A Pluralistic Universe

Endnotes

Bailey: Letters on the Philosophy of the Human Mind, First Series, p. 52. ↩
Smaller Logic, § 194. ↩
Exploratio Philosophica, Part I, 1865, pp. XXXVIII, 130. ↩
Hinneberg: Die Kultur der Gegenwart: Systematische Philosophie. Leipzig: Teubner, 1907. ↩
The difference is that the bad parts of this finite are eternal and essential for absolutists, whereas pluralists may hope that they will eventually get sloughed off and become as if they had not been. ↩
Quoted by W. Wallace: Lectures and Essays, Oxford, 1898, p. 560. ↩
Logic, tr. Wallace, 1874, p. 181. ↩
Logic, tr. Wallace, 1874, p. 304. ↩
Contemporary Review, December, 1907, vol. 92, p. 618. ↩
Metaphysic, sec. 69 ff. ↩
The World and the Individual, vol. I, pp. 131⁠–⁠132. ↩
A good illustration of this is to be found in a controversy between Mr. Bradley and the present writer, in Mind for 1893, Mr. Bradley contending (if I understood him rightly) that “resemblance” is an illegitimate category, because it admits of degrees, and that the only real relations in comparison are absolute identity and absolute non-comparability. ↩
Studies in the Hegelian Dialectic, p. 184. ↩
Appearance and Reality, 1893, pp. 141⁠–⁠142. ↩
Cf. Elements of Metaphysics, p. 88. ↩
Some Dogmas of Religion, p. 184. ↩
For a more detailed criticism of Mr. Bradley’s intellectualism, see Appendix A. ↩
Hegel, Smaller Logic, pp. 184⁠–⁠185. ↩
Cf. Hegel’s fine vindication of this function of contradiction in his Wissenschaft der Logik, Bk. II, sec. 1, chap. II, C, Anmerkung 3. ↩
Hegel, in Blackwood’s Philosophical Classics, p. 162. ↩
Wissenschaft der Logik, Bk. I, sec. 1, chap. II, B, a. ↩
Wallace’s translation of the Smaller Logic, p. 128. ↩
Joachim, The Nature of Truth, Oxford, 1906, pp. 22, 178. The argument in case the belief should be doubted would be the higher synthetic idea: if two truths were possible, the duality of that possibility would itself be the one truth that would unite them. ↩
The World and the Individual, vol. II, pp. 385, 386, 409. ↩
The best uninspired argument (again not ironical!) which I know is that in Miss M. W. Calkins’s excellent book, The Persistent Problems of Philosophy, Macmillan, 1902. ↩
Cf. Dr. Fuller’s excellent article, “Ethical Monism and the Problem of Evil,” in the Harvard Journal of Theology, vol. I, No. 2, April, 1908. ↩
Metaphysic, sec. 79. ↩
Studies in the Hegelian Dialectic, secs. 150, 153. ↩
The Nature of Truth, 1906, pp. 170⁠–⁠171. ↩
The Nature of Truth, 1906, p. 179. ↩
The psychological analogy that certain finite tracts of consciousness are composed of isolable parts added together, cannot be used by absolutists as proof that such parts are essential elements of all consciousness. Other finite fields of consciousness seem in point of fact not to be similarly resolvable into isolable parts. ↩
Judging by the analogy of the relation which our central consciousness seems to bear to that of our spinal cord, lower ganglia, etc., it would seem natural to suppose that in whatever superhuman mental synthesis there may be, the neglect and elimination of certain contents of which we are conscious on the human level might be as characteristic a feature as is the combination and interweaving of other human contents. ↩
The Spirit of Modern Philosophy, p. 227. ↩
Fechner: Über die Seelenfrage, 1861, p. 170. ↩
Fechner’s latest summarizing of his views, Die Tagesansicht gegenüber der Nachtansicht, Leipzig, 1879, is now, I understand, in process of translation. His Little Book of Life After Death exists already in two American versions, one published by Little, Brown & Co., Boston, the other by the Open Court Co., Chicago. ↩
Mr. Bradley ought to be to some degree exempted from my attack in these last pages. Compare especially what he says of nonhuman consciousness in his Appearance and Reality, pp. 269⁠–⁠272. ↩
Royce: The Spirit of Modern Philosophy, p. 379. ↩
The World and the Individual, vol. II, pp. 58⁠–⁠62. ↩
I hold to it still as the best description of an enormous number of our higher fields of consciousness. They demonstrably do not contain the lower states that know the same objects. Of other fields, however this is not so true; so, in the Psychological Review for 1895, vol. II, p. 105 (see especially pp. 119⁠–⁠120), I frankly withdrew, in principle, my former objection to talking of fields of consciousness being made of simpler “parts,” leaving the facts to decide the question in each special case. ↩
I abstract from the consciousness attached to the whole itself, if such consciousness be there. ↩
For a more explicit vindication of the notion of activity, see Appendix B, where I try to defend its recognition as a definite form of immediate experience against its rationalistic critics.

I subjoin here a few remarks destined to disarm some possible critics of Professor Bergson, who, to defend himself against misunderstandings of his meaning, ought to amplify and more fully explain his statement that concepts have a practical but not a theoretical use. Understood in one way, the thesis sounds indefensible, for by concepts we certainly increase our knowledge about things, and that seems a theoretical achievement, whatever practical achievements may follow in its train. Indeed, M. Bergson might seem to be easily refutable out of his own mouth. His philosophy pretends, if anything, to give a better insight into truth than rationalistic philosophies give: yet what is it in itself if not a conceptual system? Does its author not reason by concepts exclusively in his very attempt to show that they can give no insight?

To this particular objection, at any rate, it is easy to reply. In using concepts of his own to discredit the theoretic claims of concepts generally, Bergson does not contradict, but on the contrary emphatically illustrates his own view of their practical role, for they serve in his hands only to “orient” us, to show us to what quarter we must practically turn if we wish to gain that completer insight into reality which he denies that they can give. He directs our hopes away from them and towards the despised sensible flux. What he reaches by their means is thus only a new practical attitude. He but restores, against the vetoes of intellectualist philosophy, our naturally cordial relations with sensible experience and common sense. This service is surely only practical; but it is a service for which we may be almost immeasurably grateful. To trust our senses again with a good philosophic conscience!⁠—who ever conferred on us so valuable a freedom before?

By making certain distinctions and additions it seems easy to meet the other counts of the indictment. Concepts are realities of a new order, with particular relations between them. These relations are just as much directly perceived, when we compare our various concepts, as the distance between two sense-objects is perceived when we look at it. Conception is an operation which gives us material for new acts of perception, then; and when the results of these are written down, we get those bodies of “mental truth” (as Locke called it) known as mathematics, logic, and a priori metaphysics. To know all this truth is a theoretic achievement, indeed, but it is a narrow one; for the relations between conceptual objects as such are only the static ones of bare comparison, as difference or sameness, congruity or contradiction, inclusion or exclusion. Nothing happens in the realm of concepts; relations there are “eternal” only. The theoretic gain fails so far, therefore, to touch even the outer hem of the real world, the world of causal and dynamic relations, of activity and history. To gain insight into all that moving life, Bergson is right in turning us away from conception and towards perception.

By combining concepts with percepts, we can draw maps of the distribution of other percepts in distant space and time. To know this distribution is of course a theoretic achievement, but the achievement is extremely limited, it cannot be effected without percepts, and even then what it yields is only static relations. From maps we learn positions only, and the position of a thing is but the slightest kind of truth about it; but, being indispensable for forming our plans of action, the conceptual map-making has the enormous practical importance on which Bergson so rightly insists.

But concepts, it will be said, do not only give us eternal truths of comparison and maps of the positions of things, they bring new values into life. In their mapping function they stand to perception in general in the same relation in which sight and hearing stand to touch⁠—Spencer calls these higher senses only organs of anticipatory touch. But our eyes and ears also open to us worlds of independent glory: music and decorative art result, and an incredible enhancement of life’s value follows. Even so does the conceptual world bring new ranges of value and of motivation to our life. Its maps not only serve us practically, but the mere mental possession of such vast pictures is of itself an inspiring good. New interests and incitements, and feelings of power, sublimity, and admiration are aroused.

Abstractness per se seems to have a touch of ideality. Royce’s “loyalty to loyalty” is an excellent example. “Causes,” as anti-slavery, democracy, liberty, etc., dwindle when realized in their sordid particulars. The veritable “cash-value” of the idea seems to cleave to it only in the abstract status. Truth at large, as Royce contends, in his Philosophy of Loyalty, appears another thing altogether from the true particulars in which it is best to believe. It transcends in value all those “expediencies,” and is something to live for, whether expedient or inexpedient. Truth with a big T is a “momentous issue”; truths in detail are “poor scraps,” mere “crumbling successes.” (op. cit., Lecture VII, especially § V.)

Is, now, such bringing into existence of a new value to be regarded as a theoretic achievement? The question is a nice one, for although a value is in one sense an objective quality perceived, the essence of that quality is its relation to the will, and consists in its being a dynamogenic spur that makes our action different. So far as their value-creating function goes, it would thus appear that concepts connect themselves more with our active than with our theoretic life, so here again Bergson’s formulation seems unobjectionable. Persons who have certain concepts are animated otherwise, pursue their own vital careers differently. It doesn’t necessarily follow that they understand other vital careers more intimately.

Again it may be said that we combine old concepts into new ones, conceiving thus such realities as the ether, God, souls, or whatnot, of which our sensible life alone would leave us altogether ignorant. This surely is an increase of our knowledge, and may well be called a theoretical achievement. Yet here again Bergson’s criticisms hold good. Much as conception may tell us about such invisible objects, it sheds no ray of light into their interior. The completer, indeed, our definitions of ether-waves, atoms, Gods, or souls become, the less instead of the more intelligible do they appear to us. The learned in such things are consequently beginning more and more to ascribe a solely instrumental value to our concepts of them. Ether and molecules may be like coordinates and averages, only so many crutches by the help of which we practically perform the operation of getting about among our sensible experiences.

We see from these considerations how easily the question of whether the function of concepts is theoretical or practical may grow into a logomachy. It may be better from this point of view to refuse to recognize the alternative as a sharp one. The sole thing that is certain in the midst of it all is that Bergson is absolutely right in contending that the whole life of activity and change is inwardly impenetrable to conceptual treatment, and that it opens itself only to sympathetic apprehension at the hands of immediate feeling. All the whats as well as the thats of reality, relational as well as terminal, are in the end contents of immediate concrete perception. Yet the remoter unperceived arrangements, temporal, spatial, and logical, of these contents, are also something that we need to know as well for the pleasure of the knowing as for the practical help. We may call this need of arrangement a theoretic need or a practical need, according as we choose to lay the emphasis; but Bergson is accurately right when he limits conceptual knowledge to arrangement, and when he insists that arrangement is the mere skirt and skin of the whole of what we ought to know. ↩
Gaston Rageot, Revue Philosophique, vol. LXIV, p. 85 (July, 1907). ↩
I have myself talked in other ways as plausibly as I could, in my Psychology, and talked truly (as I believe) in certain selected cases; but for other cases the natural way invincibly comes back. ↩
Introduction to Hume, 1874, p. 151. ↩
Introduction to Hume, 1874, pp. 16, 21, 36, et passim. ↩
See, inter alia, the chapter on the “Stream of Thought” in my own Psychologies; H. Cornelius, Psychologie, 1897, chaps. I and III; G. H. Luquet, Idées Générales de Psychologie, 1906, passim. ↩
Compare, as to all this, an article by the present writer, entitled “A world of pure experience,” in the Journal of Philosophy, New York, vol. I, pp. 533, 561 (1905). ↩
Green’s attempt to discredit sensations by reminding us of their “dumbness,” in that they do not come already named, as concepts may be said to do, only shows how intellectualism is dominated by verbality. The unnamed appears in Green as synonymous with the unreal. ↩
Philosophy of Reflection, I, 248 ff. ↩
Most of this paragraph is extracted from an address of mine before the American Psychological Association, printed in the Psychological Review, vol. II, p. 105. I take pleasure in the fact that already in 1895 I was so far advanced towards my present Bergsonian position. ↩
The conscious self of the moment, the central self, is probably determined to this privileged position by its functional connection with the body’s imminent or present acts. It is the present acting self. Though the more that surrounds it may be “subconscious” to us, yet if in its “collective capacity” it also exerts an active function, it may be conscious in a wider way, conscious, as it were, over our heads.

On the relations of consciousness to action see Bergson’s Matière et Mémoire, passim, especially chap. I. Compare also the hints in Münsterberg’s Grundzüge der Psychologie, chap. XV; those in my own Principles of Psychology, vol. II, pp. 581⁠–⁠592; and those in W. McDougall’s Physiological Psychology, chap. VII. ↩
Compare Zend-Avesta, 2nd edition, vol. I, pp. 165 ff., 181, 206, 244 ff., etc.; Die Tagesansicht, etc., chap. V, § 6; and chap. XV. ↩
Blondel: Annales de Philosophie Chrétienne, June, 1906, p. 241. ↩
Reprinted from the Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods, vol. II, New York, 1905, with slight verbal revision. ↩
Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and Scientific Methods, vol. I, No. 20, p. 566. ↩
Appearance and Reality, pp. 152⁠–⁠133. ↩
Technically, it seems classable as a “fallacy of composition.” A duality, predicable of the two wholes, L⁠—M and M⁠—N, is forthwith predicated of one of their parts, M. ↩
I may perhaps refer here to my Principles of Psychology, vol. I, pp. 459 ff. It really seems “weird” to have to argue (as I am forced now to do) for the notion that it is one sheet of paper (with its two surfaces and all that lies between) which is both under my pen and on the table while I write⁠—the “claim” that it is two sheets seems so brazen. Yet I sometimes suspect the absolutists of sincerity! ↩
Here again the reader must beware of slipping from logical into phenomenal considerations. It may well be that we attribute a certain relation falsely, because the circumstances of the case, being complex, have deceived us. At a railway station we may take our own train, and not the one that fills our window, to be moving. We here put motion in the wrong place in the world, but in its original place the motion is a part of reality. What Mr. Bradley means is nothing like this, but rather that such things as motion are nowhere real, and that, even in their aboriginal and empirically incorrigible seats, relations are impossible of comprehension. ↩
Particularly so by Andrew Seth Pringle-Pattison, in his Man and the Cosmos; by L. T. Hobhouse, in chapter XII (“The Validity of Judgment”) of his Theory of Knowledge; and by F. C. S. Schiller, in his Humanism, Essay XI. Other fatal reviews (in my opinion) are Hodder’s, in the Psychological Review, vol. I, 307; Stout’s, in the Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society, 1901⁠–⁠02, p. 1; and MacLennan’s, in the Journal of Philosophy, etc., vol. I, 403. ↩
Once more, don’t slip from logical into physical situations. Of course, if the table be wet, it will moisten the book, or if it be slight enough and the book heavy enough, the book will break it down. But such collateral phenomena are not the point at issue. The point is whether the successive relations “on” and “not-on” can rationally (not physically) hold of the same constant terms, abstractly taken. Professor A. E. Taylor drops from logical into material considerations when he instances color-contrast as a proof that A, “as contradistinguished from B, is not the same thing as mere A not in any way affected” (Elements of Metaphysics, 1903, p. 145). Note the substitution, for “related,” of the word “affected,” which begs the whole question. ↩
But “is there any sense,” asks Mr. Bradley, peevishly, on p. 579, “and if so, what sense, in truth that is only outside and ‘about’ things?” Surely such a question may be left unanswered. ↩
Appearance and Reality, 2nd edition, pp. 575⁠–⁠576. ↩
I say “undecided,” because, apart from the “so far,” which sounds terribly halfhearted, there are passages in these very pages in which Mr. Bradley admits the pluralistic thesis. Read, for example, what he says, on p. 578, of a billiard ball keeping its “character” unchanged, though, in its change of place, its “existence” gets altered; or what he says, on p. 579, of the possibility that an abstract quality A, B, or C, in a thing, “may throughout remain unchanged” although the thing be altered; or his admission that in red-hairedness, both as analyzed out of a man and when given with the rest of him, there may be “no change” (p. 580). Why does he immediately add that for the pluralist to plead the non-mutation of such abstractions would be an ignoratio elenchi? It is impossible to admit it to be such. The entire elenchus and inquest is just as to whether parts which you can abstract from existing wholes can also contribute to other wholes without changing their inner nature. If they can thus mould various wholes into new gestalt-qualitäten, then it follows that the same elements are logically able to exist in different wholes [whether physically able would depend on additional hypotheses]; that partial changes are thinkable, and through-and-through change not a dialectic necessity; that monism is only an hypothesis; and that an additively constituted universe is a rationally respectable hypothesis also. All the theses of radical empiricism, in short, follow. ↩
So far as I catch his state of mind, it is somewhat like this: “Book,” “table,” “on”⁠—how does the existence of these three abstract elements result in this book being livingly on this table? Why isn’t the table on the book? Or why doesn’t the “on” connect itself with another book, or something that is not a table? Mustn’t something in each of the three elements already determine the two others to it, so that they do not settle elsewhere or float vaguely? Mustn’t the whole fact be prefigured in each part, and exist de jure before it can exist de facto? But, if so, in what can the jural existence consist, if not in a spiritual miniature of the whole fact’s constitution actuating; every partial factor as its purpose? But is this anything but the old metaphysical fallacy of looking behind a fact in esse for the ground of the fact, and finding it in the shape of the very same fact in posse? Somewhere we must leave off with a constitution behind which there is nothing. ↩
Apply this to the case of “book-on-table”! ↩
How meaningless is the contention that in such wholes (or in “book-on-table,” “watch-in-pocket,” etc.) the relation is an additional entity between the terms, needing itself to be related again to each! Both Bradley (Appearance and Reality, pp. 32⁠–⁠33) and Royce (The World and the Individual, I, 128) lovingly repeat this piece of profundity. ↩
The “why” and the “whence” are entirely other questions, not under discussion, as I understand Mr. Bradley. Not how experience gets itself born, but how it can be what it is after it is born, is the puzzle. ↩
President’s Address before the American Psychological Association, December, 1904. Reprinted from the Psychological Review, vol. XII, 1905, with slight verbal revision. ↩
Appearance and Reality, p. 117. Obviously written at Ward, though Ward’s name is not mentioned. ↩
Mind, N.S., VI, 379. ↩
Naturalism and Agnosticism, vol. II, p. 245. One thinks naturally of the peripatetic actus primus and actus secundus here. ↩
Their existence forms a curious commentary on Professor Münsterberg’s dogma that will-attitudes are not describable. He himself has contributed in a superior way to their description, both in his Willenshandlung, and in his Grundzüge, Part II, chap. IX, § 7. ↩
I ought myself to cry peccavi, having been a voluminous sinner in my own chapter on the will. ↩
Verborum gratiâ: “The feeling of activity is not able, qua feeling, to tell us anything about activity” (Loveday: Mind, N.S., X., 403); “A sensation or feeling or sense of activity⁠ ⁠… is not, looked at in another way, a feeling of activity at all. It is a mere sensation shut up within which you could by no reflection get the idea of activity.⁠ ⁠… Whether this experience is or is not later on a character essential to our perception and our idea of activity, it, as it comes first, is not in itself an experience of activity at all. It, as it comes first, is only so for extraneous reasons and only so for an outside observer” (Bradley, Appearance and Reality, 2nd edition, p. 605); “In dem tätigkeitsgefühle leigt an sich nicht der geringste beweis für das vorhandensein einer psychischen tätigkeit” (Münsterberg: Grundzüge, etc., p. 67). I could multiply similar quotations, and would have introduced some of them into my text to make it more concrete, save that the mingling of different points of view in most of these author’s discussions (not in Münsterberg’s) make it impossible to disentangle exactly what they mean. I am sure in any case to be accused of misrepresenting them totally, even in this note, by omission of the context, so the less I name names and the more I stick to abstract characterization of a merely possible style of opinion, the safer it will be. And apropos of misunderstandings, I may add to this note a complaint on my own account. Professor Stout, in the excellent chapter on “Mental Activity,” in vol. I of his Analytic Psychology, takes me to task for identifying spiritual activity with certain muscular feelings, and gives quotations to bear him out. They are from certain paragraphs on “the Self,” in which my attempt was to show what the central nucleus of the activities that we call “ours” is. I found it in certain intracephalic movements which we habitually oppose, as “subjective,” to the activities of the transcorporeal world. I sought to show that there is no direct evidence that we feel the activity of an inner spiritual agent as such (I should now say the activity of “consciousness” as such, see my paper “Does Consciousness Exist?” in the Journal of Philosophy, vol. I, p. 477). There are, in fact, three distinguishable “activities” in the field of discussion: the elementary activity involved in the mere that of experience, in the fact that something is going on, and the farther specification of this something into two whats, an activity felt as “ours,” and an activity ascribed to objects. Stout, as I apprehend him, identifies “our” activity with that of the total experience-process, and when I circumscribe it as a part thereof, accuses me of treating it as a sort of external appendage to itself (pp. 162⁠–⁠163), as if I “separated the activity from the process which is active.” But all the processes in question are active, and their activity is inseparable from their being. My book raised only the question of which activity deserved the name of “ours.” So far as we are “persons,” and contrasted and opposed to an “environment,” movements in our body figure as our activities; and I am unable to find any other activities that are ours in this strictly personal sense. There is a wider sense in which the whole “choir of heaven and furniture of the earth,” and their activities, are ours, for they are our “objects.” But “we” are here only another name for the total process of experience, another name for all that is, in fact; and I was dealing with the personal and individualized self exclusively in the passages with which Professor Stout finds fault.

The individualized self, which I believe to be the only thing properly called self, is a part of the content of the world experienced. The world experienced (otherwise called the “field of consciousness”) comes at all times with our body as its centre, centre of vision, centre of action, centre of interest. Where the body is is “here”; when the body acts is “now”; what the body touches is “this”; all other things are “there” and “then” and “that.” These words of emphasized position imply a systematization of things with reference to a focus of action and interest which lies in the body; and the systematization is now so instinctive (was it ever not so?) that no developed or active experience exists for us at all except in that ordered form. So far as “thoughts” and “feelings” can be active, their activity terminates in the activity of the body, and only through first arousing its activities can they begin to change those of the rest of the world. The body is the storm centre, the origin of coordinates, the constant place of stress in all that experience-train. Everything circles round it, and is felt from its point of view. The word “I,” then, is primarily a noun of position, just like “this” and “here.” Activities attached to “this” position have prerogative emphasis, and, if activities have feelings, must be felt in a peculiar way. The word “my” designates the kind of emphasis. I see no inconsistency whatever in defending, on the one hand, “my” activities as unique and opposed to those of outer nature, and, on the other hand, in affirming, after introspection, that they consist in movements in the head. The “my” of them is the emphasis, the feeling of perspective-interest in which they are dyed. ↩
Let me not be told that this contradicts a former article of mine, “Does Consciousness Exist?” in the Journal of Philosophy for September 1, 1904 (see especially page 489), in which it was said that while “thoughts” and “things” have the same natures, the natures work “energetically” on each other in the things (fire burns, water wets, etc.), but not in the thoughts. Mental activity-trains are composed of thoughts, yet their members do work on each other: they check, sustain, and introduce. They do so when the activity is merely associational as well as when effort is there. But, and this is my reply, they do so by other parts of their nature than those that energize physically. One thought in every developed activity-series is a desire or thought of purpose, and all the other thoughts acquire a feeling tone from their relation of harmony or oppugnancy to this. The interplay of these secondary tones (among which “interest,” “difficulty,” and “effort” figure) runs the drama in the mental series. In what we term the physical drama these qualities play absolutely no part. The subject needs careful working out; but I can see no inconsistency. ↩
I have found myself more than once accused in print of being the assertor of a metaphysical principle of activity. Since literary misunderstandings retard the settlement of problems, I should like to say that such an interpretation of the pages I have published on effort and on will is absolutely foreign to what I meant to express. I owe all my doctrines on this subject to Renouvier; and Renouvier, as I understand him, is (or at any rate then was) an out and out phenomenist, a denier of “forces” in the most strenuous sense. Single clauses in my writing, or sentences read out of their connection, may possibly have been compatible with a transphenomenal principle of energy; but I defy anyone to show a single sentence which, taken with its context, should be naturally held to advocate that view. The misinterpretation probably arose at first from my having defended (after Renouvier) the indeterminism of our efforts. “Free will” was supposed by my critics to involve a supernatural agent. As a matter of plain history, the only “free will” I have ever thought of defending is the character of novelty in fresh activity-situations. If an activity-process is the form of a whole “field of consciousness,” and if each field of consciousness is not only in its totality unique (as is now commonly admitted), but has its elements unique (since in that situation they are all dyed in the total), then novelty is perpetually entering the world and what happens there is not pure repetition, as the dogma of the literal uniformity of nature requires. Activity-situations come, in short, each with an original touch. A “principle” of free will, if there were one, would doubtless manifest itself in such phenomena, but I never saw, nor do I now see, what the principle could do except rehearse the phenomenon beforehand, or why it ever should be invoked. ↩
Compare the Duma with what Perry aimed at. ↩
Compare Appendix B, as to what I mean here by “real” casual activity. ↩