Philosophy of the Modern Era

Bergson

Henri Bergson was a leading French philosopher of our century, exerting influence on William James and Whitehead while significantly shaping French thought. Georges Sorel, a passionate advocate of syndicalism and author of "Reflections on Violence," drew on Bergsonian irrationalism to justify the revolutionary labor movement, which lacked a definitive aim. However, Sorel eventually renounced syndicalism and embraced royalism. Primarily, Bergson's philosophy had a conservative impact, aligning easily with movements that culminated in Vichy. Yet, his irrationalism also attracted many who were politically unaffiliated, such as George Bernard Shaw, whose play "Back to Methuselah" exemplifies pure Bergsonism. It is in the purely philosophical aspect, setting aside political considerations, that we must examine Bergson's teachings, which serve as an excellent example of the revolt against reason that began with Rousseau and gradually extended into ever-widening realms of intellectual activity and world life.

Philosophies are generally classified either by their methods or their results: "empirical" and "a priori" are classifications by method, while "realistic" and "idealist" categorize by results. An attempt to classify Bergson's philosophy in such a manner is unlikely to succeed, as his philosophy transcends all conventional divisions.

However, another, albeit less precise, method of classification may prove more useful for non-philosophers. This classification hinges on the dominant passion that prompted a philosopher to engage in philosophy. Thus, we can identify philosophies of feeling, inspired by a love of happiness; theoretical philosophies, driven by a love of knowledge; and practical philosophies, motivated by a love of action.

Philosophies of feeling encompass those that are fundamentally optimistic or pessimistic, proposing schemes for salvation or asserting the impossibility of salvation—most philosophies connected to religion fall into this category. Theoretical philosophies encompass the majority of the great systems, as, although the passion for knowledge is rare, it has been the source of nearly all that is best in philosophy. Practical philosophies, conversely, regard action as the supreme good, viewing happiness as a practical result and knowledge merely as a tool for successful activity. Such philosophies would be widely prevalent among the inhabitants of Western Europe if philosophers were ordinary people; however, until recently, they were relatively rare, with pragmatists and Bergson being their main representatives. In the emergence of this type of philosophy, we can discern, as Bergson himself observed, a rebellion of the modern man of action against the authority of Greece, particularly Plato; alternatively, we might link this phenomenon, as Dr. Schiller seems to do, to imperialism and automobiles. The modern world demands such a philosophy, and thus its success is not surprising.

Bergson's philosophy, unlike most systems of the past, is dualistic. For him, the world is divided into two fundamentally distinct parts: on one side is life, and on the other is matter, or more accurately, that inert "something" which intellect perceives as matter. The entire universe is a collision and conflict between two opposing movements: life, which strives upward, and matter, which falls downward. Life represents a singular great force, a vast surge of life given once at the beginning of the world; it encounters the resistance of matter, struggles to penetrate it, gradually learning to utilize matter through organization, and is divided by the obstacles it encounters into various currents, much like the wind at the corner of a street. Though it is partially suppressed by matter due to the adaptations to which matter subjects it, life always retains its capacity for free activity, continually fighting to find new outlets, and eternally seeking greater freedom of movement between the hostile walls of matter.

Evolution cannot be explained solely in terms of adaptation to the environment; adaptation merely accounts for the twists and turns of evolution, much like the curves of a road approaching a city through hilly terrain. However, this comparison is somewhat misleading. At the end of the road along which evolution travels, there is no city, that is, no definitive goal. Both mechanism and teleology suffer from the same flaw: both doctrines assert that there are no substantial innovations in the world. Mechanism views the future as contained within the past, and teleology, by believing that the end to be achieved can be known in advance, denies that the result contains anything essentially new.

In contrast to both views, while showing more sympathy for teleology than for mechanism, Bergson argues that evolution is genuinely creative, akin to an artist's work. The impetus for action, an indeterminate desire, exists beforehand, but until that desire is fulfilled, it is impossible to know the nature of what will satisfy it. For instance, we might presume that sightless animals harbor some vague desire to be informed about objects before they come into contact with them. This leads to efforts that ultimately result in the creation of eyes. Vision satisfied this desire, yet it could not have been envisioned in advance. Therefore, evolution cannot be predicted, and determinism cannot serve as a means of rebuttal against defenders of free will.

This general outline is enriched by descriptions of the actual development of life on Earth. Initially, the flow split into animals and plants; plants are designed to store energy in a reservoir, while animals are meant to use energy for sudden and rapid movements. However, later among animals, a new branch emerged: intelligence and instinct became more or less distinct. They are never entirely devoid of each other, but generally speaking, intelligence represents humanity's misfortune, whereas instinct, in its best manifestations, is evident in ants, bees, and, of course, Bergson. The distinction between intelligence and instinct is central to Bergson's philosophy, much of which parallels the contrast between Sandford and Merton, where instinct is the good boy, and intelligence is the bad one.

Instinct, in its finest form, is referred to as intuition. "By intuition," wrote Bergson, "I mean instinct that has become selfless, self-aware, capable of reflecting on its subject and infinitely expanding it." While it is not always easy to explain the actions of intelligence, if we are to understand Bergson, we must strive to do so.

"Intellect, as it emerges from the hands of nature, has as its main object the inorganic solid body," he claims; it can only clearly represent the discontinuous and immobile, its concepts arranged apart from one another, like objects in space, each possessing equal stability. Intellect divides in space and fixes in time; it is not designed to think evolution but imagines becoming as a series of states. "Intellect is characterized by a natural inability to comprehend life"; geometry and logic, which are typical products of intellect, apply strictly to solid bodies; in other cases, the rational activity of intellect must be subjected to the scrutiny of common sense, which, as Bergson rightly notes, is something entirely different. Solid bodies are created by reason to be grasped by intellect, just as a chessboard is devised for playing chess. The origins of intellect and material bodies are interrelated, both evolving through a process of mutual adaptation. "One identical process must have fashioned matter and intellect simultaneously from a single fabric that contained them both."

The concept of the simultaneous growth of matter and intellect is both astute and deserving of understanding. Generally speaking, I believe it signifies the following: intellect is a force that enables the discernment of things as distinct from one another, whereas matter consists of that which is divided into separate entities. In reality, there are no distinct solid objects; there exists only an infinite flow of becoming, in which nothing becomes nothing. Yet this becoming can either ascend or descend: if it ascends, it is termed life; if it descends, it is erroneously labeled matter based on intellect. I envision the universe as a cone, with the Absolute at its apex, for upward movement connects bodies, while downward movement divides them—or at least gives the impression of division. For the ascending motion of the spirit to navigate through the descending motion of falling bodies, it must carve paths between these bodies. Thus, intellect is formed; contours and pathways emerge, and the primal flow bifurcates into distinct entities. Intellect can be likened to a knife carving chicken meat, yet it possesses the peculiar trait of imagining that the chicken has always existed in the very pieces it has sliced.

"Bergson remarks, 'Intellect invariably behaves as if enchanted by the contemplation of inert matter. Intellect is life looking outward, becoming exterior in relation to itself, adopting as principle the modes of disorganized nature to apply them in action.' Were we permitted to add yet another image to the myriad with which Bergson illustrates his philosophy, we could assert that the universe is a vast funicular, with life as the train ascending, and matter as the train descending. Intellect resides in the observation of the descending train as it passes by the ascending one, in which we find ourselves. Clearly, the more noble gift that focuses its attention on our own train is instinct or intuition. It is possible to leap from one train to another; this occurs when we fall prey to automatic habit, encapsulating the essence of the comic. Alternatively, we may divide ourselves into parts: one part ascending, the other descending; then only the downward-moving part is comedic. Yet, intellect in itself is not a descending motion—it is merely the observation of a descending motion by an ascending movement.

As intellect is related to space, so instinct or intuition is related to time. One of the most remarkable aspects of Bergson's philosophy is that, unlike most thinkers, he regards time and space as profoundly distinct entities. Space—the characteristic of matter—arises from the cutting of the flow; it is, in fact, illusory, practically useful to a degree, yet profoundly misleading in theory. Time, on the other hand, is an essential characteristic of life or mind. "Wherever something lives, there will always be an opened register in which time records its entries." However, the time referred to here is not mathematical time, nor a homogeneous collection of mutually external moments. Mathematical time, according to Bergson, is indeed a form of space; the time that embodies the essence of life is what he terms duration. The concept of duration is fundamental to his philosophy; it appears already in his earliest work, "Time and Free Will," and it is essential for us to grasp this notion if we wish to comprehend his system. Yet, this concept is exceedingly difficult. I myself do not fully understand it, and therefore cannot hope to explain it with the clarity it undoubtedly deserves.

"Pure duration," we read, "is the form assumed by our conscious states when our 'self' is actively engaged, when it does not establish distinctions between present states and those that preceded them." It unifies the past and present into one organic whole, wherein mutual penetration exists, a sequence devoid of distinction. "In our 'self,' there exists a sequence without mutual exteriority, while outside my 'self,' in pure space, there is mutual exteriority devoid of sequence."

"Questions concerning the subject and object, their distinctions and their unity, should rather be posed as a function of time than as a function of space." In the duration in which we contemplate our actions, there are divided elements; yet in the duration in which we actually act, our states dissolve into one another. Pure duration is that which is most distant from exteriority and least penetrated by it; it is a duration in which the past is pregnant with a wholly new present. In such moments, our will is stretched to its limits; we must gather the past, which slips away, and thrust it whole and undivided into the present. In such moments, we truly possess ourselves, but these moments are rare. Duration is the very material of reality, existing in eternal becoming, never manifesting as something complete.

First and foremost, duration reveals itself in memory, for it is in memory that the past continues to exist within the present. Thus, the theory of memory assumes great significance in Bergson's philosophy. In his work "Matter and Memory," Bergson endeavors to elucidate the relationship between mind and matter, asserting the reality of both concepts through an analysis of memory, which serves as the "intersection of mind and matter."

Bergson asserts that the concept of "memory" typically encompasses two radically different things, a distinction to which he pays particular attention. "The past lives through itself," he writes, "in two different forms: firstly, as motor mechanisms, and secondly, as independent recollections." For instance, one might say a person remembers a poem if they can recite it from memory, meaning they have acquired a certain habit or mechanism that allows them to reproduce a previously performed action. Yet theoretically, they might be capable of reciting the poem without recalling the instances in which they read it previously. Hence, this type of memory does not encompass awareness of past events. The second type, which is the only one worthy of being called "memory," consists of recollections of those individual occasions when a person read the poem, with each instance being distinct from the others and associated with a specific date. This is not a matter of habit, as each event occurred only once and left an immediate impression. It is presumed that somehow everything that has ever happened to us is remembered; however, generally, only what is useful comes to consciousness. Apparent lapses in memory, as Bergson demonstrates, are, in fact, lapses not of the mental aspect of memory but rather of the motor mechanism that activates memory. This perspective is confirmed by examining the physiology of the brain and phenomena of memory loss, from which, as Bergson argues, it follows that true memory is not a function of the brain. The past should be seen as an action of matter imagined by the mind. Memory is not an emanation of matter; indeed, it would be more accurate to assert the opposite if we understand matter as that which is captured in a concrete perception that always possesses some duration.

"Memory" should fundamentally be a power utterly independent of matter. If spirit is a reality, then it is precisely here, in the phenomenon of memory, that we can experimentally make contact with it.

For Bergson, pure memory is the antithesis of pure perception, with respect to which he adopts an ultra-realist position. "In pure perception," he states, "we are indeed beyond ourselves. We come into direct contact with the reality of the object through intuition." He so thoroughly identifies perception with its object that he nearly entirely refrains from labeling it as mental. "Pure perception," he writes, "which is the lowest degree of mind, mind without memory, is indeed a part of matter, in the sense we understand matter." Pure perception is formed through awakening action; its reality lies in its activity. Thus, the brain becomes connected with perception, as it is not an instrument of action. The function of the brain is to limit our mental life to what is practically useful. One may conclude that, were it not for the brain, we could perceive everything, yet in actuality, we perceive only what interests us. "The body, always oriented towards action, has as its primary function the limitation of spiritual life concerning action." In fact, it serves as an instrument of choice.

In all that has been outlined above, I have primarily sought to sketch the views of Bergson without delving into the arguments he puts forth to substantiate the validity of his perspectives. In the case of Bergson's ideas, this task is simpler than with most other philosophers, for he typically refrains from providing any evidence to defend his opinions, relying instead on their inherent appeal and the charm of his exquisite style. Like an advertiser, he depends on the vividness and variety of his presentation and on the seemingly elucidatory quality of many obscure phenomena. The manner in which Bergson recommends his views to the reader places particular emphasis on analogies. The number of comparisons present in his works exceeds that found in any poet I am familiar with. Life, he asserts, is akin to a projectile, bursting into fragments, each of which is again a projectile. Life resembles a bundle. Initially, it was a tendency towards accumulation in a reservoir; this accumulation is primarily carried out by the green parts of plants. Yet, the reservoir will be filled with boiling water, releasing steam; from it, “streams are continuously ejected, each of which, upon falling, forms a world.” Again, he states, “Life as a whole resembles an enormous wave that spreads from a center, which almost everywhere along its circumference halts and transforms into oscillations in place; in only one point has the obstacle been overcome, and the impulse has passed freely.” Then comes the climax, where life is compared to a cavalry charge: “All organized beings, from the humblest to the most exalted, from the earliest beginnings of life to our own era, everywhere and at all times merely reveal a single impulse, counter to the movement of matter and indivisible in itself. All living beings are interconnected, and all succumb to the same formidable surge. The animal leans on the plant, man tames animals, and all of humanity, in space and time, is one vast army, galloping beside each of us, ahead and behind us in a crushing assault, capable of overcoming any resistance and conquering many obstacles, perhaps even death.”

However, a cool-headed critic, who perceives himself merely as a dispassionate observer of the assault in which man has mounted the animal, may ponder whether such a mode of exercise is compatible with calm and thorough reflection. When told that thinking is simply a means of action, merely an impulse to evade obstacles in its path, he might feel that such a perspective is fitting for a cavalry officer, but entirely unsuitable for a philosopher, whose ultimate task is, after all, to think. Such a person may sense that in the passion and tumult of frenzied movement, there is no room for the softer music of reason, no leisure for impartial contemplation, when greatness is sought not in tumult, but in the grandeur of the reflected universe. In this case, he may be tempted to inquire: are there any reasons to embrace such a restless view of the world? And if he poses such a question, he will discover (if I am not mistaken) that there are no grounds for adopting this perspective, neither in the universe nor in the writings of Bergson himself.

One of the unfortunate consequences of an anti-intellectual philosophy like that of Bergson is that it thrives on the errors and confusions of the intellect. Thus, such philosophy leads to the preference for poor reasoning over sound thought, where every temporary difficulty is proclaimed unsolvable and every foolish mistake is seen as revealing the bankruptcy of the intellect and the triumph of intuition. In Bergson’s works, mathematics and science are often mentioned, and to an unreflective reader, these references may seem to bolster Bergson’s position significantly. As for science, particularly biology and physiology, I am not sufficiently qualified to critique his interpretations. However, in terms of mathematics, Bergson intentionally favors traditional errors in interpretation over more contemporary views that have prevailed among mathematicians in the past 80 years. In this respect, he follows the example of most philosophers. In the 18th and early 19th centuries, the calculus of infinitesimals, while well-developed as a method, was based on numerous errors and muddled thinking. Hegel and his followers seized upon these errors and confusions, relying on them in their attempts to demonstrate that all of mathematics is internally contradictory. This Hegelian view of mathematics gained wide acceptance in philosophy, where it persisted long after mathematicians had resolved all the difficulties upon which the philosophers' claims were founded. As long as the primary goal of philosophers is to show that nothing can be known through patience and careful consideration, and that we ought to revere the prejudice of the ignorant being known as "reason," if we are Hegelians, or as "intuition," if we are Bergsonians, philosophers will remain blissfully ignorant of what mathematicians have done to rectify the errors that Hegel exploited.

Apart from the concept of number that we have already examined, the main point at which Bergson engages with mathematics is his denial of what he calls the “cinematographic” representation of the world. Mathematics interprets change, even continuous change, as constituted by a series of states; Bergson, on the contrary, asserts that no series of states can provide a representation of what is continuous, and that a changing entity is never in any fixed state. He refers to the notion of change as composed of a succession of changing states as cinematographic; this view, he claims, is natural to the intellect but fundamentally erroneous. True change can only be explained through true duration, which encompasses the mutual penetration of past and present, rather than a mathematical sequence of static states. He designates this as a “dynamic,” as opposed to a “static,” conception of the world. This is a serious matter, and despite its complexity, we cannot overlook it.

Bergson’s theory of duration is linked to his theory of memory. According to this theory, what we remember continues to exist in memory and thus penetrates the present; the past and present are not mutually external but are intermingled within the unity of consciousness. Action, he states, constitutes being, while mathematical time is merely a passive vessel that does nothing and thus amounts to nothing. The past is that which no longer acts, while the present is that which acts now. However, in this assertion, as indeed in the entirety of his concept of duration, Bergson unconsciously accepts the conventional notion of mathematical time; without it, his statements would be devoid of meaning. What he implies when he states, “The past is, in essence, that which no longer acts,” is precisely that the past is that whose actions are in the past. The words “no longer” articulate the past; for a person devoid of the customary understanding of the past as something external to the present, these words would hold no significance. Thus, his definition forms a vicious circle. In fact, he is saying, “The past is that whose actions are in the past.” Such a definition cannot be considered a successful achievement. The same holds true for the present. We are told that the present is “that which acts now.” Yet, the word “now” introduces the very idea of the present that required definition. The present, acting now, is contrasted with that which acted or will act. Otherwise, the present is that which is active in the present, and not in the past or future. Again, the definition closes in upon itself. A further illustration of this error is provided by a passage taken from the very same page: “What constitutes our pure perception is our nascent action. Thus, the reality of our perception lies in its effectiveness, in the movements that continue it, and not in its greater intensity; the past is merely an idea, the present is the ideal motor (ideo motor).” From this excerpt, it is quite clear that when Bergson speaks of the past, he does not mean the past itself, but rather our present memories of the past. The past, when it existed, was as active as the present is now; thus, if Bergson’s views were correct, the present moment would have to be the only active moment in the entire history of the world. In the time preceding, there were other perceptions that were equally active and equally real in their time as our current perceptions. The past, in its time, was not merely an idea, but in its intrinsic nature, was the same as the present is now. However, Bergson simply forgets the real past; what he speaks of is the idea of the past in the present. The real past does not merge with the present, as it is not a part of it; it is an entirely different entity.

The entire theory of duration and time posited by Bergson is fundamentally rooted in a conflation of genuine phenomena of recollection with past events that are remembered. Yet, since time is so familiar to us, the vicious circle inherent in his attempt to define the past as that which is no longer active becomes immediately apparent. In reality, what Bergson offers is his understanding of the distinction between perception and memory—both of which exist in the present. However, he believes he has established a difference between the present and the past. Once this conflation is revealed, it becomes clear that his theory of time wholly disregards the nature of time itself.

Of course, a significant portion of Bergson's philosophy—likely the very aspect that has contributed to its popularity—is independent of any arguments and cannot be refuted by them. His vivid portrayal of the world, regarded as a poetic achievement, is primarily beyond proof or disproof. Shakespeare referred to life as a fleeting shadow; Shelley likened it to a dome of colored glass. Bergson compares it to a shell exploding into fragments, each of which is again a shell. If you prefer Bergson's imagery, it stands equally complete.

The good that Bergson hopes to see realized in the world is action for the sake of action. He denounces any pure contemplation as a “dream” and stigmatizes it with a host of unflattering epithets: static, Platonic, mathematical, logical, intellectual. Those who wish to foresee the end toward which action is directed are told that this end will not be anything new, as desire, much like memory, is identified with its object. Thus, we are condemned in our actions to be blind slaves to instinct: vital force propels us endlessly and unceasingly. In this philosophy, there is no room for the moment of contemplative insight, wherein, transcending animal life, we begin to perceive more significant goals that liberate humanity from the existence of beasts. Those who find activity without purpose to be a sufficient good will discover in Bergson's writings a pleasing depiction of the universe. However, for those who believe that action must be inspired by some vision—some imagined foreboding of a world less brutal, less unjust, less tormented by strife than our everyday existence; in short, for those whose actions are grounded in reflection—will not find in his philosophy what they seek and will not regret that there are no grounds to consider it true.