Problems of Metaphysics

Ontological Problem

Consequences of the Parallelist Theory: Universal Animation

Two propositions accompany the theory of parallelism: 1) physical phenomena are never the result of psychic actions, and 2) psychic phenomena are never the result of physical actions.

The first proposition asserts that a living body is an automaton. It differs from a machine in the infinite complexity of its construction; nevertheless, all its actions can ultimately be explained by the same fundamental forces that the natural scientist works with in general. There are no exceptions here; even the most intricate movements of living beings, even the most ingenious works and actions of humans, must be viewed as mechanically explicable reactions of a certain bodily system arranged in a specific way to certain physical stimuli. A dog chases a hare; it seems to be drawn by its sense of smell and sight. This movement must be explained purely in physical terms, just like the movement of a sunflower turning towards the sun or a planet revolving around it. The interaction of forces here is more complex, but it resides wholly within the physical realm and should be constructed through the methods of the physical sciences. An accomplished physiologist would elucidate all these phenomena as physically conditioned, on one hand, by the structure of these bodies, their nervous and muscular systems, and, on the other hand, by the nature of the stimuli acting upon them. He would demonstrate the author of "Critique of Pure Reason" as a kind of clockwork mechanism; given a certain arrangement of brain cells, with specific connections among them and with the motor nerves, certain stimuli acting upon the retina and the sensory nerves of the fingers must produce certain movements, fundamentally in the same manner as in a writing automaton or a musical snuffbox. There would be no mention of thoughts or anything similar in such a demonstration. Even if the physiologist knows that such a thing occurs, he would not, nor should he, utilize this in his demonstration; thoughts cannot move fingers just as they cannot alter the moon’s course. One cannot expect that such a physiologist will ever arise; the interplay of brain molecules accompanying the intellectual labor of the "Critique of Pure Reason" will never have its Newton; yet, in any case, it could be affirmed: exclusively this interplay, and not thoughts, constitutes the cause of the movements by which written signs are inscribed on paper.

But surely, this is nonsense, says common human reason, and perhaps one or another physiologist might be perplexed as well: this is something no automaton can accomplish; it cannot be explained without thought and intention. In that case, one must clarify that we are reverting to the theory of interaction, and thus we must also grapple with all the aforementioned difficulties: the emergence of movement from something that does not physically exist at all, as well as the transformation of movement into something purely spiritual. It must be either one or the other; there is no middle ground.

As for the incapacity of the body for such "automatic" action, one might respond, alongside Spinoza, that no one has yet discovered the limits of what the body can perform as such. He points to somnambulists who execute the most intricate movements without consciousness or thought. Now he might refer to hypnotic phenomena, for instance, to post-hypnotic suggestion. A person in a hypnotic state is instructed to go to a certain house at twelve o’clock the next day and to signal from the window with a handkerchief. They know nothing of the instruction; they have no recollection of what occurred during their hypnotic state, but as the hour strikes, they set off and fulfill the task. How else can this phenomenon be constructed than by admitting that the words of the hypnotist have imparted a certain arrangement to the brain and that now, with the striking of the clock, a series of movements are released—just as in an alarm clock when the hand crosses the specified hour? That infinitely more complex actions could occur here than those we can produce with our machines is hardly surprising. With five hundred or a thousand million cortical cells, composed in turn of countless, extraordinarily complex, and diverse chemical molecules, interconnected by innumerable conductive pathways, one could certainly accomplish something entirely different from a pair of wheels and levers in our machines; and while, in reality, our physiologists may not yet be able to achieve much with this, it nonetheless opens up a boundless field of action for the imagination. However, in any case, it must be clarified: if the soul participates in these phenomena as a cause, it still does so not through its knowledge; it produces movements, such as those of the fingers of a writer, not through knowledge of the nature and position of the nerves and muscles, but in some absolutely mysterious manner. The soul moves the limbs; this essentially means saying in other words: I do not know how the body is set in motion. The purposiveness of movement cannot be explained in any way by the conscious, purposeful activity of the soul, guided by knowledge of its means.

Thus, the natural scientist would be granted the entirety of the corporeal world without limitations. It can now assert: reality presents nothing to me other than bodies; all phenomena in nature can be explained by my means—exclusively from the movements and driving forces of material elements. I do not require the hypothesis of some soul, spirit, or God, with which physics previously operated; the causal chain does not lead me anywhere that does not belong to the physical world; and even if such things were somehow provided to me, I would neither wish nor be able to make use of them.

This would be one side of the matter. I believe that even materialism has reason to be content with this.

We now turn to the other side, to the second proposition indicated above as a consequence of the parallelist theory: psychic phenomena are not actions of physical phenomena. This represents merely the converse of the first proposition; it is as well-founded and evident as the first: if thought could be the action of movements, it is utterly incomprehensible why movement could not be the action of thought. Let us examine what consequences arise from it. I fear they may prove somewhat challenging not only for the metaphysicians of materialism but also for physiologists. However, I do not see how they can be avoided.

I hear the tolling of a bell. This is an action of air vibrations, says the ordinary view; the excitation of the auditory nerves is the cause of the sensation. This is impossible, our theory contends—sensation is a psychic phenomenon and therefore cannot be the action of movement. But what, then, is its action? For we all concede that it is an action and not an isolated, causally unaccountable phenomenon; even those who believe in free will regard sensations as caused. So, what causes sensation? The preceding phenomenon of consciousness in the listener? But clearly not, as it follows each phenomenon of consciousness in temporal succession. The cause must therefore be sought outside of the conscious states themselves. Thus, is this cause the sound waves emanating from the bell that was struck? Or is there some other possibility?

Indeed, there is another possibility: this is the hypothesis of Spinoza and Fechner—the hypothesis of universal parallelism: there is no psychic phenomenon without a corresponding movement, and there is no movement without an accompanying psychic phenomenon. If we accept this hypothesis, it is evident that we can bypass the difficulty presented above; then we shall say: the movements emanating from the bell exclusively cause nervous excitations and cerebral phenomena; sensations, on the other hand, are the actions of the internal phenomena accompanying these molecular vibrations.

I hasten to add: we do not know these internal phenomena; we are presented with movements, not the accompanying psychic phenomena. The latter are revealed to us only at one point—in self-consciousness, the facts of which we construct as phenomena accompanying the facts in the nervous system of our body. In contrast, the external world is given to us only in its physical aspect, as a moving corporeal realm; we mentally add the internal aspect to it. Therefore, practically, this hypothesis does not alter anything in our construction of phenomena; as before, we will say: sound waves cause sensations of sound, and a needle prick causes pain. Only in the final discussion of the matter will we tell ourselves once and for all: these formulas are, in essence, inaccurate expressions; it would be more proper to say: the causes of these psychic phenomena are those phenomena not given to us, the physical equivalents of which are the aforementioned physical or chemical events. In this regard,—to repeat a frequently used analogy—what happens is akin to Copernicus' theory: we clarify the situation once and for all and then calmly continue to speak of the rising and setting of the sun as we did before. Here, too: the two sides of reality extend over the same expanse; each moment of one side corresponds to a moment of the other; to the physical phenomena a, b, c correspond the psychic phenomena a, (5, y). The causal relationship exists only among the members of the same series; but since we are not given all the members of both series without gaps, and some of them fall out on either side, we substitute members from one series for those missing from the other.

Thus, practically, our understanding of phenomena does not fundamentally change due to this hypothesis. On the contrary, it is easy to see that, for our worldview, it would have very significant implications. We would thus transition to a foundation of idealistic philosophy. For it is clear that if the physical and psychic aspects of reality extend over the same expanse, we would then say: the psychic aspect represents reality as it is in itself; the physical aspect, in contrast, is relegated to the status of an external phenomenon. The further transition from Spinoza to Leibniz becomes, in light of this, inevitable.

But how does this perspective fare? Does it offer anything more than a mere means to escape the aforementioned difficulty of interaction between body and soul? Is it truly a plausible view of the nature of things? Can we take seriously the notion that, alongside some individual phenomena, all bodily phenomena are accompanied by some internal experiences? Clearly, this is the fundamental question of ontology. The answer to the question of the scope (domain and limits) of animism is the point at which metaphysical worldviews diverge.

The ordinary conception and the subsequent view dominating among physicists address the question of the domain of psychic life very simply and swiftly: phenomena of consciousness are accompanying phenomena of brain processes; animal bodies are the only carriers of psychic life; all other bodies are simply bodies.

It is evident that with this answer, we remain on the ground of a materialistic worldview. Phenomena of consciousness then remain sporadic side effects of natural processes; for the natural scientist, they are strange anomalies with which he does not quite know what to do. He cannot rid himself of them; their reality is indisputable; yet they cause him inconvenience; without them, the system of moving bodies, which he refers to as the world or nature, would be transparent and rational: they compel him to that fatal ignorabimus. The only consolation is that they do not play a significant role; at least they do not disrupt the natural course of events, and from a cosmic perspective, it is evident that one cannot ascribe much importance to these fragmented, ephemeral phenomena.

If matters conclude in this way, then materialism stands essentially correct even under the parallelist perspective.

Yet philosophers have never been content to settle on this resolution. There has long been a tendency among them to attribute greater significance to these phenomena. From the dawn of Greek philosophy to the present day, philosophical—that is, universal—contemplation of reality has always transcended the physical-astronomical perspective and deemed it necessary to add to reality—both in general and particular—some internal, ideal, spiritual principle. Plato and Aristotle, Spinoza and Leibniz, Schelling and Schopenhauer, Lotze and Fechner—all, regardless of their divergences in other respects, agree that the spiritual plays in the world not the role of an isolated side phenomenon, but rather that all the corporeal signifies something else, an inner, spiritual reality that exists in itself, akin to what we experience within ourselves. Those who share this view, that the spiritual holds the significance of a universal and cosmic principle of reality, stand on the side of idealism, regardless of how they perceive the matter in other respects. In the following exposition, I intend to attempt to present—not proof of the truth of this perspective (the situation regarding metaphysical proofs is dire)—but rather some reflections that seem to compel such a conclusion in our contemplation of reality. If the latter do not have any other significance, let them at least serve as rationes dubitandi regarding the hardened dogmatism of the ordinary opinion and physical worldview.

Let us first reflect on the guiding principle. By what means is the question of the existence of psychic phenomena generally resolved? It is easy to see: their reality is directly observed by everyone only in one point, namely, in one’s own self-consciousness. Beyond the sensations, representations, and volitional excitements experienced within myself, I can never know from direct observation that similar phenomena exist in the world. What my neighbor feels and thinks, I know not from observation but by inference; all that I see are physical phenomena. I observe movements, gestures, and sounds emanating from a body similar to mine, but I do not see any feelings or representations, and no microscope or telescope can aid me in this. I mentally add feelings and thoughts; from the resemblance of the bodily phenomena visible to me, I infer the existence of similar spiritual phenomena that are invisible to me.

How far does this inference extend? The ordinary opinion, as stated, answers: as far as the realm of animal life extends; animals are sentient beings, while all other entities—metals, stones, and plants—are unanimated; they are simply bodies. This remains a vague position, even if one might still entertain the question of plants, and even then it is hardly a serious question; the soul of a plant is but a dream of childish fantasy.

It seems to me that the certainty with which this view presents itself as self-evident and the only possible one does not match the strength of its foundations; indeed, it fundamentally rests on sheer caprice.

Firstly, to what extent does the realm of animals extend? Is it sharply delineated from the rest of the corporeal world, especially from the plant world? The ordinary opinion assumes this; employing old scholastic concepts, it divides the corporeal world into three strictly demarcated kingdoms: the kingdom of animals, the kingdom of plants, and the kingdom of minerals. However, modern biology has blurred these sharp boundaries; it finds itself led back to the ancient assertion that nature does not make leaps. The animal and plant worlds, however clearly they may differ at the highest levels of development, are fundamentally interconnected. Numerous lower forms of life do not exhibit the characteristics of either animals or plants; for them, a special group has been created, the protists, an intermediate kingdom, neutral with respect to the distinction between animal and plant. Since there is no solid boundary between the animal and plant worlds, and since we must regard them as two branches growing from a single trunk, we cannot dismiss the question of whether plant bodies are also carriers of psychic life. For animals, internal life is universally acknowledged, even for the lowest forms, no matter how distantly they diverge from the higher forms; if one cannot, without caprice, deny internal life even in protists—these animal-like plants or plant-like animals, in which the animal world is gradually lost—then the conclusion is clear: just as there is no solid boundary between the animal and plant kingdoms, there is none for animism either; animism may extend throughout the entire organic world.

One might say: possibilities, perhaps, cannot be disputed; but science ought not to indulge in possibilities—it requires facts. Are there any facts here?

I believe they certainly exist; however, it is unnecessary to demand the demonstration of the soul's life in plants. Just as we, for humans and animals, are satisfied with inferring similar internal phenomena from the resemblance of physical life events, so too must we be satisfied in this case. Coerced proof is impossible in this realm as well; if one finds the conclusion by analogy too unreliable, they cannot be logically compelled to acknowledge the existence of the soul's life even in infusoria, worms, frogs, and rabbits. Yet, if one accepts this kind of conclusion without further reasoning—something that everyone does—it is perplexing why such a conclusion should be categorically excluded in relation to plants. For in the visible phenomena of life, plants evidently display a far-reaching similarity to animals: nutrition, growth, cellular structure as elementary formations, reproduction via offspring that separate from the parental organism, development, and death are common to both plants and animals; indeed, in ordinary language, life and death are attributed equally to animals and plants. Why could similar unseen phenomena not correspond to analogous visible ones? The denial of this possibility is not self-evident. On the contrary, alongside Fechner, one might say: just as a house exists for its inhabitant, so does a living body exist for its soul. The attempt to view an animal's body, be it a horse or a dog, as a soulless automaton (a viewpoint echoed by Cartesian philosophers) possesses a profoundly strange quality; such a body devoid of a soul would appear to us as frightening as a specter. Should we really take it for granted that plants are merely empty shells?

An objection arises: this is merely an indefinite and playful analogy. Well then, let them specify precisely what this analogy lacks to render the inference regarding internal life permissible. What functions or characteristics associated with internal life are absent in plants? They point to the lack of a nervous system and brain. Fechner responds: but lower animals lack a nervous system as well. Moreover, this conclusion is fundamentally flawed; it is constructed according to the following schema: horses, dogs, and cats have legs and cannot move without them—therefore, beings that lack legs cannot move. Snakes and worms refute this conclusion. If they can move without legs, then plants too may possess a soul's life without nerves.

"But," says the skeptic, "plants lack the spontaneous movement observed in all animals." Indeed? Does a plant not turn its flowers and leaves toward the light? Does it not direct its roots toward sources of nourishment and its stems toward points of support? Does it not fold its flowers at night or during rain and later unfurl them to bask in sunlight? Do the embryos of certain plants not move freely in water, while animals in the early stages of embryonic development display no similar free movement of the developed animal? The opponent may counter that these are not spontaneous movements but mechanically conditioned responses to physical stimuli. Yes, but did we not previously agree to view all phenomena in the animal body as purely physically conditioned? Do physiologists and materialist philosophers not insist that even spontaneous movements in animals must be explained not from sensations and feelings but understood as physically conditioned reactions of a given body to specific irritations?

Certainly, differences between animals and plants exist, and we should not deny them; at higher levels of development, these differences become quite evident. Besides the difference in the direction of metabolic processes, one distinction noted by Wundt stands out: in the construction of plants, the principle of homogeneity and coordination of elementary organisms prevails, whereas in the animal world, the principle of differentiation and subordination dominates (System d. Philosophie, p. 588). This is clearly related to what Fechner highlights: a plant develops outward, striving toward the surface, seeking access to light and air through thousands of leaves and flowers, while its trunk or stem hardens internally, or becomes entirely hollow, preserved only to the extent necessary for support. Conversely, an animal encloses itself from the outside with skin and hair, scales and shells, developing inwardly where its life organs and functions unfold; its interactions with the external world are limited to a few points, while the nervous system centralizes and tightly interconnects the entire body.

However, this distinction does not serve as a proof against the existence of a soul altogether; it may be interpreted as an indication of the differences in internal life, highlighting the plants' inclination toward receptivity and decentralized extensiveness, while animal psychic life exhibits greater spontaneity and centralized intensity. Fechner finds here a reiteration of the distinction between the souls of men and women, only at a higher stage, infinitely amplified and deepened. One may reflect on this as one wishes; ultimately, all endeavors aimed at interpreting the internal life of plants through their external manifestations remain attempts made in the dark. Still, it must be noted that interpreting animal psychic life, especially that of the lower forms, is, for us, nearly as problematic; we know essentially little about what a jellyfish experiences internally or what occupies the mind of a larva or butterfly. Yet, in this regard, I believe Fechner is entirely correct: the same foundation that prompts us to mentally add an invisible internal life to the visible corporeal life we observe holds true for the entire organic life world, including plants. If in other cases it is stated: probatio incumbit affirmanti, here one might assert: the burden of proof lies with the one who denies the right to draw conclusions by analogy. They must demonstrate why it does not apply here; otherwise, their denial will be arbitrary.

As we conclude this reasoning, another question arises: have we reached an endpoint, is the parallelism between physical and psychic phenomena limited to the organic world? Or is there reason to assert, along with the philosophers mentioned above, that it is boundless; wherever physical phenomena exist, they serve as indications of internal existence?

I shall point out several facts that may at least suggest that this question is not as absurd as it appears at first glance to the ordinary mind. Organic and inorganic bodies do not constitute two separate worlds; they form a unified whole, linked by constant interaction. In terms of substance, there is no distinction between them; organic bodies are composed of the same constituents as inorganic ones. The carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen, and oxygen that make up animal bodies are precisely those found in inorganic compounds. Organization is, therefore, a state into which matter may enter, a state of unstable equilibrium in which, while maintaining a constant form, the substance's components are continuously changing. Organic bodies constantly release substances into the external world and absorb new ones. Over a more or less prolonged period, a complete exchange of substance occurs; new elements now carry both organic and psychic life. Furthermore, new animal and plant bodies continually arise. A handful of seeds placed in the ground yields a bushel of wheat; a pair of mice left with the wheat will soon transform it into hundreds of living, sensing, animated creatures. Whence do souls arise? Did they exist somewhere before and then enter ready-made bodies? Or—if such a notion is too repulsive for the naturalist—did they arise through the division of the parents' souls? Certainly, this too is a strange and difficult-to-accept notion.

But whence did the first instance of mental life arise? Contemporary biology finds itself compelled to concede that organic life on Earth had its genesis, and that its initial formations emerged from inorganic matter through spontaneous generation. Yet, one may ask, what about the emergence of mental life? Is the first stir of sensation in that primordial piece of protoplasm something utterly novel—something that had hitherto found no reflection in reality, not even the faintest hint? Such a notion would indeed amount to an absolute “mystery of the universe”; it would entail creation from nothing, capable of astoundingly bewildering the naturalist—hardly less so than if he were forced to believe that protoplasm itself came into being from nothing. But why does he not dismiss the implausible in the first case just as he does in the second? He accepts that organic bodies arise from elements that existed prior, entering into new, more complex combinations, thus becoming capable of remarkable new functions. Why does he not apply the same reasonable hypothesis to the other side, suggesting that elements already contained within them, in a nascent state, an internal life that only manifests in its higher development with the emergence of new formations? Indeed, hylomorphism emerges as a concept almost irresistibly imposed upon modern biology. Haeckel deserves no reproach for possessing the courage to acknowledge it as a necessary presupposition. Büchner embraced this idea, asserting that “matter possesses not only physical forces but also spiritual ones, which manifest wherever the necessary conditions are present” (p. 66).

However, one might argue, is it not unfathomable that dead, inert matter could be a vessel of mental life? And does it not lack precisely that quality which, as previously stated, alone legitimizes our conclusions about internal life—the resemblance of physical phenomena to the manifestations in our own bodies? Is there not an absence of spontaneous, inward-driven motion?

I believe that this unfathomability is largely a construct of our own making—primarily due to our arbitrarily formed concept of matter. By construing matter as an aggregate of absolutely solid and inert pieces, devoid of any internal definitions and capable of movement solely through external force, we then find it incomprehensible that it possesses internal definitions and can move from within. But what compels us to such a construction of this concept? Certainly not the facts themselves. These reveal nothing akin to the utterly immobile, inert, passive atoms awaiting an external impetus; rather, they show us only parts of matter exhibiting spontaneous motion emanating from within, though not in isolation but in relation to their surrounding environment. A drop of water falls to the ground; what propels or attracts it? Gravity or the law of gravitation. Yet, this is merely a subsequent formulation of the manner of its action. As it falls, it takes on the shape of a sphere; what compels its parts to assume such an arrangement? It strikes a stone and either spreads across its surface or penetrates its tiniest crevices; should it truly be compelled to do so from without? When the temperature drops below freezing, the particles of our drop arrange themselves into the form of an exquisite ice flower; are they pressed into this shape by some external force? We see no such thing; on the contrary, they arrange themselves spontaneously into this structure and likewise return to a liquid state just as spontaneously when the temperature rises. Or they might come into contact with a piece of iron, which soon becomes coated with a yellow rust; its elements are released from their previous compound and, joining with the oxygen and hydrogen from the water, form a new entity, hydrated iron oxide. Here, too, no external coercive force is in evidence. Chemists speak of attraction—a term that has become customary in physics since Newton. Thus, even the most obstinate and contrary thinkers find themselves compelled—at least verbally—to recognize these facts.

Therefore, everywhere we see spontaneous motion; that dead, inert matter, moved only by an external push, is a specter whose existence owes itself not to observation but to abstract reasoning. Its origins can be traced back to Aristotelian scholastic philosophy, which, having stripped away every force or form, left matter as something unequivocally passive. This same notion appears in Descartes, who found it convenient for his purely mathematical construct: matter devoid of any internal definition—a pure res extensa, the only definition of which consists in extension. Modern natural science no longer recognizes this utterly dead and inert essence. Its molecules and atoms are formations of great internal complexity and mobility. Hundreds and thousands of atoms are bound together in a molecule, forming a system that maintains a more or less stable equilibrium in the mutual movement of its parts, simultaneously shaken by other movements—some of which manifest to our senses as light and heat, while others express themselves in electrical phenomena—a system that exists in constant interaction with both its immediate environment and the distant realm of the fixed stars. Now, is it a senseless question to ask whether this astonishing interplay of physical forces and movements is not mirrored by some form of internal phenomena akin to those accompanying the interaction of parts within an organic body? Ultimately, are not the attractions and repulsions described by physics and chemistry something greater than mere words? Is there not a measure of truth in the view of the old Empedocles, that love and strife are the driving forces in all things? Certainly not love and strife as they are felt by humans and animals, but nonetheless something akin to them—an inner impetus, a kind of excitation.

It is remarkable that this idea, to which philosophers have always shown a propensity—not only fanciful dreamers but even such circumspect figures as Spinoza and Leibniz, Fechner and Lotze, and among the living, Wundt—all thinkers whose inclination towards a scientifically mechanical understanding of things cannot be criticized—is increasingly gaining ground among naturalists in recent times. Permit me to present several testimonies in support of this notion.

In his thought-provoking treatise on the limits of scientific knowledge (printed as an appendix to the mechanico-physiological theory of the origin of species, 1884), botanist E. F. Nageli unequivocally advocates for the idea of universal animation. He argues that just as there is no absolute chasm between organic and inorganic matter, so too is there none between animate and inanimate bodies; the naturalist cannot help but assume that what manifests in more intricate formations is also latent in the elements. The analogy within the realm of physical phenomena necessitates such an interpretation when applied to internal phenomena. “Movements of irritation in the higher animal world are clearly linked to sensation. We must recognize the latter in the remainder of the animal world and have no grounds to deny it in plants and inorganic bodies. Sensation places us in a state of pleasure or displeasure. Generally, the feeling of pleasure arises when natural inclinations find satisfaction, while displeasure occurs when such satisfaction is denied. Since all material phenomena consist of the movements of molecules and elementary atoms, pleasure and displeasure must have their seat in these minutest particles. Sensation is a property of the protein molecule; if it is inherent to the latter, we must acknowledge it in the molecules of other substances as well. If molecules possess something that, even if only remotely, is akin to sensation, it must be pleasure when they can respond to attraction and repulsion, their affinities and aversions; it must be displeasure when they are compelled towards opposite motion. Thus, the same spiritual connection weaves through all material phenomena. The human spirit is nothing other than the highest development of spiritual phenomena on our Earth, everywhere animating and propelling nature.”

The same thought is expressed by Fr. Zellner. In the chapter on the general properties of matter (in his work on comets, 3rd edition, p. 105 et seq.), he examines the assumptions necessary for comprehending nature. He finds that sensations present us with an alternative: “either we must forever abandon the possibility of understanding them, or we must hypothetically increase the number of general properties of matter by one such that it connects the simplest and most elementary phenomena of nature under one lawfully interconnected process of sensations.” He argues that the limitation of the ability to sense more organized matter is merely a consequence of our induction being too inadequate. “If we were capable, through more finely developed sensory organs, of observing the group-distributed molecular movements of a certain crystal undergoing significant damage at some point, we would probably abandon our judgment that its movements occur without the simultaneous excitation of sensations as being unresolved or, in any case, highly hypothetical.” He elaborates on this thought further: “All actions of natural beings are determined by the sensation of pleasure and displeasure, and in such a way that movements within any one closed area of phenomena occur as though they pursue an unconscious goal of minimizing the sum of sensations of displeasure.” In all material phenomena, either the conversion of tension into vital force occurs, or the reverse. If we assume that the former is associated with pleasure and the latter with displeasure, then a reduction in displeasure would take place when the number of collisions within a certain dynamic system is minimized; therefore, the tendency should be directed toward this end if sensations are to have practical significance.

From the perspective of natural science, this view is reinforced by the fact that the organic and inorganic worlds cannot be severed from one another: they form a single nature. Since biology has rejected the vital force as a distinct principle that enters organic bodies alongside physical forces, life has permeated even the elementary formations of which an organism is composed. There is now no principled distinction between the activities of both forms of the corporeal world. Ultimately, they are the same forces acting both in inorganic and organic bodies, differing only in that in the latter, they manifest in a highly distinctive and complex combination. In the form of their activity, there is no distinction: all bodies are set in motion by internal forces, but due to external causes. In organic bodies, due to the difference between impulse and action, we usually emphasize the more internal forces, whereas in inorganic bodies, the external cause. However, essentially, there is no difference: if the irritation of the auditory nerve prompts an animal to jump, this is as much a mechanical action of physical causes as when one moving billiard ball, through a push, sets another in motion. If now the movements in one case are accompanied by sensations, it is unclear why this should not also be the case in the other instance.

In fact, only an old prejudice prevents many physicists from seeing this. Du Bois-Reymond resolutely rejects the vital force. No new forces are added to the particles of matter in organisms; the old forces operate exclusively here as well. “Therefore, the division into the so-called organic and inorganic worlds is entirely arbitrary. Those who seek to maintain this division, who preach the false doctrine of vital force—under whatever form, no matter how deceptively it is disguised—such minds (they can be assured of this) have never penetrated to the limits of our knowledge. I believe we would not be unjust to the distinguished physiologist if we said that the boundaries of our scientific knowledge do not yet lie where he establishes them with his ignorabimus. If he is right in asserting that no new forces enter into living bodies, he is wrong in claiming that in the first sensation of any animal body, an absolutely new, hitherto unheard-of element has come into effect.

To this natural-philosophical contemplation is added, as a second motive leading our time towards the idea of animism, an epistemological consideration, which has begun to gradually undermine the old naive realism even among physicists. Since bodies are phenomena, representations of reality in our sensitivity, which, as such, have relative rather than absolute existence, the question arises: what is that which exists by itself, which manifests? Is it endowed with only relative existence? Or is the corporeal world merely a pure phantasmagoria within my consciousness? No one has ever thought this, nor will anyone ever think so. Therefore, what presents itself to us as body must also be something in itself. What is this in itself? At least on one point, we know this: everyone knows about themselves that they are something beyond what they are to others, as well as to themselves, as an organic body: they know themselves as a sensing, wanting, feeling, thinking being. And this is what they call their own self. From this perspective, they interpret the world outside themselves: similar phenomena point to a similar inner being. To every body, which represents a relatively closed system of phenomena and activities, they ascribe a similar, relatively closed inner life: to humans, to animals, everything is ascribed a soul. The philosopher sees that there is no basis, nor any possibility, to stop here, for the assertion that certain things are merely bodies leads precisely to that unbearable viewpoint of illusionism. He possesses the courage to declare the paradox: all bodies are animated—omnia quamvis diversis gradibus animata. A plant is a living being; therefore, it is a psychophysical system; a cell is, in a certain sense, an autonomous living being; consequently, the same will hold for it; a molecule is a relatively closed system of corporeal phenomena, a multitude of parts in the closest relationship, in diverse movement relative to one another, and at the same time a unified totality in relation to the surrounding environment: this play of corporeal phenomena must also be understood as an indication of the play of internal phenomena. We cannot conceive of this inner world in concreto, but we construct it in schematic outline as equally extended as the physical world.

I shall touch here upon one more question, to which we will return later from another angle: does a higher, more encompassing psychic life exist, akin to the lower, comprehensible psychic life that we experience? Just as our body encompasses cells as elementary organisms, so we may assume that our psychic life encompasses the inner life of elementary formations, including it in the connection of its conscious and unconscious composition. Our body, in turn, is a part of a higher unity, a member of the collective life of our planet, and together with this latter, it is a member in an even more encompassing cosmic system and, finally, included in the universe. Is our psychic life also included in some higher unity, in some more encompassing system of consciousness? Do separate celestial bodies (if we first pause at this) bear a unified inner life? Are the stars, the earth—animated beings or not? Poets speak of the spirit of the earth; is this something more than a poetic metaphor? Greek philosophers, including Plato and Aristotle, speak of the souls of stars: is this the final reflection of childhood fantasies or something more substantial?

It would be audacious folly to interpret these matters in dogmatic formulas and proofs. However, it seems to me that neither is negative dogmatism any more appropriate. Who knows the earth only from a globe, as a sphere of paper, or from a book, as a large mass with a molten core and a thin solid crust, will undoubtedly find the very question ridiculous and absurd. Conversely, for someone who lives in reality, if they possess even a modicum of imagination, it will not seem too strange to envision the earth as a vast, animated being.

Fechner dwells in this thought. In ever-new iterations, he urges his contemporaries to awaken from their slumber and behold the world with clear eyes: does not the Earth indeed exist as a collective manifestation of a common life? Do not all its parts, the liquid interior and solid crust, the ocean and the atmosphere, coalesce into one grand whole, which moves diversely yet harmoniously in all its components? The ebb and flow, the cycle of day and night, the seasons of summer and winter—are these not rhythms of life akin to those experienced by individual beings? Or, more precisely, do not animals and plants, with their minor rhythmic phenomena of existence, partake in the great life of the Earth? In their sleeping and waking, their blooming and withering, in their coming into being and passing away, does not the life of the Earth find reflection? For the Earth is not merely a point of support upon which living beings—like grains scattered on a threshing floor—accidentally convene; it is the maternal womb from which they emerge. The animal and plant worlds are products of the Earth; they remain members and organs of its life, just as cells remain members and organs of the body. The geologist constructs the history of the Earth, guided by the traces of organic beings it has produced in every era; the geographer describes the Earth through the most characteristic forms of life in each zone; they shape the impression it leaves upon the soul and, to a significant extent, its form as well; their lives are partial processes of a collectively shared life; matter flows in a continuous stream through organic bodies. How can a being that produces all living and sentient entities and nurtures them within itself as parts of its life itself fail to be alive and sentient?

Of course, such considerations will not leave a profound impact on a perception that is unresponsive to the vibrant activity of things. It might say: show me the brain and nerves of the Earth, and then I shall believe in its soul. So, if the terrestrial body possessed not only the brains of all animals but also a distinct brain of its own, along with eyes, ears, a heart, a stomach, hands, legs, skin, and hair, would you truly consider it a sentient being? Yet look at how absurd the Earth would appear in this guise: an animal requires a mouth and stomach, but the Earth, as a whole, has no need for these, as it does not require external substances to take in; an animal needs eyes and ears to hunt for prey and evade a pursuer, yet the Earth neither pursues nor is pursued; an animal needs a brain and nerves to coordinate its movements with the surrounding environment, while the Earth finds its way through the universe without such assistance.

But, you may argue, its movement is evidently determined purely by physical laws, following a monotonous cycle governed by gravity. What better could it do? What movement could be more conducive to acquiring what it needs—namely, light and warmth in varying degrees and rhythmic alternation, which are essential for developing its unique life and achieving maturity? Should it, like an animal, oscillate between motion and stillness? Thus, do not prescribe for it that which contradicts its nature and its cosmic position. For it suffices that it experiences a diversely refracted movement upon its surface: movements in air and water, in animal and plant bodies. It has arranged its relations to the external world in the most optimal and pragmatic manner. Or perhaps the regularity of movement, as such, precludes the supposition that such movement harbors phenomena of consciousness? In that case, for our physiologists, and especially for the materialistic philosophers among them, there exist no sentient bodies; for they adamantly assert that all life phenomena must be reduced to the naturally law-governed movements of the minutest particles.

Yet I refuse to delve further into these matters. Those who wish to engage with them will find in Fechner’s "Zend Avesta" a witty and profound guide. Here, in ever-new iterations, the Earth presents itself before the reader’s eyes as a singular being, in which, as in any organic body, multiplicity and unity permeate and condition one another. "The Earth is a being that is uniformly interconnected in its forms and substances, in the relations of purpose and action, into a single whole, which is complete in its individuality; a being that revolves within itself and stands relatively autonomous against similar yet distinct beings; a being that, spurred by the external world and in co-definition with it, evolves from within itself, generating from its own fullness and creative power, in inexhaustible diversity, both actions that cyclically return and those that elude calculation; a being that, traversing external compulsion, unfolds the play of internal freedom; which—like our body—changes in parts but remains constant as a whole. Or rather, not merely in this way, but unimaginably more; it is fully all that our body is but a part of; it is perpetually what our body is but an ephemeral presence of; it relates to it as the whole tree does to a single stem, as the permanent body does to a fleeting minor organ” (Zend Avesta, 1,179).

That these ideas do not form part of our scientific knowledge is, of course, no mystery to Fechner. We cannot envision the organic life of any planet as akin to the life of a plant, nor can we describe its inner life as that of a human being. For us, only vague schematic representations remain, and we hold no hope of ever consolidating them into stable concepts or filling them with concrete contemplations. There is no foundation here for purely scientific work. However, they provide us with one insight: they remind us that astronomical physical observation is not the final or highest contemplation of things, even if it is the last accessible form of scientific endeavor. In a certain sense, they also serve to bridge the gap between scientific contemplation and the religious. For, naturally, if celestial bodies, as such, are carriers of a unified psychic life, in which the psychic lives of all individual beings dissolve as mere moments, then we shall not halt there, but envision them as members of an even greater whole, the cosmic life of the universe. The ancient notion of a world soul stands as the pinnacle of this worldview: each physical system is a carrier or body of internal life; the system of the world is the body or manifestation of God. Knowledge does not reach it; faith defines its essence in vivid symbols; yet this contemplation eliminates the negative dogmatism of a purely physical worldview.

Such was Kant’s intention. By declaring nature to be a phenomenon, he sought to pave the way for belief in a supernatural being manifesting within nature. However, he neglected the intermediary steps; he was unwilling to rely on the given. His sharp dichotomy between phenomenon and thing-in-itself utterly dismantles the bridge between knowledge and faith. Fechner reconstructs this bridge anew; he begins with the nearest and most familiar—its dual aspect, soul and body—to ascend constantly toward the higher and the more remote.

Such would be the consequences of the parallelistic theory concerning the relationship between the physical and the psychic. Through this lens, materialistic worldview could be vanquished—not in the sense that it would be entirely false and baseless; it is certainly not that. Its demand that all that is real must be representable physically is quite justified, and the perspective just outlined fully satisfies this requirement. For the physicist, it is necessary to conceive the entire world as a physical connection, encompassing all of reality. Yet materialism is overcome in the sense that it now appears to us as a one-sided contemplation of reality, one capable of being supplemented and in need of such supplementation: every corporeal reality is always and everywhere an indication of an inner world, akin to that which we experience within ourselves.

In any case, we can now assert: within the inner world, which is indeed granted to us directly only at one point—in self-consciousness—beyond which we comprehend it only through interpretation, always uncertain, and beyond the animal realm—only through schematizing constructions and idealizing symbolism—within this inner world, the nature of the actual is revealed as it is in itself; the corporeal world is essentially a contingent appearance, an inadequate representation of reality in our sensibility.

This is the fundamental tenet of idealism. From the time of Plato to our own, it has been characterized by two positions: the corporeal world is a phenomenon; that which manifests within it is something akin to our inner life.

What underpins the fact that this viewpoint, so customary for philosophers, appears so alien and incredible to ordinary perception?

The immediate foundation of this, without doubt, lies in the fact that ordinary perception is under the dominion of sensory observation. Only that which is visible is deemed real; what is unseen does not exist. This is the scheme by which conclusions are drawn everywhere. Thus, we see the outer side; we do not see the inner side, which we must mentally add. Since the conclusion is imposed upon us by the facts, we accept it; where only abstract considerations prompt the continuation of inferences, ordinary thought immediately relinquishes the thread. The requirement to think beyond the given, in the same direction that the given itself indicates, is instinctively rejected by it as a fantastical and unsettling imposition that disrupts its tranquility.

To this inertness of thought, however, positive obstacles subsequently join, complicating the path to an idealistic perspective. Chief among these are the false representations of the essence and metaphysical structure of mental life. The following two sections aim to address and dispel these misconceptions.