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| by Liu Bolin |
On the other side, the antimaterialist claims “the power of mind over matter.” That quantity can determine pattern is a precise complement for the power of mind over matter, and both are nonsense. The belief that quantities can determine patterns is surprisingly pervasive and influential. It is, of course, a basic premise in contemporary economics and therefore one of the factors which determines international chaos as well as ecological disaster on the home front. I believe that this kind of ascription of the mental to the physical so that the physical becomes now the supernatural contains the ultimate in nonsense. It is now quantities that carry the divine onus of creating pattern – presumably out of nothing. Consider on the other hand the popular verbal cliché “the power of mind over matter.” This little monster contains three combined concepts, “power,” “mind”, and “matter.” But power is a notion derived from the word of engineers and physicists. It is of the same world as the notions of energy or matter. It would therefore be quite consistent and sensible to speak, say, of the poser of a magnet over a piece of iron. All three items – the magnet, the iron, and the power – come out of the same universe of discourse. The magnet and the iron and the power can meet each other in the same statement. But mind, since Descartes split the universe in two, does not belong in that world. So in order to give physical power to mind, we must give it materialistic existence. Alternatively, we might mentalize matter and talk about “the obedience of matter to mind.” One way or another the two concepts must be made to meet in one conceptual world. The phrase “power of mind over matter” does not bridge the gulf between mind and matter, it only invokes a miracle to bring the two things together. And, of course, once a basic contradiction is admitted into a system of explanation, anything is possible. If some x is both equal and unequal to some y, then all x‘s are both equal and unequal to all y‘s and to each other. All criteria of the incredible are lost.
In any case, the combination of the two ideas we have attributed to Descartes blossomed out into an emphasis upon quantity in scientific explanation which distracted men‘s thought from problems of contrast, pattern, and gestalt. The world of Cartesian coordinates relies on continuously varying quantities, and while such analogic concepts have their place in descriptions of mental process, the emphasis on quantity distracted men‘s minds from the perception that contrast and ratio and shape are the base of mentality. Pythagoras and Plato knew that pattern was fundamental to all mind and ideation. But this wisdom was thrust away and lost in the mists of the supposedly indescribable mystery called “mind.” This was sufficient to end systematic investigation. By the middle of the nineteenth century any reference to mind in biological circles was viewed as obscurantism or simple heresy. Notably it was the Lamarckians such as Samuel Butler and Lamarck himself who carried the tradition of mental explanation through that period of quantitative materialism. I do not accept their central thesis about heredity, but they must be given credit for maintaining an all-important philosophic tradition.
Already be the nineteenth century, the biological philosophers, like the engineers and tradesmen, were soaked with the nonsense of quantitative science. Then in 1859, with the publication of Darwin‘s On the Origin of Species, they were given a theory of biological evolution that precisely matched the philosophy of the industrial revolution. It fell into place atop the Cartesian split between mind and matter, neatly fitting into a philosophy of secular reason which had been developing since the Reformation. Inquiry into mental processes was then rigidly excluded – tabooed – in biological circles. In addition to his coordinates and his dualism of mind and matter, Descartes is even better known for his famous sentence, cogito ergo sum: “I think, therefore I am.” We may wonder today exactly what his sentence meant to him, but it is clear that, in building a whole philosophy upon the premise of thought, he did not intend that the dichotomy between mind and matter should lead to an atrophy of all thinking about thought. I regard the conventional views of mind, matter, thought, and materialism, the natural and the supernatural, as totally unacceptable. I repudiate contemporary materialism as strongly as I repudiate the fashionable hankering after the supernatural. However, the dilemma between materialism and the supernatural becomes less cogent when you discover that neither of these two modes, materialism and supernaturalism, is epistemologically valid. Before you jump from the frying pan of materialism into the fire of supernaturalism, it is a good idea to take a long look at the stuff of which material science is made. This stuff is certainly not material, and there is no particular reason to call it supernatural. For lack of a better word let me call it “mental”. Let me start as close to the material as possible and state categorically (and what is a category?) that there is no such thing as, for instance, chlorine. Chlorine is a name for a class and there is no such thing as a class. It is in a sense true, of course, that if you put chlorine and sodium together, you will see a reaction of some violence and the formation of common salt. It is not the truth of that statement that is at issue. What is at issue is whether the statement is chemistry – whether the statement is material. Are there in nature such things as classes? And I submit that there are none until we get to the world of living things.
But in the world of living things, the Creatura of Jung and of the Gnostics, there are really classes. Insofar as living things contain communication, insofar as they are, as be say, “organized;” they must contain something of the nature of message, events that travel within the living thing or between one living thing and others. And in the world of communication,
there must necessarily be categories and classes and similar devices. But these devices do not correspond the physical causes by which the materialist accounts for events. There are no messages or classes in the prebiological universe. We have then to ask, what is a descriptive proposition? And to resolve this question it is reasonable to return to the scientific laboratory and look at what the scientist does in order to make descriptive propositions. His procedure is not too complicated: He devises or buys an instrument to be the interface between his mind and the presumably material world. This instrument is the analog of a sense organ, an extension of his senses. We therefore may expect that the nature of mental process, the nature of perception, will be latent in the instrument used.
This is trivially the case with the microscope. It is less obvious in the case of a balance. If we ask him, the scientist will probably tell us that the balance is a device for measuring weight, but here I believe is the first error. An ordinary beam balance with a fulcrum in the middle of the beam and pans at each end is not primarily a device for measuring weight. It is a device that compares weights – a very different matter. The balance will only become a device for measuring weights when one of the items to be compared has itself an already known (or defined) weight. In other words, it is not the balance but a further addition to the balance that enables the scientist to speak of measuring weight. When the scientist makes this addition, he departs from the nature of the balance in a very profound way. He changes the basic epistemology of his tool. The balance itself is not a device for measuring weights, it is a device for comparing forces exerted by weights through levers. The beam is a lever and if the lengths of the beam on each side of the fulcrum are equal and if the weights are equal in the pans, then it is possible to say there is no difference between the weights in the pans. A more exact translation of what the balance tells us would be: “The ration between the weights in the pans is unity.” What I am getting at is that the balance is primarily a device for measuring ratios, that it is only secondarily a device for detecting subtractive differences; and that these are very different concepts. Our entire epistemology will take different shape as we look for subtractive or ratio differences. A subtractive difference has certain of the characteristics of material. To the language of applied mathematics a subtractive difference between two weights is of the dimension weight (measured in ounces or grams). It is one degree closer to materialism than the ration between two weights which is of zero dimensions. In this sense, then, the ordinary chemical balance in the laboratory, functioning between a man and an unknown quantity of “material,” contains within itself the whole paradox of the boundary between the mental and the physical.
On the one hand it is a sense organ responsive to the nonmaterial concepts of ration and contrast, and on the other hand it comes to be used by the scientist to perceive something he thinks is closer to being material, namely a quantity with real dimensions. In sum, the weighing scale does to (shall I say) truth exactly what the scientist does to the truth of psychological process. It is a device form constructing a science that ignores the true nature of sense organs of any organism, including the scientist. The Negative purpose of this book is to brush away some of the more ludicrous and dangerous epistemological fallacies fashionable in our civilization today. But this is not my only purpose, nor indeed my principal purpose. I believe that when some of the nonsense is cleared away, it will be possible to look at many matters which at present are deemed to be as fuzzy as “mind” and therefore outside the ken of science. Aesthetics, for example, will become accessible to serious thought. The beautiful and the ugly, the literal and the metaphoric, the sane and the insane, the humorous and the serious … all these and even love and hate are matters that science presently avoids. But in a few years, when the split between problems of mind and problems of matter ceases to be a central determinant of what is impossible to think about, they will become accessible to formal thought. At present most of these matters are simply inaccessible, and scientists – even in anthropology and psychiatry – will step aside, and for good reason. My colleagues and I are still incapable of investigating such delicate matters. We are leaded down with fallacies such as those I have mentioned and – like angels – we should fear to tread such regions, but not forever. As I write this book, I find myself still between the Scylla of established materialism, with its quantitative thinking, applied science, and “controlled” experiments on one side, and the Charybdis of romantic supernaturalism on the other. My task is to explore whether there is a sane and valid place for religion, somewhere between these two nightmares of nonsense. Whether, if neither muddleheadedness nor hypocrisy is necessary for religion, there might be found in knowledge and in art the basis to support an affirmation of the sacred that would celebrate natural history. Would such a religion offer a new kind of unity? And could it breed a new and badly needed humility?
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