Invention: The Master-key to Progress

by Bradley A. Fiske

Now it is a matter of fact that an object (for instance, a pole) can be seen by a person with normal eyesight, if it subtends an angle as great as one minute; that a pole a foot thick can be seen clearly from a distance of 3600 feet, at which distance it subtends that angle. The rays of light pass through the crystalline lens of the eye and are focussed on the retina, as they pass through the lens of the camera, and are focussed on the sensitized paper. Assuming the distance from the crystalline lens to the retina to be about three-quarters of an inch, the pole would be represented on the retina by an image 3/(4 x 3600) or less than 1/4000 of an inch wide. During daylight our retinas are continually receiving images of which all lines as wide as 1/4000 of an inch (and much narrower) are very clearly apprehended by the mind.

But very few of those images are noticed by us. It is only when some incident calls them to our attention, or when the mind voluntarily seizes on them, that any conscious impression is made upon the brain. Similarly, images of physical objects unseen by the physical eye are continually made on the mind: we are continually thinking of our friends and of past incidents and possible future incidents; and our thoughts of these things take the form of pictures. We see the man with whom we had a conversation yesterday, and we see him with a clearness that is proportional to the interest taken by the mind in the conversation and the circumstances surrounding it. If our conversation was uninteresting and the circumstances tame, we see him dimly. But if our conversation was angry and the circumstances were exciting, we see him and the surroundings very vividly—so vividly that our anger is again aroused; perhaps to as high degree as on the day before, or even higher.

This image-making is, of course, voluntary sometimes; but most images come without volition on our part, and require no effort that we are conscious of. To call up an image voluntarily requires conscious effort; and to keep it in position while we gaze upon it requires effort that is great in proportion to the time during which it is exerted. Psychologists speak of this act of keeping an image in position as one of giving attention, or paying attention.

To perform this act requires the exercise of will, unless the act gives pleasure, or the image suggests danger; in each of these cases, of course, the act is almost involuntary.

A man who is observant notes consciously the incidents that are passing around him: he seizes on certain of the millions of pictures passing before him, concentrates their images on his retina, and gazes on each one for a while. Similarly, a man who is contemplative, seizes on certain of the vague mental pictures passing through his mind, concentrates his attention on them, and gazes at each one for a while. We call the former an observant man and the other a thoughtful man. Sometimes an observant man learns a great deal from what he sees, in the same way that sometimes a studious man learns a great deal from what he studies; but the learning of course cannot be accomplished without the assistance of the memory. One is often surprised to see how little some observant and studious men have remembered. Many impressions have been received, but few retained.

The thoughtful man, of course, cannot in the nature of things receive so many conscious impressions as the merely observant or studious man; for the reason that he continually seizes on one and then another, and holds each for a time, while he fixes his attention on it. Usually, however, the thoughtful man memorizes his observations or his studies for some specific purpose; he moves the various images about in his mind; and arranges them in classes: for otherwise, the various images would form merely an aggregation of apparently unrelated facts. The value of such aggregations is, of course, enormous; they compose what we call data, and include such things as tables of dates, etc.

But data, even tables of dates, have no value in themselves; it is only from their relations to other things that they have value. There would be no value, for instance, in knowing that William of Normandy invaded England in 1066, unless we knew who William was, and what England was, and what the effect of his invading it was. Now the thoughtful man, like the man who arranges a card-catalogue in such a way that it will be useful, not only notes isolated facts, but puts them into juxtaposition with each other, and sees what their relations are. The mental pictures that he finally fixes in his mind are of related things, seen in their correct perspective. They are like the pictures which are made on the mind of anyone by—say, a landscape: whereas the mental pictures made by an unthoughtful man are such as little children probably receive from nature; pictures in which the trees and hills and valleys of a landscape do not appear as such, but merely as a great aggregation of numberless separate images, confused and meaningless like the colored pieces of a kaleidoscope.

To the thoughtful man, therefore, life seems not quite so meaningless as to his neighbor; though even the most thoughtful can fix very few complete and extensive pictures in his mind. If his thoughtfulness takes him no further than simply forming pictures that enable him to see things as they are, and in their correct relations to each other, he becomes "a man of good judgment," a man valuable in any community, especially for filling positions in which the ability to make correct deductions is required.

Such a man, however, no matter how correctly he may estimate any situation, no matter how clearly he may see all the factors in it, no matter how accurately he may gauge their relative values and positions, may be unable to suggest any way for utilizing its possible benefits, or warding off its possible dangers. That is, he may lack constructiveness. He is like a man who possesses any desirable thing or dangerous thing, and who understands all there is to understand about it, but does not know what to do with it. The various factors are in his (mental) hands, but he can make nothing of them.

The constructive man can construct concrete entities out of what are apparently wholly individual factors having no relation to each other; he can, for instance, take two pieces of wood and a piece of string, and make a weapon with which he can kill living animals at a considerable distance. With neither the pieces of wood nor the string could he do that; and he could not do it with all three, unless he were able to construct them into a bow and arrow. That is, he could make the weapon if he had ever seen it made before. If he were only constructive and not inventive, he could not make it unless he had seen it done before, or knew it had been done.