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never have been exposed to hostile criticism at all, but for the
metaphysical objections, already dismissed by us as fallacious,
founded upon the notion that the mechanical postulates with which
Interaction conflicts are ascertained truths about the actual structure
of the reality with which we are in touch in immediate experience.
It is clear that, from the nature of the problem to be solved, we
cannot be called upon to prove the actual occurrence of
psychophysical interaction. As a working hypothesis for the
interrelation of two sets of scientific abstractions, the theory is in
principle incapable of direct establishment by the “appeal to facts.”
All that is requisite for its justification is to show that it is (a) not in
principle at variance with any fundamental axiom of scientific
procedure, and (b) enables us to co-ordinate our scientific results in
the manner most suitable for the uses to which we propose to put
them. Both these conditions are fulfilled by the hypothesis of
Interaction, if our foregoing arguments are sound. We have seen the
fallacious nature of the objections brought against it on a priori
grounds of logical method, and have also seen that it is positively
demanded if we are at once to be faithful to the mechanical
postulates upon which physical science depends for its successes,
and to recognise in our psychological constructions that teleological
character of human action which is all-essential for History and
Ethics. In substance this is the whole case for the Interaction
hypothesis, and no further accession of strength would result from its
elaboration in detail.
It may be added that it is one great recommendation of the
hypothesis of Interaction, that it is quite consistent with the full
recognition of the relative usefulness of the alternative theories,
though they, as we have seen, are unable to do justice to those
aspects of fact which can only be expressed in terms of Interaction.
Thus the hypothesis of Interaction can readily afford to admit that, for
certain purposes and up to a certain point, it is possible to treat
physical or psychical processes as if they were determined solely by
physical or psychical conditions respectively, and even to treat some
physical processes as if the presence of their psychical concomitants
made no difference at all to their occurrence. The reason of this is,
that whereas a mechanical hypothesis can give no intelligible
account of a purposive process at all, a teleological hypothesis can
quite easily account for the apparently mechanical character of some
of the processes which fall under it. As we have seen (Book III. chap.
3, § 6), a purposive reaction, once established, approximates to
mechanical uniformity in the regularity with which it continues to be
repeated, while the conditions are unchanged, and the end of the
reaction is therefore still secured by its repetition.
Thus we can readily see that, even if we contented ourselves with
the attempt to translate into the language of psychological science
the processes which make up the life of an individual subject, many
of them would appear to be going on with routine uniformity. And
when we deliberately set ourselves to obtain uniformities by taking
an average result, derived from comparison of a multitude of
subjects, our results are, of course, always mechanical in
appearance, because the element of individual purpose and initiative
has been excluded by ourselves from our data in the very process of
taking the average. Hence we can understand how, on the
hypothesis of Interaction itself, all those mental processes which
consist in the repetition of an already established type of reaction
should come to appear mechanical, and thus to suggest that
mechanical conception of psychical processes which is common to
the epiphenomenalist and the parallelist view. Interaction, and
Interaction alone, is thus a hypothesis capable of being applied to
the whole field of psychological investigation.
I will conclude this chapter with some considerations on the
bearing of our result upon the special problems of Metaphysics. We
have explicitly defended Interaction as being no statement of actual
experienced fact, but a working hypothesis for the convenient
correlation of two scientific constructions, neither of which directly
corresponds to the actualities of experience. This means, of course,
that Interaction cannot possibly be the final truth for Metaphysics. It
cannot ultimately be the “fact” that “mind” and “body” are things
which react upon each other, because, as we have seen, neither
“mind” nor “body” is an actual datum of experience; for direct
experience and its social relations, the duality subsequently created
by the construction of a physical order simply has no existence. Nor
can it be maintained that this duality, though not directly given as a
datum, is a concept which has to be assumed in order to make
experience consistent with itself, and is therefore the truth. For the
concept of Interaction manifestly reposes upon the logically prior
conception of the physical as a rigidly mechanical system. It is
because we have first constructed the notion of the “body” on rigidly
mechanical lines that we have subsequently to devise the concept of
“mind” or “soul” as a means of recognising and symbolising in our
science the non-mechanical character of actual human life. And
since we have already seen that the mechanical, as such, cannot be
real, this whole scheme of a mechanical and a non-mechanical
system in causal relation with one another can only be an imperfect
substitute for the Reality it is intended to symbolise. In fact, we might
have drawn the same conclusion from the very fact that the
psychophysical hypothesis we have adopted is couched in terms of
Transeunt Causality, since we have already satisfied ourselves that
all forms of the causal postulate are more or less defective
appearance.
The proposition that the psychophysical theory of the “connection”
of “body” and “mind” is an artificial transformation, due to the needs
of empirical science, of the actual teleological unity of human
experience, is sometimes expressed by the statement that mind and
body are really one and the same thing. In its insistence upon the
absence of the psychophysical duality from actual experience, this
saying is correct enough, but it perhaps fails to express the truth with
sufficient precision. For, as it stands, the saying conveys no hint of
the very different levels on which the two concepts stand in respect
to the degree of truth with which they reproduce the purposive
teleological character of real human experience. It would perhaps be
nearer the mark to say that, while the physiologist’s object, the
“body,” and the psychologist’s object, the “mind,” are alike
conceptual symbols, substituted, from special causes, for the single
subject of actual life, and may both be therefore said to “mean” or
“stand for” the same thing, their actual content is different. For what
in the language of physiology I call my “body” includes only those
processes of actual life which approximate to the mechanical ideal
sufficiently closely to be capable of being successfully treated as
merely mechanical, and therefore brought under a scheme of
general “laws” of nature. Whereas what, as a psychologist, I call my
“mind” or “soul,” though it includes processes of an approximately
mechanical type, includes them only as subordinate to the initiation
of fresh individual reactions against environment which can only be
adequately expressed by teleological categories. Thus, though
“mind” and “body” in a sense mean the same actual thing, the one
stands for a fuller and clearer view of its true nature than the other. In
Dr. Stout’s terminology their intent may be the same, but their
content is different.[183]

Consult further:—R. Avenarius, Der Menschliche Weltbegriff; B.

Bosanquet, Psychology of the Moral Self, lect. 10; F. H. Bradley,
Appearance and Reality, chap. 23; Shadworth Hodgson, Metaphysic
of Experience, vol. ii. pp. 276-403; William James, Principles of
Psychology, vol. i. chaps. 5 and 6; H. Lotze, Metaphysic, bk. iii.
chaps. 1 and 5 (Eng. trans., vol. ii. pp. 163-198, 283-517); H.
Münsterberg, Grundzüge der Psychologie, i. chaps. 11. (pp. 402-
436), 15 (pp. 525-562); G. F. Stout, Manual of Psychology,3
Introduction, chap. 3; James Ward, Naturalism and Agnosticism, vol.
ii. lects. 11 and 12 (art. “Psychology” in Supplement to Encyclopædia
Britannica, p. 66 ff.).

174. Compare the following striking passage from Avenarius,

Menschliche Weltbegriff, p. 75: “Let an individual M denote a definite
whole of ‘perceived things’ (trunk, arms and hands, legs and feet,
speech, movements, etc.) and of ‘presented thoughts’ as I, ... then
when M says ‘I have a brain,’ this means that a brain belongs as part
to the whole of perceived things and presented thoughts denoted as
I. And when M says ‘I have thoughts,’ this means that the thoughts
themselves belong as a part to the whole of perceived things and
presented thoughts denoted as I. But though thorough analysis of
the denotation of I thus leads to the result that we have a brain and
thought, it never leads to the result that the brain has the thoughts.
The thought is, no doubt, a thought of ‘my Ego,’ but not a thought of
‘my brain’ any more than my brain is the brain of ‘my thought.’ I.e.
the brain is no habitation, seat, generator, instrument or organ, no
support or substratum of thought. Thought is no indweller or
commander, no other half or side, and also no product, indeed not
even a physiological function or so much as a state of the brain.”
175. As elsewhere in this work, I am using the terms “mind” and
“soul” as virtually interchangeable names for the object studied by
the psychologist. So far as there is any definite distinction of
meaning between the terms as currently used by English writers,
“soul” seems to carry with it more of the implication of substantiality
and relative independence than “mind.” It might not be amiss to
adopt the term “soul” as a name for the finite subject of experience
as he is for himself in actual social life, and to confine the name
“mind” to the construction which symbolises this subject for
psychological purposes. But the popular antithesis between soul and
body is perhaps too strongly rooted to admit of this suggestion. In
earlier passages, e.g., Book II. chap. 2, § 6, I have used the term
“spirit” in the sense here suggested for “soul.”
176. So, in dealing with astronomical problems, we are free to
adopt either the Copernican or the Ptolemaic scheme, whichever
happens to be the more convenient for our special purpose. The
superior truth of the Copernican system seems to mean no more
than that the range of its utility is the wider of the two. I may observe
that I do not here employ the term “utility” in the narrowly practical
sense of those philosophers who, e.g., condemn all speculation
about the “Absolute” on the ground of inutility. Whatever satisfies any
human aspiration is for me, so far, “useful.” It follows that there is, for
me, no such thing as the “useless knowledge” which “Pragmatism”
denounces. Thus, if a man’s peace of mind depends upon
speculation about the “Absolute”—on the habits of angels, or any
other topic you like (and this is a matter in which every man must in
the end decide for himself)—Pragmatism would appear to be false to
its own principle in forbidding him to speculate.
177. The assumption is not always made, however. Professor
Münsterberg, who classes himself as a supporter of Parallelism,
holds on metaphysical grounds that all causal connection must be
between physical states. Hence he denies that psychical states can
be causally connected with one another, except indirectly through
the causal relations of their physical correlates. His doctrine is thus
hardly to be distinguished from Epiphenomenalism, except in
terminology, though he avoids the consequence of practical Fatalism
by his insistence upon the purely artificial nature of both the physical
and the psychical series. (His reason for refusing to admit causal
relation between psychical states is that causal connection can only
be established between universals, whereas every psychical state is
unique. Does not this argument imply a confusion between the
actual experience and its psychological symbol?)
178. Most supporters of Parallelism, it may be noted, stultify their
own case, so far as it rests on this special contention, by admitting
the causal determination of psychical states by one another, though,
as psychical states are essentially qualitative, the reduction of
causation to quantitative identity is particularly inadmissible here.
Professor Münsterberg is quite consistent, therefore, in denying
psychical causality and reducing Parallelism to Epiphenomenalism.
179. The reader who has followed the argument of our Third Book
will not need to be reminded that the world of purely mechanical
processes is simply an ideal construction based on postulates which
we make for their practical convenience, and in no sense a direct
transcript of the world of actual experience.
180. The “neutral Monism” to which the doctrine of rigid
Parallelism logically leads, when put forward as more than a working
hypothesis, will, one may hope, in England at least, fail to survive the
exposure of its illogicalities in the second volume of Professor
Ward’s Naturalism and Agnosticism.
181. This case includes, as will be apparent on a little reflection,
not only the initiation of new motor reactions upon a sensation or
percept, but also that of sensation itself as a qualitatively novel
reaction upon physiological stimulation, and thus includes both the
processes in which supporters of Interaction have always recognised
the causal interconnection of the physical and the psychical.
182. It is with great pleasure that I note the coincidence of my own
view on the impossibility of reconciling Parallelism with the
recognition of the psychological importance of “meaning” with that of
Mr. Gibson (essay on “The Problem of Freedom,” in Personal
Idealism, p. 150 ff.). Professor Münsterberg’s declaration, that the
consciousness investigated by Psychology “knows nothing by its
knowledge and wills nothing by its will,” seems to me a confession of
the bankruptcy of Parallelism as a basal psychological hypothesis.
Still more so his elaborate and brilliant demonstration that the “brain”
with which my “mind” may be regarded as “parallel” is not the brain
as studied and charted by the anatomist, i.e. not the brain as a
physical object at all. See Psychologie, i. 415-428.
183. See his essay on “Error” in Personal Idealism.
 CHAPTER III

THE PLACE OF THE “SELF” IN REALITY

§ 1. The “self” is (1) a teleological concept, (2) implies a contrasted not-self (where
this contrast is absent from an experience there is no genuine sense of self);
(3) but the limits which divide self and not-self are not fixed but fluctuating.
The not-self is not a merely external limit, but consists of discordant elements
within the individual, which are extruded from it by a mental construction. (4)
The self is a product of development, and has its being in the time-series. (5)
The self is never given complete in a moment of actual experience, but is an
ideal construction; probably selfhood implies some degree of intellectual
development. § 2. The Absolute or Infinite Individual, being free from all
internal discord, can have no not-self, and therefore cannot properly be called
a self. § 3. Still less can it be a person. § 4. In a society of selves we have a
more genuinely self-determined individual than in the single self. Hence it
would be nearer the truth to think of the Absolute as a Society, though no finite
whole adequately expresses the Absolute’s full nature. We must remember,
however, (a) that probably the individuals in the Absolute are not all in direct
relation, and (b) that in thinking of it as a Society we are not denying its real
individuality. § 5. The self is not in its own nature imperishable; as to the
particular problem of its continuance after death, no decision can be arrived at
on grounds of Metaphysics. Neither the negative presumption drawn from our
inability to understand the conditions of continuance, nor the lack of empirical
evidence, is conclusive; on the other hand, there is not sufficient metaphysical
reason for taking immortality as certain.

§ 1. We have already, in Book II. chap. 1, § 5, incidentally raised

the question whether the whole spiritual system which we found
ground to regard as the reality of the universe, can properly be
spoken of as a “self.” We decided that to apply such a predicate to it
was at least misleading, and might prepare the way for serious
intellectual sophistication. Our discussion of the general character of
psychological conceptions has now made it possible for us to return
to the problem with reasonable hopes of being able to treat it more
fully, and to arrive at some definite conclusion as to the amount of
truth embodied by the notion of “self.”
First of all, then, let us attempt to fix the general meaning of the
concept, and to single out some of its more prominent
characteristics. It would clearly require much more space than we
can spare to enumerate all the senses in which the notion of “self”
has been used in Psychology, and the work, when done, would not
be entirely germane to our metaphysical purpose. What I propose to
attempt here will be simply to consider certain aspects of the concept
of “self” which are manifestly indispensable for the purpose of ethical
and historical appreciation, and to ask what their value is for the
metaphysical interpretation of existence.
(1) It is manifest, to begin with, that “self” is a teleological concept.
The self whose quality is revealed in Biography and History, and
judged in Ethics, has for its exclusive material our emotional
interests and purposive attitudes towards the various constituents of
our surroundings; of these, and of nothing else, our self is made.
And the self, again, is one and individual, just in so far as these
interests and purposes can be thought of as forming the expression,
in the detail of succession, of a central coherent interest or purpose.
Where this central interest appears not to exist at all, we have no
logical right to speak of a succession of purposive acts as the
expression of a single self. Thus, though it may be necessary for
some of the practical purposes of police administration to take bodily
identity as evidence of identity of self, we all recognise that what a
man does in a state of mental alienation complete enough to abolish
continuity of purpose, is not material for his biographer except in so
far as the knowledge of it may modify his interests and purposes on
his return to sanity. And even in cases where we may acquiesce in
the necessity for assuming responsibility before the law for “deeds
done in the body,” conscience acquits us of moral guilt if we honestly
feel we can say, “I was not myself when it was done.”[184] The
teleological character of the unity we ascribe to the self is further
illustrated by the puzzles suggested by the “alternate” and “multiple”
personalities occasionally brought to light in the study of hypnotism
and of mental pathology. Finally, in the fairly numerous cases of
“conversion,” where a man, as we say, becomes a “new being” or
parts with his “old self,” we only recognise him as identical with his
past self in so far as we succeed in thinking of his “new life” as being
the expression of aims and interests which were, at least implicitly
and as “tendencies,” already present, though concealed, in the “old.”
 (2) The self implies, and has no existence apart from, a not-self,
and it is only in the contrast with the not-self that it is aware of itself
as a self. This seems to me clear, as a matter of principle, though the
consequences of the principle are in much current speculation partly
misconceived, partly neglected. The most important among them, for
our purposes, are the following. The feeling of self is certainly not an
inseparable concomitant of all our experience. For it only arises—
and here nothing but direct experimentation can be appealed to as
evidence—as a contrast-effect in connection with our awareness of a
not-self, whether as imposing restraints upon the expression of the
self, or as undergoing modification by the self. Hence experiences
from which this contrast is absent seem to exhibit no trace of
genuine “self-consciousness.”[185] Feeling, where you can get it in its
simple form, seems to be universally allowed to be an instance in
point. Much of our perception appears to me, though I know the view
is not widely current among psychologists, to be in the same
position. E.g., normally when I am looking at an object, say for
instance, a white-washed wall, I do not find that I am in any real
sense “conscious of self.” The content of my awareness seems, to
me at least, to be just the wall in a setting of a mass of unanalysed
feeling, organic and other, which you may, if you please, from your
standpoint as an external observer, call my perceiving self, but of
which I am only aware as the setting of the perceived wall.
It is only when attention to the content of the perception becomes
difficult (as, e.g., through fatigue of the organs of sense, or conflict
with some incompatible purpose) that I am normally aware of the
perceived object as a not-self opposed to and restricting my self. The
same is, I think, true of much of our life of conscious purposive
action. I do not find that in my intellectual pursuit of a chosen study,
or again in my social relations to the other members of my
community, I have explicit awareness of the “facts” of science, or the
interests and purposes of others as a not-self with which my own
interests are contrasted as those of the self, except in so far as I
either find these facts and interests in actual collision with some aim
of my own, or experience the removal of such a collision. In ordinary
social life, for instance, I have a strong feeling of self as opposed to
not-self when the plans of some member of my immediate circle
clash with my own, and again when I succeed in winning such a
recalcitrant over to my own side; my self in the one case feels
repression, in the other expansion. But I do not think it can be said
that the self-feeling arises in actual life where there is temporarily no
consciousness of opposition or its removal. For instance, while we
are harmoniously working with other men for a previously concerted
end, the consciousness of self and its contrasted not-self scarcely
appears to enter into our experience.[186] This is, I presume, why
practical worldly wisdom has always regarded “self-consciousness”
as a source of weakness and moral failure. While we are steadily
engaged in the progressive execution of a purpose, we “lose
ourselves” in the work; it is only upon a check that we become “self-
conscious.”
(3) The next point to be noted is that there is no definite line of
demarcation between self and not-self. In particular, we must not fall
into the error of supposing that the whole content of the relation
between self and not-self is social,—the self on its side consisting of
me, and the not-self of other men. It is true, no doubt, that the origin
of the distinction is mainly social, since it is in the main through
experience of what it is to have my execution of a desired act
repressed by others, and again to have the stumbling-blocks which
have previously restricted my action removed by their co-operation,
that I come to be definitely aware of what I want, and of the fact that
it is I who want it. But it would be hard to show that the distinction
between the self and the not-self could not originate at all except in a
social medium, and it is clear that the range of its applicability, when
originated, is not limited to the social relation. There seems, on the
one hand, to be no feature in our experience whatever which is
entirely excluded from entering into the constitution of what is felt as
the self. My social intimates, my professional colleagues, my regular
occupations, even my clothes or articles of furniture, to which I have
grown accustomed, may be so essential to the continuity of my
characteristic interests in life that their removal would make my
character unrecognisable, or possibly even lead to insanity or death.
And as thus indispensable to the teleological unity or my existence,
all these “external” objects seem to be capable of passing into and
becoming part of the self.
 We see an extreme instance of this in the case of the savage
transplanted into civilised surroundings, who fails in body and mind
and finally dies, without recognisable disease, simply from the
disappearance of the interests connected with his old surroundings;
or that of the clinging affectionate persons who, in the same way,
fade away upon the loss of a beloved relative or friend. In a minor
degree we see the same thing in those changes of character which
common speech happily describe by such phrases as “he has never
been himself since—his wife died, since he lost that money,” and so
forth. In principle there seems to be no factor of what we should
currently call the self’s environment which may not in this way come
to be part of the content of the self.[187]
On the other side, it seems difficult to say whether there is
anything which ordinarily forms part of the “self” which may not,
under special conditions, become a part of what we recognise as the
“not-self.” Thus our bodily feelings and sensations, our thoughts and
desires, and in particular our virtuous and vicious habits, are usually
reckoned as definitely belonging to our self. Yet in so far as we can
think of any desire or habit as an element which is discordant with
the rest of our self, and ought not to be there,—and the whole
business of moral progress depends on our being able to take up
this attitude,—we, so far, relegate that element to the not-self. To will
the habit or desire to be otherwise is already, in principle, to expel it
from the teleological unity which makes up our inner life. So again
with our thoughts: in so far as we can suspend our assent to a
judgment, and balance reasons for or against accepting it into the
general system of our beliefs, the judgment clearly belongs to the
external not-self.
Yet it is at least conceivable that there may be intellectual as well
as moral habits so deeply engrained in our constitution that we
cannot thus set them over-against the self for judgment and
sentence. We must not deny that there are cases in which we could
not will or think differently, or even mentally entertain the possibility
of thinking or willing differently, without the destruction of our life’s
continuity of purpose. Again, our bodily sensations seem to belong in
a very special way to our self. Yet in so far as we can acquire the
power of voluntarily observing them, or again of withdrawing
attention from them, they are in principle reduced to the position of
elements in the not-self.
Even pleasure and pain do not seem to belong inalienably to the
self’s side of the contrast. E.g., to adapt a Platonic illustration, if I feel
pleasure in contemplating the vulgar or obscene, and at the same
time feel disgusted with myself for being so pleased, the pleasure
seems in the act of condemnation to be recognised as no part of my
“true” self, but an alien element obtruded on the self against its
nature. Pain, by reason of that urgency and insistency which give it
its biological importance, is much harder to banish from the self; but
experience, I think, will convince any one who cares to make the
experiment, that bodily pains, when not too intense (e.g., a
moderately severe toothache), can, by directing attention to their
sensational quality, be sometimes made to appear as definitely
foreign to the experiencing self. And the history of asceticism,
ancient and modern, as well as the practice of “mind-curers,”
suggests that this process of extrusion can be carried further than
we commonly suspect.
Organic or “common” sensations of general bodily condition
probably form the element in experience which most obstinately
resists all attempts to sever it from the whole self and treat it as a
foreign object, though in some cases we certainly seem able to
extrude the organic sensation from the felt self by analysis of its
quality and “localisation.” Still, it must be admitted that if there are
any elements in experience which are absolutely incapable of
transference to the not-self, they are probably in the main masses of
unanalysed and unanalysable organic sensation.[188]
All these considerations make two points very clear. (a) The self in
which we are interested in Ethics and History is not anything with
definitely fixed boundaries. The line dividing it from its complement,
the not-self, is one which we cannot draw according to any precise
logical rule; and again, what is at one time on one side of the
boundary is at another on the other. If there is any part of our
experience at all which must be regarded as always and essentially
belonging to the self’s side of the dividing line, it will in all probability
be merely masses of bodily feeling which are manifestly not the
whole of what Ethics and History contemplate when they appraise
the worth of a self.[189]
Further, a conclusion follows as to the nature of the opposition of
self to not-self. The not-self, as the readiness with which most of the
contents of experience can pass from one side of the antithesis to
the other shows, is in a sense included in at the very time that it is
excluded from the self. The various factors of which the not-self can,
at different times, be composed, our fellows, the physical world,
thoughts, habits, feelings, all agree in possessing one common
characteristic; when referred to the self, they are all elements of
discord within the whole of present experience, and it is on account
of this discordancy that we treat them as foreign to our real nature,
and therefore as belonging to the not-self. We may thus say with
accuracy that what is ascribed to the not-self is so ascribed because
previously found to be discrepant, and therefore excluded from the
self; in other words, the not-self is not an external limit which we
somehow find in experience side by side with the self, but is
constructed out of experience-data by the extrusion of those data
which, if admitted into the self, would destroy its harmony. Thus we
finite beings are confronted by a not-self ultimately because in our
very finitude, as we have seen in earlier chapters, we contain in
ourselves a principle of strife and disharmony. The not-self is no
merely external environment, but an inevitable consequence of the
imperfection of internal structure which belongs to all finitude.
(4) The self is essentially a thing of development, and as such has
its being in the time-process. This is a point upon which it seems for
many reasons necessary to insist. Its truth seems manifest from our
previous consideration of the nature of the experiences upon which
the concept of the self is based. As we have seen, it is primarily to
our experience of internal disharmony and the collision of purpose
that we owe our distinction between self and not-self. And such
experience seems only possible to beings who can oppose an ideal
of what ought to be, however dimly that ideal may be apprehended,
to what is. A being who either was already all that it was its nature to
become, or was incapable of in some way apprehending the fact that
it was not so, would thus not have in its experience any material for
the distinction between the self and the foreign and hostile elements
in experience. And, as we have already seen in our Third Book, time
is the expression in abstract form of the fundamental nature of an
experience which has as yet attained only the partial fulfilment of its
purpose and aspirations, and is therefore internally subject to that
want of perfect harmony in which we have now sought the origin of
the distinction between self and not-self. Hence we may, I think, take
it as certain, at least for us who accept this account of the origin of
the self concept, that selves are necessarily in time and as such are
necessarily products of development.
This conclusion seems in accord with positive facts which are too
well established to permit of question. It is probable that there is not
a single element in what I call my present self which is not
demonstrably the product of my past development, physical and
mental. Nor does it appear reasonable to contend that though the
material of my existing self is a result of development, its form of
selfhood is underived. It is not merely that my present self is not as
my past self, but we cannot avoid the admission that my mental life
is the result of a process of development by which it is continuously
connected with that of the embryo and even the spermatozoon. And
thus it seems to have its beginnings in experiences which are
probably so little removed from simple feeling as to afford no
opportunity for the sense of self as contrasted with not-self. Or if we
maintain that the contrast cannot be altogether absent from even the
crudest forms of experience, we still have to reckon with the fact
that, one stage further back in my personal history, I had no
existence even as an animalcule. An embryonic self is at least not
positively inconceivable, but where was Levi’s selfhood while he was
yet in the loins of his father? If we will consider what we mean when
we say we have all had parents, it will, I think, be confessed that our
self must be admitted to have been actually originated in the course
of development, impossible as we find it to imagine the stage of such
a process.[190]
(5) Finally, we must deal briefly with one more point of some
importance. The self, as we can now see, is never identical with
anything that could be found completely existing at any one moment
in my mental life. For one thing, it is thought of as having a temporal
continuity which goes far beyond anything that can be immediately
experienced at any given moment. It stretches out both into the past
and the future beyond the narrow limits of the “sensible present.”
Again, this temporal continuity is only an abstract expression of the
inner sameness and continuity of aims and interests we ascribe to
the self. My experiences are, as we have seen, thought of as being
the life of one self ultimately because I look on them as the
harmonious expression of a consistent attitude of interest in the
world. And any elements in experience which will not coalesce in
such a harmony are, by one device or another, extruded from the
true self and declared to be alien intruders from elsewhere. Now, in
real life we never find this complete and absolute harmony of the
contents of experience; there are always, if we look for them,
elements in our actual experience which are discordant, and conflict
with the system of interests which, on the whole, dominates it. Hence
self, in the last resort, is seen to be an ideal which actual experience
only imperfectly realises,—the ideal of a system of purposes and
interests absolutely in harmony with itself. And there must be, at
least, grave doubt as to the logical self-consistency of this ideal,
doubts which we must shortly face.
For the present the point to which I want to call attention is this.
Must we say that any degree of felt continuity of existence is enough
to constitute rudimentary selfhood, or ought we to hold that there is
no true self where there is not at least as much intellectual
development as is implied in the power to remember the past and
anticipate the future, as one’s own? In other words, are we to make
selfhood as wide in its range as sentient life, or to limit it to life
sufficiently rational to involve some distinct and explicit recognition of
the contrast between self and not-self? This is perhaps, in the main,
a question as to terminology; for my own part, I confess I find the
second alternative the more satisfactory. I do not see that such a
degree of teleological continuity as is implied in the mere feeling of
pain, for instance, deserves to be recognised as genuine selfhood;
and there is, I think, in the unrestricted use of the term self, selfhood,
as applied to merely feeling consciousness, a danger of ambiguity.
When we have once applied the terms in such a case, we are
inevitably tempted to over-interpret the facts of such simple mental
life in order to bring them into fuller accord with what we know of
selfhood in our own life.[191] At the same time, it is clear that we have
no right dogmatically to deny the presence of the intellectual
processes involved in the recognition of self where our methods of
observation fail to detect them.
§ 2. We may now approach the problem of the degree of reality
which belongs to the self. We have to ask, how far is the conception
of self applicable to the individual experiences which in our Second
Book we identified as the contents of the system of real existence?
Is the infinite individual experience properly to be called a self?
Again, is every finite experience a self? And how must we take finite
selves, if they are real, to be related to each other? Lastly, perhaps,
we might be called on in this connection to face the question how far
an individual finite self is more than a temporary feature in the
system of existence. Our conclusions on all these points were no
doubt in principle decided by the discussions of our Second Book,
but it is desirable to make some of them more explicit than was
possible there.
First, then, I think it is clear that the infinite experience or
“Absolute” cannot properly be called a self. This is immediately
apparent if our view as to the essential implications of self-feeling be
accepted. We have urged that self is only apprehended as such in
contrast to a simultaneously apprehended not-self. And the not-self,
we have seen, is composed of all the discordant elements of
experience, so far as their discord has not been overcome. It was for
this reason that we held the self to be indissolubly bound up with that
experience of the world as a process in time, with a “no longer” and
“not yet,” which is the universal characteristic of finitude. It must
follow that an experience which contains no discordant elements, in
their character as unresolved discords, is not characterised by the
contrast-effect which is the foundation of selfhood. An experience
which contains the whole of Reality as a perfectly harmonious whole
can apprehend nothing as outside or opposed to itself, and for that
very reason cannot be qualified by what we know as the sense of
self.
To put the same thing in another way, “self” as we have seen, is
essentially an ideal, and an ideal which is apprehended as
contrasted with the present actuality. Hence only beings who are
aware of themselves as in process of becoming more fully
harmonious in their life of feeling and purpose than they at present
are, can be aware of themselves as selves. Self and imperfection
are inseparable, and any being which knows nothing of the
opposition between the ideal and the actual, the ought and the is,
must also know nothing of the feeling of self. Or in yet a third form of
words, only creatures whose life is in time—and therefore only finite
creatures—can be selves, since the time-experience is an integral
constituent of selfhood.
One objection which might be brought against this inference is
sufficiently ingenious to deserve special examination. It may be
urged that though the experience of imperfection and thwarted
purpose are conditions without which we in particular could not come
to the apprehension of self, they do not remain as ingredients in the
experience of selfhood when once it has been developed. Hence, it
might be said, the “Absolute” may conceivably have the experience
without having to acquire it through these conditions. In general
principle, no doubt this line of argument is sound enough. It is
perfectly true that the special conditions through which we come to
have experience of a certain quality cannot, without investigation, be
taken as everywhere indispensable for that experience. E.g., even if
it were proved that the pessimists are right in saying that we never
experience pleasure except as a contrast with previous pain, it would
still not follow that the pleasure, as felt, is the mere rebound from the
pain, and has no further positive quality of its own, and it would then
still be an open question whether other beings might not experience
the pleasure without the antecedent pain. But the principle does not
seem applicable to the case now under consideration, since it is our
contention that the contrast of the discordant factor with the rest of
the experience to which it belongs is not simply an antecedent
condition, but is in fact the central core of the actual apprehension of
self. It is not simply that we do not, if our previous analysis has been
correct, have the feeling of self except in cases where such a
contrast is present, but that the feeling of self is the feeling of the
contrast. Hence our result seems untouched by the undoubtedly
sound general principle to which we have referred.
 That our conclusion is so frequently opposed by philosophers who
adopt a generally idealistic position, is, I believe, to be accounted for
by the prevalence of the belief that experience, as such, is
essentially characterised by consciousness of self. To experience at
all, it is commonly thought, is to be aware of one’s self as in relation
to an environment of the not-self. Hence to deny that the absolute
Reality is a self is often thought to be equivalent to denying that it is
an experience at all and this, from the idealistic point of view, would
mean to deny that it is real. But if our previous analysis was sound, it
is not even true of human experience as such that it is everywhere
conditioned by the felt contrast of self with not-self. From the point of
view of that analysis, the contrast only exists where there is felt
discord between experience as a whole and some of its constituents.
The conception of our experience as essentially marked by a sense
of self, must therefore rest upon our intellectual reconstruction
effected by the transparent fiction of ascribing to every experience
features which analysis detects only in special cases and under
special conditions. Hence it is quite possible for us to unite the
affirmation that all real existence ultimately forms a single
experience-system, with the denial that that system is qualified by
the contrast-effect we know as the sense of self. How, indeed,
should that outside which there is nothing to afford the contrast, so
distinguish itself from a purely imaginary other?[192]
§ 3. If the Absolute is not a self, a fortiori it is manifest that it
cannot be a “Person.” Exactly how much is intended when the
“personality” of the Absolute, or indeed of anything else, is affirmed,
it would not be easy to determine. A “self” does not seem to be
necessarily a “person,” since those philosophers who hold that there
is no reality but that of selves, while admitting that the lower animals
are selves, do not usually call them persons. But it is hard to say
how much more is included in personality than in selfhood. If we
bear in mind that personality is, in its origin, a legal conception, and
that it is usually ascribed only to human beings, or to such
superhuman intelligences as are held capable of associating on
terms of mutual obligation with human beings, we may perhaps
suggest the following definition. A person is a being capable of being
the subject of the specific obligations attaching to a specific position
in human society. And it becomes manifest that, if this is so,
personality is, as Mr. Bradley has said, finite or meaningless.
For a society of persons is essentially one of ἴσοι καὶ ὅμοιοι, social
peers, with purposes mutually complementary though not identical,
and standing in need of each other’s aid for the realisation of those
purposes. Only those beings are personal for me whose aims and
purposes are included along with mine in some wider and more
harmonious system, and to whom I therefore am bound by ties of
reciprocal obligation. But it is clear that, to ask whether the wider
system which is thus the foundation of our mutual rights and duties
as persons, is itself a person, would be ridiculous. Thus, e.g., there
would be no sense in asking whether “human society”—the
foundation of our moral personality—is itself a person. You might, in
fact, as reasonably ask whether it can be sued for trespass or
assessed under schedule D for Income Tax.
Still more manifestly is this true of the Absolute which includes
within it all the (conceivably infinitely numerous) groups of mutually
recognising persons, and all those other forms of experience which
we cannot properly call personal. Between the whole system and its
component elements there can be no such relation of mutual
supplementation and completion as is the essence of genuine
personality. If the system, as a whole, may be said to supplement
and correct our defects and shortcomings, we cannot be said, in any
way, to supplement it; the Absolute and I are emphatically not, in any
true sense, ἴσοι καὶ ὅμοιοι, and the relation between us cannot
therefore be thought of as personal. All this is so obvious, that, as I
take it, the personality of the Absolute or whole of existence would
find no defenders but for the gratuitous assumption that whatever is
an individual experience or spiritual unity must be personal. This, as
far as I can see, is to assume that such an individual must have an
external environment of other experience-subjects of the same
degree of harmonious and comprehensive individuality. And for this
assumption I can, speaking for myself, see no ground whatever.[193]
§ 4. If we cannot, then, properly say that the Absolute, or the
Universe,—or whatever may be our chosen name for the infinite
individual which is the whole of existence,—is a self or person, can
we say that the finite individuals which compose it are one and all