Problems of Metaphysics

Ontological Problem

On the Essence of the Soul: Intellectualist and Voluntarist Psychology; The Unconscious

The understanding of the essence of the soul in ordinary perception suffers from a dual deficiency: it is based on a false conception 1) of the metaphysical structure of the essence of the soul, and 2) of the phenomenological content of psychic life. I shall first address the latter point.

In self-consciousness, two types of phenomena present themselves to us: representations and volitional impulses; accordingly, we attribute two aspects to the soul: the intellect and the will. We consider the expressions of the intellect to be sensation, perception, representation, and thought, while the expressions of the volitional sphere encompass striving, impulse, desire, will, action, accompanied by the arousal of feeling.

In German psychology, instead of a bipartite division, a tripartite division has become customary: thinking, feeling, and willing—something that, in my view, does not benefit the understanding of psychic phenomena. It is not the place to delve deeply into this matter here; I shall merely note that separating feeling from willing is an impossible endeavor! At the primitive stage of development, they constitute a unity: there is no feeling that is not simultaneously a volitional impulse, and there is no arousal of will that comes into consciousness unembellished by feeling. Only at the higher levels of psychic life, in humans, does a certain degree of separation between feeling and will occur; aesthetic feelings arise almost without any volitional impulse; these are pure feelings of mood without impetus, and to some extent, there can also be volitional determination without the arousal of feeling; rational will can direct activity through thoughts of the goal without immediate sensory impulses and even against them.

If we fundamentally adhere to a bipartite division, a further question arises: how do these two aspects of psychic life relate to one another? Are they equally primary, or should one be regarded as the primary, root activity to which the other is secondary? The ordinary perception closest to this understanding is that representation is the first and fundamentally characteristic function of the soul, while feeling and desire, by contrast, are seen as something incidental and secondary, appearing here and there as a byproduct of the course of representations: that which representation designates as good or bad is subsequently desired or avoided by the will. Psychology often starts from this perspective; I shall call it intellectualist. Herbart systematically developed this view. His psychology represents an attempt to derive all phenomena of consciousness from representations and their relations. For him, representations are the primary elements of psychic life: they, like the elements of the physical world, are stable, attract and repel one another, press against each other, and connect with one another. The task of psychology for him is to formulate the laws governing the movement of representations and to explain all other phenomena from them.

In recent times, psychology has increasingly inclined to regard will as the primary and fundamental aspect of psychic life, while intellect is seen as a secondary development. Schopenhauer stands at the forefront of this direction. He views will as the fundamental psychic function, which cannot be derived from representation but, conversely, initially manifests itself entirely without representation or intellect, as blind striving or desire, and only with the increasing development does it shape intellect as a tool.

There is no doubt in my mind that Schopenhauer, with his remarkable clarity and penetrating insight, serves as a better guide here than Herbart’s incisive wit, which is directed at the analysis and synthesis of concepts. As long as we exclusively consider phenomena within the developed human consciousness, it may appear that representation constitutes the actual content of psychic life, only occasionally interrupted by the arousals of feeling and will. However, if we direct our gaze toward the entire great, living, and animated world, it immediately becomes clear how secondary the role of intellect is in comparison to will.

Within the lower animal world, it is hardly conceivable that anyone would consider the content of psychic life to primarily reside in the functions of representations. In the lower forms of animal life, there is hardly any mention of intellect; a jellyfish, polyp, or infusorian likely possesses no self-representations or thoughts; they know neither themselves nor the external world; blind attraction governs their vital activity, little differently than blind forces dictate motion in the inorganic world. Just as a droplet of water falls, moving with a certain acceleration along the shortest path to its goal, the center of the earth, knowing nothing of the earth or the law of gravity, or how its particles arrange themselves in crystallization without any notion of geometric law, so does a living being move toward its goal—with equal fidelity—preserving its own life and that of its species. In both cases, the objective goal is equally far removed from being a subjective intention; the animal knows nothing of its environment and its life conditions, nor of offspring and species. It is not the foresight of goals or the understanding of means that accompany the phenomena of vital processes, but sensations of attractions and arousals of feelings.

Gradually, in the ascending order of animal life, intellect begins to accompany will. With the increasing complexity of the organism and its functions, along with the expansion of its relations to the environment—sensory organs and the nervous system emerge, and with these last, as we assume, sensation and perception arise as their inner aspects. Instinctive movements now come under the guiding influence of perception; however, the goal is still not anticipated, and activity is neither recognized nor chosen as a means: a bee knows nothing of its offspring or winter, has no concept of feeding processes, but in all its activities—searching for flowers, constructing cells, feeding offspring—it is guided by perceptions and traces of memory, which physiologically present themselves as nervous processes and arrangements. In higher animals, memory develops alongside the brain, and only with the latter does the primitive life of representations emerge. Now, the activity of will is influenced not only by the perception of the present but also by the representations of the past and future; simultaneously, the beginnings of reflection and volition are established.

In humans, this culminates in thinking, in the manipulation of abstract representations. While animal consciousness, as far as we can surmise, does not rise above the associations of concrete combinations and contemplative representations, humans, through language (in which society objectifies its thinking and makes it communicable), achieve such dominion over contemplation that they separate themselves as "I" and set it in opposition to the world as an object. Self-consciousness and objective world-consciousness are relational. With the expansion of consciousness, one simultaneously surveys one’s life as a whole, and through thoughts guiding goals and principles, one determines its content to some extent. Here, will is imbued with intellect; from animal impulses emerges rational will.

Thus, surveying development as a whole, we can assert: will is the primary and, in a certain sense, constant factor of psychic life; at the end of the spectrum, we find it directed toward the same great goals as at the beginning—the preservation and development of one’s own life and that of the species. Intellect is a secondary and variable factor, which joins will as an organ.

The same relationship between will and intellect presents itself to us in the development of the individual being, according to the same formula of modern biology that ontogenetic development recapitulates phylogenetic development. Each human enters the world as a blind, unthinking will. An infant primarily represents will; strong impulses manifest in vigorous movements, and its discharges are accompanied by lively organic sensations; yet the aspect of representations is still entirely absent; the movements are blind reflexive and instinctive movements. Soon, however, intellect begins to develop, starting with the exercise of the senses; the sense of touch becomes active; initially, it takes control of the movements; sensations of touch liberate certain movements of the head, then the hands, and soon the other senses follow. With memory and recollection (in the form of recognition), the life of representations unfolds; ultimately, with language, thinking arises, gradually becoming the highest guiding principle of actions. Thus, even here, will is the original, root function, while intellect is the instrument that joins in throughout life.

The same relationship is affirmed, as Schopenhauer finds, through psychological observation of the developed mental life of an individual. This is strikingly evident, first and foremost, from the fact that it is not reason that provides goals for life in general, but will; the task of reason is to find the means and paths toward the goal that the will seeks. Every living being embodies a concrete will—a will that is thus and so defined, directed toward a specific life, toward a certain series of developments and activities: the eagle and the lion embody a will directed precisely toward a particular form of life; they desire it absolutely, not based on knowledge of its worth. In precisely the same way, a human being desires to live a particular, defined life absolutely, not grounded in prior knowledge of its merits. One enters existence as a concrete will, defined by one's origins from a certain nation, from a particular family; knowing nothing of life and its contents, this nascent will sprouts anew, sending forth fresh shoots that follow one another like the branches of a plant: the desire to walk, to climb, to speak, to play at soldiers, at horses, at dolls, to build or to cook, to listen to stories and to tell them, to see things and understand them; then, at the end of childhood, suddenly bursts forth, at last, as a new and previously unknown inclination—an attraction to the opposite sex—which for a time becomes the main theme of one's inner life. Gradually, the impulses of adulthood emerge; work and earning a living, social status and respect—for oneself and one's offspring—become significant concerns of life, until finally the process of decay begins, culminating in death. This entire development occurs not through the forward-looking reason—no one concocts a path for their life, their development, and then, upon recognizing its worth, begins to pursue it. Certainly, in a certain sense, a person may have a foretaste of life in their imagination: a boy or a young man may have some task or ideal before their eyes, which, together with other conditions, defines their development and activity; but the ideal is a product not of reason but of will, contemplating itself within it. Reason does not construct ideals; it possesses no sense for ideals; it knows only the categories of the actual and the non-actual; value and its absence are the categories of will. Whose will is not receptive to the ideal will not be moved even by the clearest representation; representation acts only upon one whose will, in its fundamental direction, harmonizes with the ideal.

The same primacy of will, which manifests in the determination of all life content, is evident at every point of mental life. At each stage, reason serves as an instrument at the service of will, scanning the environment to discover how the will may achieve its goals in the best and easiest manner. Dominating the world of representations and their movements is interest, that is, will. This is the favored theme of Schopenhauer’s reflections. What occupies the reasoning faculties of most people? The important task of tracking gains and avoiding losses. Purely theoretical interest is alien or unfamiliar to them; where their will does not participate, their reason does not know what to do—it languishes in boredom. To escape boredom, they seek stimulation for their will in society; chatter and gossip serve this purpose, and when everything has been exhausted, games come to the rescue: filling idle hours with petty excitements of the will, as they are delivered by changing chances of winning and losing. Only a few attain at times a freedom of mind from the service of will, and only a select few experience the remarkable phenomenon where theoretical engagement with things completely overshadows practical interest: these are the geniuses. Therefore, they appear to the masses as eccentric and mad, for what else is it to be called mad but this: not to see or to disregard the things that the whole world sees and seeks, and instead to see other things that the whole world does not see?

Even if Schopenhauer’s eloquence here exaggerates (sometimes he himself notices this; theoretical interest is not entirely alien to any individual; interest in metaphysics, whether religious or philosophical, is indeed significant for a person), this does not cast doubt on the truth of his view that the world of representations receives its excitation and direction entirely from will. This is evident everywhere; will governs perception, determining attention; it chooses among stimuli that evoke sensations and feelings indiscriminately; only that which stands in a friendly or hostile relationship to our goals and tasks penetrates our consciousness or occupies a central position there. Will governs memory; we forget that which concerns us no longer, and we retain what holds long-term significance for the will. Will governs the flow of representations; our thoughts continuously gravitate toward the existing center of gravity of our interests; we think about what is dear and valuable to us or what is hated and dangerous. Will constantly influences judgment; it determines the weight and significance of things and phenomena, reasons and evidence; in practical matters, this is self-evident: once interest or inclination is decided, grounds immediately emerge to justify this decision. But will also intervenes in theoretical judgments. Consider the understanding of history: there is not a single significant event about which there are as many opinions and representations as there are parties still engaged with it.

Take the history of the Reformation or the French Revolution; even Caesar and Pericles are subject to this law. From this, it is clear what a decisive influence will exerts in the construction of the entire worldview; one might say that it is the builder who outlines the form and style, while reason plays the role of the executing architect. This is particularly evident in religions; they universally represent a mirror of the will that creates them; the deepest direction of a people’s will is objectified in the essence and will of their gods or God. In philosophy, this relationship is still visible everywhere; I will return to this below.

Thus, this would be the view of the mental life to which biological and psychological-historical considerations lead us. The fundamental fact of any mental life is a concrete, definitively directed will. The primary form of will is desire, the bodily representation of which is the system of organs with their tendencies to activity. In consciousness, desire manifests as a felt inclination, and at the highest level—as a striving toward a particular life activity. If the desire or striving finds satisfaction, a sense of pleasure follows; otherwise, there is a sense of displeasure; in feelings of pleasure and displeasure, will becomes conscious of itself, its direction, and its existing state, as well as its relationship to the surrounding environment. In the gradual development from feeling arises knowledge. Sensory perception is an anticipated organic feeling; taste perception anticipates the feelings accompanying the ingestion of food into the bodily substance, thereby becoming an advisor to the impulse for nourishment; smell, sensing prey from a distance, can be designated as a form of taste acting at a distance. In a similar relation stand the senses of hearing and sight to touch; they represent forms of perception at a distance; if the sense of touch presents the will with the immediate surrounding environment, hearing and sight relate it to the more distant environment and govern movement in the sense of adaptation to achieving favorable outcomes and avoiding unfavorable ones, with the distinction that the eye is a pursuing seeker while the ear is a listening guard.

Sensation (Empfindung) and feeling (Gefühl) are typically distinguished in such a way that the latter represents a purely subjective modification of a general state, while sensation symbolizes something objective. This is entirely accurate, although even in feeling, the objective moment is not entirely absent; every feeling of pleasure or suffering is not simply pleasure or suffering in general but a specific, differentiated feeling in content; on the other hand, in sensation, the subjective moment is never completely absent; it always carries a shade of feeling, indicating its derivation from feeling.

Finally, representation and thought constitute a further development in the same direction. They extend the will’s relations to the surrounding environment even further, placing even that which is distant in time in relation to it. Reason could be directly described as the capacity to see in the present the not yet given, to anticipate future phenomena from the present phenomena based on observed connections, to make them motives for decisions in the present moment.

Thus, this is approximately how the development and composition of the soul's life are represented in a voluntarist psychology. Schopenhauer makes this psychology the foundation of his idealistic metaphysics. Indeed, I have no doubt that it is more suitable for this purpose than intellectualist psychology. For one who sees the primary functions of the soul in representation and thought, it will always seem impossible to recognize animated beings in plants, let alone to see signs of psychic life in the movements of inorganic bodies. However, if we accept that the primary form of psychic phenomena consists of volitional acts, independent of representation and self-consciousness, then the vast chasm separating thinking beings from the forces of nature ceases to exist. Just as a system of impulses, accompanied by corresponding sensations, runs parallel to the vital phenomena in animal bodies, so too can a similar, albeit diminished, inner life correspond to plant life; even in the spontaneous movements of inorganic bodies, in chemical and crystalline processes, and in phenomena of attraction and repulsion, something akin to this inner life may manifest. Perhaps common opinion will find that it has not strayed far from such a conception, as it attributes powers to all bodies, considering them as their inner essence; for power represents nothing more than a tendency towards a specific activity, and therefore, in its general essence, coincides with unconscious will.

I shall add a remark here regarding the relationship of psychic phenomena to consciousness: are psychic events always accompanied by consciousness, or do unconscious elements of psychic life exist? To the best of my knowledge, no psychology fails to provide an affirmative answer to this question; conscious elements constitute only a small part of psychic life. The phenomena in consciousness can be compared to waves covering the rippling surface of a pond. Of the collective mass of water, only a small portion participates at any given moment in this play of waves; yet, this portion serves as a presumed condition for the latter and determinatively influences the magnitude and speed of movement. In precisely the same way, phenomena in consciousness rest upon the foundation of unconscious or, if you will, subconscious psychic life, which bears them, from which they arise, and which determines their movement. Common language, undisturbed, presupposes this everywhere; it constantly accounts for this unconscious composition. When someone is said to possess a profound knowledge of ancient languages, it is understood not to mean that they consciously hold the entire vocabulary and grammar in mind—an impossible feat—but rather that they possess an unconscious and, nonetheless, always actual treasury, which can be summoned into consciousness when necessary, just as they possess muscles and nerves, even if they are not actively using them at that moment. Similarly, one speaks of hopes and fears, of inclinations and aversions, as a constant, albeit not always conscious, component of psychic life, which manifests its existence in the nature and direction of conscious feelings and desires at every instant.

In what form should we conceive this composition of unconscious psychic life? How do knowledge and volition exist when they are not in consciousness? Physiologists endeavor to elucidate this matter by asserting that unconscious representations do not exist as representations; an unconscious representation would be a representation that does not represent—a wooden iron. Instead, they exist as the dispositions of ganglionic cells in the cerebral cortex. When a stimulus emanating from a sensory organ penetrates the brain, it is accompanied by a conscious phenomenon, such as some perception. Once the stimulus has passed, the conscious phenomenon, as such, completely disappears; yet, a certain trace of the physiological process remains, a continuing alteration of the excited cells. This is precisely what constitutes the unconscious representation. If now this area of nerve substance, arranged in this manner, is re-excited by some external or internal irritation, then that representation also becomes conscious. This is how physiologists attempt to circumvent the concept of the unconscious representation that is opposed to them while still maintaining what is a necessary assumption for the construction of consciousness phenomena.

Against the physiological construction, as such, one cannot object anything; it may be taken as reliable that, due to excitations, a continuing change in nervous formations occurs. On the other hand, the matter does not end here, at least not within the framework of the parallelistic theory we have established concerning the relationship of the psychic to the physical; we shall be compelled to ascribe to the unconscious elements of psychic life also a psychic existence. Just as we could not accept that the process of excitation in the nervous system constitutes the phenomenon of consciousness itself, we shall not agree that a specific arrangement of a ganglionic cell is an unconscious representation or can substitute for it. If we do not wish to abandon our general viewpoint, we must assert: nervous arrangements have physical effects, not psychic; they may determine the course of renewed nervous excitations, but not the nature and course of representations. Psychic actions presuppose psychic causes; if these causes are not present in consciousness, we must conceive them as a psychic unconscious, and this last must, therefore, exist, for that which does not exist cannot have actions, for ex nihilo nihil fit. Those who, in contrast, attempt to explain the phenomena of association and reproduction of representations through nervous arrangements can, therefore, derive psychic processes entirely from movements, and vice versa. They revert to the theory of influxus physicus.

Now, to the question of how an "unconscious" representation exists, one might respond: just as a sound, unheard by anyone, exists; a color, unseen by anyone; a body, imperceptible to anyone. Everyone concedes that there exists a brain within their skull, with nerve cells and their arrangements, even though neither they nor anyone else has seen this; everyone is convinced that under certain circumstances, they would perceive all this, and thus they assert: it exists. If the existence of ganglionic cells and their arrangements consists in the potential to be perceived, one may state: in this same potential lies the existence of unconscious representations—in the possibility of becoming conscious. These are potential inner perceptions, just as the aforementioned physical moments are potential outer perceptions.

Yet, one might also assert—perhaps this is the most fitting manner to present these matters—that the unconscious is not something entirely devoid of consciousness; rather, it exists as a less conscious state—possibly, a consciousness diminished to the point of being imperceptible. For in any case, we must arrive at the concession of quantitative distinctions in consciousness. Two phenomena are perceived simultaneously; I attentively follow the thrilling horse races while simultaneously noticing the playful flies in the air; undoubtedly, the perceptions related to the former phenomenon possess a greater intensity of consciousness. In a similar vein, there exist varying degrees of unconsciousness, if one may put it that way. An event that vividly stirred me a quarter of an hour ago now no longer exists in my consciousness; I am preoccupied with other thoughts; however, it continues to exert influence in the mood it incited, and through some association, it can be swiftly recalled to consciousness. It is no longer recognized, yet it is not so unconscious as, for instance, an event that transpired a quarter of a year or a year ago, which I scarcely remember, recalling it with difficulty and only very vaguely, or perhaps not at all. Additionally, one could mention that the intensity of consciousness is not uniform not only for individual elements but also exhibits fluctuations in totality; in mental life, moments of clear and expansive consciousness alternate with those of vague and narrow awareness. Daily oscillations occur, corresponding to vegetative processes. These are complemented by fluctuations that accompany the overall development of life. Beginning from a minimum at the outset of life, consciousness rises to a maximum achieved around the time of complete bodily maturity, then begins to decline, initially slowly and subsequently at an increasing pace. In accordance with this, we may now declare: the unconscious is not something that entirely lacks existence for consciousness; it is merely less conscious, descending in its various gradations to a state of complete imperceptibility and untraceability. Mental life is composed of a synthesis of conscious and unconscious elements. At every moment, phenomena in consciousness are determined by the collective action of all elements, ranging from the most consciously perceived to the entirely forgotten, which, however, due to their influence on the overall fabric of mental life, have not become completely inactive or ineffective.

If, however, some physiologist were to encounter difficulties in the physiological construction of such a representation, presuming that consciousness, as an accompanying phenomenon, can arise only when excitations occur in the brain's cells, and that resting configurations cannot serve as bearers of conscious phenomena, however diminished they may be, I would respond: nothing hinders us from thinking that all cortical brain cells are in a state of constant activity. Indeed, all conceivable considerations lead us to such a conception. One must, without a doubt, regard a ganglionic cell not as a resting atom but as a bearer of an intricate system of diverse, never-ceasing internal movements; decomposition and regeneration are perpetually occurring, with constant interactions with both the immediate and more distant environment; in every activity, the internal structure and disposition of the cell manifest. In this case, diminished activity would correspond to a lower degree of consciousness. I would like to believe that such a conception should be entirely suitable for a physiologist. For him, it would be more difficult to envision the opposite, namely, that only a few elements are psychically effective. If physiological phenomena in the cortex are generally accompanied by psychic processes, we must expect a highly complex interplay of these, rather than merely the scant few phenomena that form the thin "thread of representations" recognized by psychologists. Or is it truly the case that only a select few cells are activated and engaged at each moment while the rest lie idle, devoid of internal activity, like grains of sand on the shore? And if the latter is inconceivable, why then should their excitation remain utterly fruitless from a psychological standpoint?

However, spontaneous reflection leaves no doubt regarding the fact that, in reality, mental life at any given moment reveals a highly diverse and intricate play of more or less conscious phenomena, rather than the meager, monolithic sequence permitted, according to the views of certain psychologists, by the "narrow confines of consciousness." I sit in the theater, observing the performance of a play. Numerous rows of psychic processes unfold beside one another, presenting themselves in consciousness with varying degrees of intensity. I receive auditory sensations; they follow a long sequence; among them, those that I perceive as the actors' dialogues stand out, which I transform into representations and thoughts; yet, I also hear, among other sounds, the footsteps on stage, the rustling of clothing, and the movements—both mine and those of my neighbors. Simultaneously, a similarly intricate series of visual perceptions unfolds: I survey the entire stage with its decorations and scenery; I observe the movements and expressions of the actors; directly before me, I see the heads and hats of the patrons sitting in front of me, and I take note of them to the extent that each more vigorous motion captures my attention. These two series run alongside each other—not such that the members of one intersperse with the members of the other, but rather that each series exists continuously in its own right, although specific elements of one or the other may dominate consciousness at various times. Against the backdrop of both series, a principal sequence emerges, possessing the most consciousness and making the most profound imprint—the sequence of representations pertaining to the drama itself, with its actions and characters. In every given moment, the central point occupies a group of representations excited by the just-heard monologues and dialogues. Yet, in consciousness, there exists not merely the word or sentence just articulated, but—with gradually diminishing intensity—everything that preceded it; an individual word or sentence, in itself, possesses no definitive meaning; it is understood only inasmuch as it is perceived as part of a given whole, as the expression of a particular character under a specific circumstance, before another distinct figure; a consciousness that could encompass simultaneously only "one representation" in general would be utterly incapable of comprehending any speech, much less a play. At the same time, a variety of feelings reside within my consciousness: feelings of intense interest or boredom, respect or disdain, aesthetic enjoyment or displeasure; and all these feelings are not wedged between the elements of the sequences of perceptions and representations, but rather form their own connection, asserting themselves in consciousness with varying degrees of intensity. Finally, the constant backdrop of this interplay of conscious phenomena comprises a mass of sensations of touch and movement, through which I recognize the position, place, and motion of my body and its parts; they are accompanied by an equally vast multitude of general feelings that, while individually may not reach consciousness, in their totality, as an overarching sentiment or vital mood, provide the foundation upon which a whole world of sensations plays out: fatigue and weakness or freshness and elasticity, a contented satisfaction of the entire system or troubling sensations of heat or cold, exhaustion or surfeit, malaise, and so forth.

All of this exists in consciousness simultaneously, and it is further accompanied by an awareness of belonging to a particular individual mental life; at all times, I know of myself—who I am, where I come from, the situation and environment in which I live, what tasks and responsibilities I hold; all this does not, of course, individually occupy my attention or reflection, but it is always present; in every phenomenon of consciousness, it exists as my self before myself.

In every given moment, the content of consciousness appears as follows: a vast mass of elements is simultaneously recognized—not, of course, with equal awareness; at all times, some narrowly circumscribed group stands at the focal point as the most conscious; around it, initially with rapidly diminishing intensity, the others group together. However, such a constellation lasts only for a brief moment; the maximum of consciousness appears to be fluid: it flows like a wave across numerous elements, raising to the forefront this or that one.

Together with Wundt, the content of consciousness can be likened to that of the field of vision. A vast array of objects simultaneously occupies the visual field; from this multitude, a small fraction comes into sharp focus, rendering it visible with the utmost clarity, while the others, though discernible, fade in clarity as they recede from the focal point. When one directs the gaze to an open book, the entire page with its characters is encompassed; the surrounding objects, such as the table and the items upon it, are also visible; ultimately, at the periphery of the visual field, the images of objects dissolve into indistinctness. Yet, both the page and its letters are not perceived with equal clarity; if one fixates on a specific letter and then attempts to discern the adjacent letters without moving the eye, it becomes evident that only the third or fourth letters on either side remain distinctly visible. The others blur into an indeterminate mass; we can still recognize, perhaps, a capital letter, a bold word, or a red line, but the individual characters fade from discernibility. Moreover, the eye, left to its own devices, does not linger on a single point; by swiftly scanning the lines, it brings individual signs into the clearest vision momentarily, thereby forming a vivid representation of the whole.

A similar process occurs with consciousness. Here, we possess an expansive field of awareness, filled with numerous elements, within which exists a point of clear perception, occupied at any given moment by a narrowly defined content; surrounding it are other contents, perceived with rapidly diminishing clarity until, ultimately, at the periphery of its outlines, they vanish altogether. This point of clear perception is mobile, traversing the objects, elevating one or another, thus allowing for a contemplation of the whole. Likewise, the varying degrees of clarity experienced in consciousness, as influenced by external stimuli, echo the fluctuations seen in the field of vision due to external light waves, manifesting in different intensities of awareness.