking life in a disturbing way.
The most adequate way of handling rejected motives is tocoördinatethem with other, accepted motives--to harness them into teams and put them to work. This cannot always be done; for example, if a young woman has two attractive suitors, she might find difficulty in harnessing them together, and will have to say good-by to one, at least. But when the boastful boy becomes a loyal and enthusiastic member of a school, his self-assertive motive is harnessed up with social motives into a very effective team. Probably a tendency can only be "sublimated" by being thus combined and coördinated with other strong tendencies.
These various ways of handling a rejected motive could be nicely illustrated from the case of the sex instinct. It so happens, partly because modern economic and educational conditions enforce a delay in marriage--and in part simply because there are so many attractive people in the world--that the cravings of sex must often be denied. What becomes of them? Of course the sex instinct is too deep-seated to be eradicated or permanently to lapse into a dormant state. But the fascination for particular individuals may so lapse or be forgotten. Certain people we remember, once in a while, with half-humorous and certainly not very poignant regret. Deferring the whole matter till the time is ripe works well with many a youth or maiden. Combined with social interests, the sex motive finds sublimated satisfaction in a great variety of amusements, as well as in business associations between the sexes. Introduce a nice young lady into an officeful of men, and the atmosphere changes, often for the better,--which means, certainly, that the sex motive of these men, combined with ordinary business{535}motives, is finding a sublimated satisfaction. The sex motive thus enters into a great variety of human affairs. "Defense mechanisms" are common in combating unacceptable erotic impulses; the sour grapes mechanism sometimes takes the extreme form of a hatred of the other sex; but a very good and useful device of this general sort is to throw oneself into some quite different type of activity, as the young man may successfully work off his steam in athletics. This is not sublimation, in any proper use of that term, for athletic sport does not gratify the sex tendency in the least, but it gratifies other tendencies and so gratifies the individual. It is the individual that must be satisfied, rather than any specified one of his tendencies. As regards coördination, the fact was illustrated just above that this method would not always work; but sometimes it works immensely well. Here is a young person (either sex), in the twenties, with insistent sex impulses, tempted to yield to the fascination of some mediocre representative of the other sex. Such a low-level attachment, however, militates against self-respect, work, ambition, social sense. Where is the "coördination"? It has to be found; some worthy mate will harness all these tendencies, stimulating and gratifying sex attraction, self-respect, ambition, and others besides, and coördinating them all into the complex and decidedly high-grade sentiment of love.
The term "will" is used to designate the response to external obstruction as well as the response to internal conflict. In fact, nothing is so characteristically "will" as the overcoming of resistance that checks progress towards a desired result. As "decision" is the response to internal conflict of tendencies, so "effort" is the response to external{536}resistance encountered in executing a desire that has been adopted. The obstruction may be purely physical, as the underbrush that impedes your progress through the woods; or it may be another person's will running counter to yours; or it may be of the nature of distraction of attention from the end in view.
The resistance may also be internal, and consist in your own lack of skill in executing your intentions, or in the disturbing effect of some desire which, though rejected, has not gone to sleep but still pulls you another way than the way you have decided to go.
In all these cases, the individual is moving towards a certain goal, but encounters obstruction; and his response is effort, or increased energy put into his movement towards the goal. So long as the tendency towards a goal finds smooth going, there is not the same determination that appears as soon as an obstruction is encountered. The "will", in common usage, will not brook resistance--the "indomitable will".
Now effort and determination, in our chapter on the native impulses, were put under the head of the assertive or masterful tendency; and it does seem that "will", in this sense, is almost the same thing as the instinct of self-assertion. Certainly, in the case of adults, an obstruction puts the individual "on his mettle", and superimposes the mastery motive upon whatever motive it may have been that originally prompted the action.
The mastery motive came clearly to light in an experiment designed to investigate "will action". The subject of the experiment was first given a long course of training in responding to certain stimulus words by other certain words that were constantly paired with them; and when his habits of response were thus well fixed, his task was changed so that now he must respond to any word or syllable by any{537}other thatrhymedwith it. A series of stimuli now began with words for which no specific response habit had been formed, and to these the subject reacted with no great difficulty. But then, unexpectedly, he got a stimulus word to which he had a fixed habit of response, and before he could catch himself he had made the habitual response, and so failed to give a rhyme as he had intended. This check sometimes made him really angry, and at least it brought him up to attention with a feeling which he expressed in the words, "I can and will do this thing". He was thus put on his guard, gave closer attention to what he was doing, and was usually able to overcome the counter tendency of habit and do what he meant to do. Some subjects, who adapted themselves readily and fully to the rhyming task, i.e., who got up a good "mental set" for this sort of reaction, made few errors and did not experience this feeling of effort and determination; for them the effort was unnecessary; but the average person needed the extra energy in order to overcome the resistances and accomplish his intentions.
Other good instances of effort are found in the overcoming of distraction, described under the head of attention, [Footnote:See p. 259.] and in the work of the beginner at any job. When the beginner has passed the first cautious, exploratory stage of learning, he begins to "put on steam". He pounds the typewriter, if that is what he is learning, spells the words aloud, and in other ways betrays the great effort he is making.
Ask a child just learning to write why he grasps the pencil so tightly, why he bends so closely over the desk, why he purses his lips, knits his brow, and twists his foot around the leg of his chair, and he might answer, very truly, that it is because he cannot do this job easily and has totry hard. All these unnecessary muscular movements and tensions{538}show theaccess of energythat has been liberated in his brain by the obstruction encountered.
Any learner, once he has mastered the difficulties of the task, reaches an easy-running stage in which effort is no longer required, unless for making a record or in some way surpassing himself. With reference to effort, then, we may speak of three stages of practice: the initial, exploratory stage, the awkward and effortful stage, and the skilled and free-running stage. These are identical with the three stages in the development of attention to a subject, which were described [Footnote:See p.258] as the stage of spontaneous attention or curiosity; the stage of forced attention, or effortful attention, controlled by such motives as fear or self-assertion; and the final stage of objective interest and absorption in the subject, which is evidently the same as the free-running condition.
Effort is not a good in itself; it is an unpleasant condition; but it is a natural response to difficulty and is often necessary in order to get the individual into the free-running condition which is both efficient and pleasant. It is often required to get the individual out of the easy-going condition into the free-running condition, which is something entirely different. In free-running action there may be even more energy expended than in effortful action, but it is better directed and produces no strains and jolts.
Intelligence, in the sense of adaptability and "seeing the point", may often take the place of effort. Consider the way two different people react to a sticking door: the one puts in more strength and forces it, the other by a deft thrust to the side opens it without much extra force. You can't say absolutely which mode of attack is better, for your stubborn one may waste his strength on an obstruction that really cannot be forced, while your clever one may waste his{539}time on a door that needs only a bit of a push. Persistenceplusadaptability is what efficient activity demands.
"Men of thought" and "men of action" are sometimes contrasted--which is hardly fair to either, since the great man of action must have the imagination to conceive a plan, and must know exactly what he is aiming to accomplish, while the great thinker must be persistent in thinking and must get into action by way of writing or somehow making his thoughts count in the world. But we do find men who are impatient of thought and want to get into action at once, even without knowing just what they are about, and other men who seem quite contented to think and plan, without any definite intention of ever putting their plans into execution. The former type, the impulsive individual, is not difficult to understand, his behavior fits in so well with the primitive trial-and-error sort of activity; but the mere thinker seems an anomaly, in view of the general psychological principle that thought tends toward motor action.
In accounting for the inactive thinker, we have to remember, first, that some inhibition of immediate action is often necessary, in order to have time to think the matter over; this prudent attitude becomes a habit with some individuals. Besides, there are the negative motives of fear, shyness and laziness that tend to deter from the actual execution of a plan. Hamlet's "conscience" that makes "cowards of us all", so that "the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, and enterprises of great pith and moment . . . lose the name of action" turns out, if we look a few lines further back, to be the "dread of something" unknown, that "puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of".{540}Fear--fear of unforeseen consequences, fear of committing ourselves, fear of ridicule--is one great inhibiter of action, and inertia is another, since it is much less strenuous to sit in the armchair and plan than to get out and put the plan into effect. Besides this, some people who are good at planning come to take so much pride and satisfaction in the thinking part of an enterprise that they do not feel the need for action. Moreover, you can "plan" in a large way, without bothering about details, but once you start to execute your plan you encounter details and preliminaries which are apt to rob the enterprise of its zest. Here is where persistence and effort are needed.
Abulia--"no will"--is an abnormal degree of lack of zest for action. Along with it go timidity and lack of social force, proneness to rumination and daydreaming, and often a feeling of being compelled to perform useless acts, such as doing everything three times or continual washing of the hands. Abulia is not just a comfortable laziness, but is attended by a sense of humiliation and inferiority. It shows itself in excessive hesitation and vacillation and in failure to accomplish anything of consequence. Sometimes the subject expends much effort, but fails to direct the effort towards the execution of his purposes. Some authorities have ascribed abulia to inertia or "low mental tension", some to an overdose of fear and caution, some to the paralyzing effect of suppressed desires still living in the "unconscious". Mild degrees of it, such as are not uncommon, seem sometimes to be due to the hiatus that is bound to exist between the end one has in view and the means one must take to start towards that end. One has zest for reaching the goal, but not for the preliminaries.
An author, whose case was studied because he was accomplishing so little, was found to follow a daily program about as follows. He would get up in the morning full of{541}confidence that this was going to be a good day, with much progress made in his book. Before starting to write, however, he must first have his breakfast, and then a little fresh air, just to prepare himself for energetic work. On returning from his walk, he thought it best to rest for a few moments, and then one or two other little matters seemed to demand attention; by the time these were done, the morning was so far gone that there was no time for a really good effort, so he optimistically postponed the writing till the afternoon, when the same sort of thing happened, and the great performance had to be put over till the next day. This man did better under a regime prescribed by his medical adviser, who commanded him to write for two hours immediately after rising, and make this his day's work--no more and no less than two hours. The definiteness of this task prevented dawdling.
Other writers have noted a curious tendency to "fight shy" of the passage actually being written and let the thoughts move ahead and plan out the later passages. Sometimes it is necessary to trick yourself if you are to get anything done; you say, "I can't write this properly just now; I'll just sketch out a preliminary draft"--on which understanding you may be able to write, whereas you could not if you thought you were writing "for keeps"; but when you have got well started and warmed to the task, you may find your work good enough to keep, after all. Judging by these mild cases, abulia may be due partly to distaste for the details of actual performance, and partly to a dread of committing oneself to anything that has the stamp of finality.
No chapter in psychology offers more in the way of practical applications than this chapter on the will--if we only{542}knew more on the subject! How to get action, either from yourself, or from others if you are responsible for their action, is a big practical problem. A few hints on the matter are suggested by what precedes.
How to get action from yourself--how to liberate your latent energies and accomplish what you are capable of accomplishing. A definite purpose is the first requirement; without that one merely drifts, with no persistency and no great energy. The goal should be something that appeals vitally to you, and something which you can attain; not too distant a goal; or, if the ultimate goal is distant, there must be mileposts along the way which you can take as more immediate goals; for a goal that can be reached by immediate action enlists more present effort. The student puts more energy into his study when the examination is close at hand; and, although this is regrettable, it reveals a fact in human nature that can be utilized in the management of yourself or others. A well defined and clearly visible goal is a much better energy-releaser than vague "good intentions".
The more clearly you can see and measure your approach towards the goal, the more action; thus it has been found in many different lines that the "practice curve method" of training gives quicker and better results than ordinary drill. In the practice curve [Footnote:See p. 321.] you have a picture of your progress; you are encouraged by seeing how far you have advanced, and stimulated to surpass your past record, and thus your immediate goal is made very definite. You cannot do so well when you simply "do your best" as when you set out to reach a certain level, high enough to tax your powers without being quite out of reach. You cannot jump so high in the empty air as you can to clear a bar; and, to secure your very best endeavor, the bar must not be so low{543}that you can clear it easily, nor so high that you cannot clear it at all.
The goal should be heartily adopted asyourgoal, which is to say that the self-assertive motive should be harnessed into service. The importance of this motive in securing action is seen in the strong effect of competition to arouse great activity. The runner cannot make as good speed when running "against time" as when competing directly, neck to neck, with other runners. Hence, to get full action from yourself, find worthy competitors. And for the same reason, accept responsibility. This puts you on your mettle. To shun competition and responsibility is characteristic of abulia. Other strong motives, such as the economic motive or the sex motive (seen in the energetic work of a young man whose goal is marriage to a certain young woman) can also be enlisted in many cases. But, for the best results, there should be, in addition to these extraneous motives, a genuine interest in the work itself.
Do not say, "I will try". Say, "I will do it". The time for trying, or effort, is when obstruction is actually encountered. You cannot really try then, unless you are already fully determined to reach the goal.
Getting action from other people is the business of parents, teachers, bosses, officers, and to some extent of every one who wishes to influence another. In war, the problem of "morale" is as important as the problem of equipment, and it was so recognized by all the armies engaged in the Great War. Each side sought to keep the morale of its own soldiers at a high level, and to depress the morale of the enemy. Good morale means more than willingness for duty; it means "pep", or positive zest for action. Some of the means used to promote morale were the following. The soldier must believe in the justness of his cause; that is, he must make victory his own goal, and be{544}whole-hearted in this resolve. He must believe in the coming success of his side. He must be brought to attach himself firmly to the social group of which he forms a part. He must be so absorbed in the activities of this group as to forget, in large measure, his own private concerns. Not only must he be enthusiastic for cause and country, but he must be strong for his division, regiment and company. Much depends on the officers that directly command him. He must have confidence in them, see that they know their business, and that they are looking out for the welfare of their men as well as expecting much from them. Competition between companies, regiments, and arms of the service was a strong force tending towards rapid progress in training and good service in the field. Interest in the actual technical work that was being done, and seeing that one's immediate group was accomplishing something towards the winning of the war was a powerful spur, while a sense of the uselessness of the work in hand strongly depressed the morale of a group. "Nothing succeeds like success"; morale was at its best when the army was advancing and seemingly nearing the goal. Morale was also wonderfully good when the enemy was advancing, provided your side was holding well with a good prospect of bringing the enemy to a halt and baffling his offensive. On the other hand, nothing was so hard on morale as the failure of an ambitious offensive of one's own side; the sense of futility and hopelessness then reached its maximum--except, of course, for the case of obviously approaching defeat. The conditions of trench warfare imposed a strain on morale: no progress, in spite of the danger and hardship, no chance to get at the enemy or do anything positive.
The manager of an industrial enterprise has the same problem of morale to meet. It is his business to get action from people who come into the enterprise as servants. The{545}main difficulty with the master-servant relation is that the servant has so little play for his own self-assertion. The master sets the goal, and the servant has submissively to accept it. This is not his enterprise, and therefore he is likely to show little "pep" in his work. He can be driven to a certain extent by fear and economic want; but better results, and the best social condition generally, can be expected from such management as enlists the individual's own will. He must be made to feel that the enterprise is his, after all. He must feel that he is fairly treated, and that he receives a just share of the proceeds. He must be interested in the purposes of the concern and in the operations on which he is engaged. Best of all, perhaps, some responsibility and initiative must be delegated to him. When the master, not contented with setting the main goal, insists on bossing every detail, continually interfering in the servant's work, the servant has the least possible chance of adopting the job ashis own. But where the master is able, in the first place, to show the servant the objective need and value of the goal, and to leave the initiative in respect to ways and means to the servant, looking to him for results, the servant often responds by throwing himself into the enterprise as if it were his own--as, indeed, it properly is in such a case.
"Initiative"--that high-grade trait that is so much in demand--seems to be partly a matter of imagination and partly of will. It demands inventiveness in seeing what can be done, zest for action, and an independent and masterful spirit.
The physician who treats "nervous" or neurotic cases has this problem of getting action from his patients. Strange as it may seem, these cases, while bemoaning their unfortunate condition, cling to it as if it had its compensations, and do not wholeheartedlywill to get well. They have{546}slumped into the attitude of invalidism, and need reorientation towards the goal of health and accomplishment. How to bring this about is the great problem. Much depends here on the personality of the physician, and different physicians (as well as mental healers outside the medical profession) employ different technique with more or less of success. The first necessity is to win the patient's confidence; after that, some use persuasion, some suggestion, some psychoanalysis, some (non-medical practitioners) use metaphysical doctrines designed to lead the patient to "hitch his wagon to a star". On the intellectual side, these methods agree in giving the patient a new perspective, in which weakness, ill health and maladaptation are seen to be small, insignificant and unnecessary, and health and achievement desirable and according to the nature of things; while on the side of impulse they probably come together in appealing to the masterful and self-assertive tendency, either by putting the subject on his mettle, or by leading him to partake of the determined, masterful attitude of the physician, or by making him feel that he is one with the great forces of the universe. Methods that psychologically are very similar to these are employed by the clergyman in dealing with morally flabby or maladjusted individuals; and the courts are beginning to approach the delinquent from the same angle. All the facts seem to indicate that the way to get action is to have a goal that "fires the imagination" and enlists the masterful tendencies of human nature.
Can the will of one person be controlled by that of another, through hypnotism or any similar practice? This question is often asked anxiously by those who fear that crime or misconduct willed by one person may be passively executed by another.