Self, in such cases, is a meaning; and, in principle, any mental process whatsoever may represent the self (or the phase or feature of the self that is called forth by the situation) if its context and determination carry the meaning of selfhood. We can hardly expect, however, that the context and determination will be explicit, a group of mental processes lying open to observation. For the meaning of self is very old in human history; and we learn from early childhood to speak a language in which it is already stereotyped, a language which bristles with I and my. We shall say more about language later. Meantime, you see that these are just the circumstances in which context and determination cease to be explicit, and reduce to a set or disposition of the nervous system (p. 120). Hence we must be satisfied to distinguish the forms in which the self-experience appears, and to discover what particular mental processes, if any, fall characteristically into these self-forms. In other words, we enquire whether the self-meaning attaches to a perception, or an idea, or a feeling, and so on down the list; and we enquire also whether the self-perception or self-idea, or whatever the form may be, is characteristically visual or auditory or kinæsthetic, and so on. In principle, remember, any form and any kind of process may represent the self, provided that the self-context and the self-determination are somehow there; we are now to gather observations, and to see what forms and what processes do, in fact, represent the self in our experience.
Let us begin, however, by clearing out of the way certain erroneous views that have appeared in psychology under the influence of common sense. Since the self of common sense is persistent, it has been argued that the self-experience must also be continuous; and psychologists, instead of going to the facts, have tried to find a basis in experience for this supposed continuity. It is sometimes said, for instance, that all mental processes alike are essentially self-processes; because they are processes within a particular psychological world, because they belong to a self, therefore they have the character of selfness stamped upon them, and are known and experienced as processes-of-me. Does that view seem to you to be natural and reasonable? But consider the logic of it; try a parallel argument! We might as well say that because every native-born American belongs to the group of American citizenship, therefore he is always aware that he is an American citizen; or that because a certain man is wealthy, therefore he is always aware of his possessions. The fallacy is plain. It is sometimes said, again, that not all mental processes alike, but only the feeling-processes—sense-feelings, emotions, sentiments, feeling-attitudes—have this character of selfness stamped upon them; the feelings are ‘subjective’ experiences, and therefore being with them a reference to the self. The confusion is the same as that which we have just pointed out; it is argued that, because all the feeling-processes are subjective (we need not enquire too curiously what that word means!), therefore they must always mean the great subjective thing, the self; because a man is wealthy, therefore his wealth must always mean wealth to him; whereas it may, in various circumstances, mean an oil-painting or a steam-yacht. There is, however, another objection. This view maintains that feeling-processes of some kind are always present in experience; otherwise, indeed, they could not continuously refer to self; but observation shows that much of our experience is indifferent, without tinge of feeling. It is sometimes said, once more, that the organic sensations are the peculiar self-experiences; they are always with us, forming a constant background of self, upon which our other and less stable experiences come and go. But it may be doubted whether these sensations are continuous; at any rate, they vary enormously in intensity and in their appeal to the attention. An experience of nausea is overwhelming; but need there be, in perfect health, any sensation whatever from heart-beat or breathing or digestion? Moreover, the logic of the position is still unsound. For a continuous experience is not necessarily the experience of something continuous; the fact that a man is all the while wealthy does not imply that he is continually realising his wealth.
Having thus cleared the ground of bad argument, we may turn to the facts of observation. The question whether the self-experience is or is not continuous we leave, for the moment, entirely open. We ask, first: In what form or forms does this self-experience occur? and the answer is: In all possible forms. We may perceive ourself, as when we consult the glass to make sure that we look all right; we may have an idea of ourself, in memory or imagination; we may have a feeling of self, when we are lonely or vexed or ill at ease; we may have a concept of self, as when we say emphatically in conversation ‘I can’t conceive of so-and-so’; we may have all sorts of self-attitudes, intellectual and emotive. Any form of mental connection may appear under a determination, or in a context, that gives it the meaning of self; only be clear that it is always the determination or context, and not the form, which is recept; ponsible for the selfness of the experience. We look in the glass, time and again, without having a self-perception; and we are often lonely and uncomfortable, without having a self-feeling; and we may say ‘I’ a hundred times over, without having a self-concept. The setting is what gives the self-meaning to the experience.
We ask, secondly: Are there any particular mental processes that enter characteristically into the self-forms? and here the answer is less easy. We have seen that language has a large number of self-words ready made for us to use; and we learn in our early years—sometimes painfully enough—to connect the self with our body. So the perceived self tends to be a visual perception of the body, or of some part of it; the felt self tends to be a blend of feeling with kinæsthetic and organic sensation (these processes are, indeed, regular components of feelings and mental attitudes); while the conceived self is, of course, a matter of verbal perception and idea,—ordinarily, that is, a matter of auditory-kinæsthetic complexes. If, however, these processes are characteristic, we have no evidence that they are essential; continued observation would probably show that the self-meaning may attach to all sorts of processes, as it is carried by all sorts of forms, so that tones and touches, tastes and smells, may on occasion come to us as the experienced Me.
On the whole, therefore, what holds in principle of the form of the self-experience holds also in observable fact; the experience may take all possible forms; though, in a given mind, some forms may appear more frequently than others. Within the different forms, on the other hand, there seems to be a tendency toward the appearance of particular mental processes, those concerned in the visual perception of the body, in felt organic stir and in verbal perceptions and ideas. And now, what of continuity?
Prejudice is strong; but you must be ready to discard it. Experimental and everyday observation both testify, when the question is directly put, to the intermittence of the self-experience. We are not always aware of our self. The self-experience does not appear, for example, when we are engaged in our ordinary routine employment. It does not appear in concentrated thought; the views and theories which a popular psychology regards as personal are, as a rule, quite selfless in their forming and phrasing. It does not appear when we are absorbed in a novel, or a play, or the hearing of music. It need not appear in many of the situations that are designated by self-words. The very fact that we can call it up at will, that we can ‘come to ourselves’ whenever we like, indicates that it is not always present in our experience. It is the specific expression of a special determination; and the frequency of the determination varies, we must suppose, in different cases; some of us are continually recurring to a self-experience, while others find it a more casual visitor.
You should not accept this conclusion blindly; you may test it in your own experience. Notice meanwhile that, if it is sound, it throws further light upon the theories of pp. 316 ff. Mental processes are not always experienced as self-processes, but all mental forms and probably all mental processes may lie under the self-determination. Feelings do not always bring a reference to self, but the self-meaning is very often carried by a feeling. The organic sensations are not always self-experiences, but a self-feeling may be largely composed of organic processes. If we have dismissed the theories themselves, we must still credit them with the measure of truth that they contain.
[§ 76]. The Snares of Language.—You were warned on p. 36 that language may be misleading, and that the phrases which you naturally use oftentimes imply a view of the world, or an attitude towards experience, which is foreign to science. Nowhere, perhaps, is this discrepancy greater than in the phrases which refer to the self. Language, as we know, is older than science, and expresses the results of common-sense interpretation rather than of factual observation. The self of language is, accordingly; not the psychological self, but the counterpart of the mannikin-mind (p. 7); and just as we must be on guard, and remember our psychological definition, whenever in a psychological context we say or think the word ‘mind,’ so must we be on guard against the common-sense notion of ‘self’ that has insinuated itself into a thousand turns of familiar speech. An observer, describing a particular experience, may say, quite naturally, ‘I find no trace of self-reference!’—and there is no harm done, if we realise that the I of his remark is the traditional self-concept of language, and the self the psychological experience of self; but there may be very great harm, if likeness of words leads us to confound the personal with the impersonal, common sense with science. Only by an unreadable pedantry can we avoid the I-phrases and the other personal sentences; but we must always bear in mind that language, the very form and structure of it, embodies a theory, an explanation or interpretation of the self; and that, if we reject this theory, we have to couch our criticism in terms of the theory we reject.
There is another danger. Language has many words which begin with self: self-possession, self-assurance, self-consciousness, and the like; and the implication is that the corresponding mental processes represent self-experiences, in the sense of p. 315. But do they? Let us take self-consciousness as an example. A young lecturer stands for the first time upon the platform, and a kindly soul in the audience may murmur: ‘Poor young man! he is dreadfully self-conscious!’ Truly, the signs are there: parched throat, burning cheeks, gasping breath, hoarse and broken voice, moist and trembling hands, uncertainty of all coordinated movements; everything that indicates what the audience, from their external standpoint (p. 313), must regard as self-consciousness; and yet there may be nothing whatever of self-reference in the lecturer’s own experience. He feels timid, excited, heartily uncomfortable; but it is very unlikely that he is thinking of himself; he has too many other things to think of! Suppose that his lecture is a success, and that he steps from the lecture-room in a mood of self-congratulation; he feels relief, relaxation; he ‘glows’ with satisfaction and pride; but, again, there need be no sort of self-reference in his experience. Yet, in writing to a friend about the eventful lecture, he may very well say: ‘I felt terribly self-conscious when I began, but afterwards I really was a bit pleased with myself!’ The personal forms are so natural as to be almost inevitable. How often, when a conversation has languished, do two or three persons with a simultaneous impulse try to revive it—by uttering a long-drawn ‘I’! and how often are we surprised, when we read over a letter just written, to see that every paragraph begins with the same ‘I’! Not by any means necessarily because we are thinking at the time of ourselves, but very likely because we have nothing urgent to say, and so slip instinctively into the commonest and most stereotyped pattern of speech. Language, therefore, is no more than any other movement (p. 232) an index to mind. The I-phrases and the self-words may carry a self-meaning, or they may not; it all depends upon the determination of the moment.
Do not imagine, however, that psychology alone suffers from this warp and bias of language! The tendency to personalisation (p. 205), which shows itself in the mannikin-mind and the common-sense self, appears also in the ‘forces’ of physics and the ‘attractions’ of chemistry; and if the psychologist has to clarify the current notions of mind and self, the worker in these other sciences must, on his side, come to terms with a like heritage of equivocal words. All such concepts illustrate the same speculative trend of primitive thinking; and all of them are stumbling-blocks in the path of science.