Morals and the Evolution of Man

by Max Simon Nordau

The origin of life is as completely unknown to us as its essence. For thousands of years the assumption was lightheartedly made that under certain, somewhat vague circumstances, life originated of its own accord. Pasteur showed that a generatio spontanea cannot be proved to exist, that every living thing comes from another living thing, a parent organism, and that the old philosophers were right in propounding "omne vivum ex ovo" as a law, although they only guessed it and had not proved it experimentally. A very few critics, who are hard to convince, still dare to assert in a small voice that Pasteur's work and all the facts established by microbiology do not prove conclusively that life does not nevertheless originate from inorganic matter under conditions which we cannot nowadays reproduce in our laboratories. No answer can be made to this objection. An experiment is only conclusive for the conditions in which it is made, and not for others. All that we can positively assert is that on earth the genesis of life without a demonstrable parent organism has never been observed. To go farther, and to assert that a generatio spontanea is absolutely impossible under any conditions, on earth or elsewhere, is arbitrary, just as it is to assert the contrary.

Those who are supporters of the theory that life can be developed from non-living matter for a long time thought they had conclusively proved their case; they argued as follows: At the present time life exists on our planet; according to the Kant-Laplace hypothesis our planet was formed from a cosmic nebula and passed through a state of fluid incandescence; in this state life is impossible; therefore life must have originated spontaneously one day after the Earth had cooled down; consequently either the Kant-Laplace hypothesis is wrong or the assertion that life can only be generated by life is erroneous; the two assumptions are incompatible. This conclusion no longer presents any insuperable difficulties. It has been observed that spores which have been kept for months at the temperature of frozen hydrogen, that is, very nearly at absolute zero, have retained their germinative power and have developed when they were brought back to a favourable temperature. Therefore they would not be killed by the cold of interstellar space on their way from one heavenly body to another, and could become the seeds of life on another hitherto inanimate star. That large numbers of tiny particles of matter exist in interstellar space and are precipitated on the heavenly bodies is proved by the cosmic dust that arctic explorers have collected from the surface of snow and ice. Therefore the Earth may well have been in an incandescent state, and may yet have received from interstellar space the germs of life which developed and multiplied when the Earth's crust had cooled sufficiently to provide the conditions favourable to their existence; and these germs may have been the ancestors of all the life that exists on earth to-day after a period of evolution lasting hundreds of millions of years.

This would account for the origin of life upon the Earth, but not of life in general. The germs, which travel as carriers of life from an older heavenly body to a younger one, must have sprung from parents, and however far back we trace their genealogical tree we are always finally faced by this dilemma: either life did, after all, originate at one time from something lifeless, and what has happened once must be able to happen again, now and always; or life never originated at all, but has always existed; it is eternal like matter, in forms whose variety we cannot even dimly grasp, its threads, having neither beginning nor end, wind through eternity. Of these two assumptions the latter is incomparably more in harmony with our present-day views on the universe. We believe the matter of which the universe is built up to be everlasting. It costs no great effort to believe life to be eternal too. True, the idea of eternity is inconceivable to us; it is a dim conception which has given rise to a word, a tone picture which portrays something indefinite, but within the bounds of the inconceivable there is room for both semi-obscurities, the everlastingness of matter and the everlastingness of life.

But the most enigmatical point in the riddle of life is not life itself, which is a form of being, and is neither more nor less comprehensible than the existence of an inanimate object, of a stone, of water, of the air; it is consciousness. Descartes proves his own existence to himself by the fact that he thinks. Life must be accompanied by consciousness in order to convince the living being that it exists. The formula: "cogito ergo sum" has been admired for hundreds of years. It certainly is specious. But how many questions it leaves unanswered! Has it the right to deny life to an entity that does not conceive itself? Must it not be completed by the proof that life without thought, that is, without consciousness, does not exist, that consciousness is the necessary complement of life? And, above all, ought not Descartes to have given us an explanation of what thought and consciousness are?

I will attempt to answer the questions left unanswered by Descartes. But I must premise one thing. Every definition of consciousness implies a postulate: life. Though at a pinch we can picture life without consciousness, consciousness without life is absolutely inconceivable. I do not undertake to explain what life is, any more than I attempted it above. We must take it as something given. Consciousness, then, is the subjective realization of something objective, the inward realization of something outside. If in a living being a picture of its surroundings is developed, then it absorbs something which is not a necessary part of itself. Of course, this inner image must not be understood to imply an absorption of matter. It is a process in the matter of which the living being is built up. But, all the same, the image of the outer world in the inner being does signify a penetration of the latter by the former. This image, which follows the changes of the outer world and repeats them in the inner being, is consciousness. It may be shadowy and blurred, or clear and distinct; it may in rapid succession be formed and pass away, and it can be preserved as a memory; it may reflect a greater or a lesser portion of the outer world; consciousness is accordingly duller or sharper; its contents are scant or plentiful, it retains the images of a shorter or longer series of conditions in the surrounding world. Between nutrition, which is recognized as an essential phenomenon of life, and consciousness a surprising parallelism subsists. Both consist in an absorption of the outer world by the organism; nutrition is the assimilation of matter, consciousness that of stimuli. In the process of nutrition the organism digests small quantities of the outside world; in consciousness it digests the world as a whole.

This parallelism is no mere play of the intellect. If it is followed out it leads to significant ideas if not to actual knowledge. What penetrates from the outer world into the inner being of the organism is vibration, movement, force. Is the matter which is absorbed as nourishment ultimately anything different? Here we come up against the ultimate problems of physics, the various hypotheses regarding the nature of force and matter, the theories that in addition to matter there is an ether, or that the ether is a different, more subtle, form of matter, or that neither matter nor ether exist, but atoms out of which everything is built up, which themselves consist of electrons which are centres of force, motions without material consistency. All these theories, of which the last cannot be grasped by the human understanding, we can leave severely alone. This is not the place to investigate them. But the attitude of the living organism towards the outer world from which it absorbs nourishment and impressions, converting them into power to drive the life machine and transmuting them into consciousness, lends peculiar support to the supposition that force and matter are not only inseparable but identical, that in them we must seek a principle, or perhaps regard them themselves as a principle, which must be of the same nature as consciousness, for otherwise it could not be transmuted into the latter.

The senses are the means by which the outer world penetrates as an image into the inner being. Before the senses are differentiated the living organism possesses a general sensitiveness; that is to say, that under the influence of the outer world its cell protoplasm undergoes a process of regrouping, resulting in chemical and dynamic changes. The chemical results of stimulus are anabolism and katabolism, a building up and breaking down of the cell content; the dynamic results are movements which in the lowest forms of life are purely mechanical, but in the higher forms adapt the organism to the external influence in so far as they place it either so as to be affected by the latter as long and as powerfully as possible, or else so as to evade it. The living organism can experience no stimulus and respond to it without absorbing and transmuting it, converting it into a chemical process or a movement. This inner process is a subjective realization of something objective, a penetration by the outer world, therefore an elementary consciousness. In proportion as the general sensitiveness becomes differentiated into specific ones, as the image of the outer world filters through the different coloured glass panes of the various senses into the inner being of the organism, this image becomes multicoloured and varied.

It lies in the nature of this mechanism that the subjective image is not identical with the objective original, but is modified and even distorted by the panes through which it penetrates to the inner being of the organism. What the subject perceives is never anything but a symbol of the object, never the object itself; but this symbol suffices to enable the consciousness to form an idea of the object, just as letters enable the reader to take in words and thoughts. We must conceive the development of consciousness to go hand in hand with that of the senses. The more windows the organism can open to the outer world the more easily and the more clearly does its image penetrate. The number of objects which the subject can take in is the measure of the perfection of its consciousness. The protista, lacking specific sense organs and possessing only the general sensitiveness of protoplasm, can form only to a very limited extent and with very little variety an inner realization of the stimuli of the outer world. Its consciousness is necessarily very restricted and exceedingly dim. Consciousness is enlarged and grows clearer as the organism develops and its general sensitiveness is differentiated into specific senses, until we reach the level of man whose consciousness embraces far more of the outer world than does that of any other living creature; because, lacking new senses, he has succeeded in amplifying and enlarging those he possesses, and has by artificial means made himself capable of perceiving stimuli to which he is not directly susceptible and which therefore would have remained unknown to him; to a certain extent he has translated them into a form which his senses can perceive.

I do not overlook any of the difficulties which my attempt to explain consciousness leaves untouched. On all sides the most urgent and disquieting questions arise. Above all, the fundamental question, the most enigmatic of all: how is an external stimulus, that is a movement, a vibration, converted into a sensation, a perception? Further: must we in the consciousness distinguish between the frame and its contents, the conceptual mechanism and the concept? Or do the two coincide? Is there no consciousness without a conceptual content? And is it the movement entering into the organism, the inner realization of the outer world which, transmuting itself in an incomprehensible manner into a concept, creates consciousness, becomes consciousness? Is the consciousness of the man standing upon the highest plane of intellectuality the greatest consciousness possible? Does there exist anywhere in the universe a more abundant, perhaps an infinitely more abundant consciousness than that of human beings on the Earth, and will the latter ever rise to this height? It is obvious that a development is in progress. There was a time when the most comprehensive, the clearest consciousness on earth was that of the trilobite or the cephalopod. Evolution has gone as far as man. Does it stop at that or will it continue?

According to Herbert Spencer evolution is progress from the simple to the complicated. Let us accept this definition. Have we the right to set up a scale of values and place the complicated above the simple? Is the latter not the more perfect because it has more power of resistance, greater durability, and can hold its own triumphantly against all destructive influences? Is not evolution, then, a retrogression from the perfect, because simple, to the more complicated, and therefore more fragile, more easily upset and less capable of resistance to harm? Is it not sheer egocentrism if we appraise the value of living beings according to their greater or less resemblance to ourselves, and judge them to be less or more worthy in proportion to their disparity with us? Are the fish which, living in the sea wherein we cannot exist, can inhabit the greater part of the globe, are wild duck which fly, swim and walk, not more perfect than we, who have had to conquer the air and the water by artificial means? Is not the mouse's hearing sharper than ours? The eagle's sight keener? The dog's scent incomparably more delicate? Has not the carrier pigeon an infinitely better sense of locality than we have? Are not many beasts physically stronger, more nimble and agile than man? His only claim to superiority rests on the greater perfection of his consciousness. Why do not all living creatures participate equally in the evolution to which this superiority is due? Why does it not take place in every organism and lead the unicellular living being in an unbroken ascent to the level of Goethe or Napoleon, or to a still more lofty one, if such an one exist anywhere in the universe?