Chapter 17
Man and Imagination
Of man's many peculiarities, perhaps the most significant
is his power of imagination. It is the true key to his essential nature
and success. As far as we have been able to establish by experiments, man
is the only animal capable of combining memories and experiences to whatever
extent he desires. He can, mentally, bring any specific thing in the world
into conjunction with any other. He can, so to speak, dream while he is
awake and steer his dreams in any desired direction. He can devise courses
of action for himself – lay plans and check his memory to determine if
they are practicable on the basis of past experience. He can combine experience
or logic with his imagination and test the resultant thoughts within his
mind for practicality. Man's brain provides him with a sort of screen upon
which he can project and construct his ideas. There, future can be blended
with past, components removed and replaced with others, the flow of ideas
accelerated, slowed, or repeated at will.
The biological significance of this special faculty of
our central nervous system is great. For one thing, it represents a vast
saving of energy. We do not have to perform an action in order to discover
whether or not it is of practical value. We can explore it within our mind.
We can review the numerous courses of action open to us with most decisions
and select the one with the greatest prospect of success – and this without
exercising a single muscle. We can devise plans whose ultimate
(original book page 187)
goal lies years in the future and thousands of miles distant.
We can examine each individual link in such a chain of action by itself
– investigate, test, mold, or discard it. We can make discoveries – originate
new ideas – within ourselves by repeatedly juggling with alternatives.
In this way, we can discover relationships which lead us to the formation
of useful structures, a process which we call invention. In short, we can
perform, achieve, discover, and deduce a thousand (if not a million) times
as much as the life-span accorded us would otherwise enable us to do.
Is this faculty also developed in animals? Virtually
no scientific data are available on the subject, but what is especially
lacking is a precise definition of the term "imagination." Gehlen, one
of the few to have taken a close interest in this problem, espoused the
view that every memory is a feat of imagination in that it summons up sensory
impressions which are no longer present. Since feats of memory have been
demonstrated in most of the higher animals, the implication is that this
basic form of "imagination" is present in them, too. Gehlen went on to
point out that a wide variety of ideas can superimpose themselves by association
upon objects which are familiar to us. The sight of a refrigerator can,
even before we open it, link us with the idea of the coolness prevailing
inside and of the interior arrangement, with our knowledge of the door's
mobility, and so on. As Gehlen very graphically put it, the objects familiar
to us are surrounded by a whole "court" of expectations, alternatives,
memories, and allusions. We "see" more in them than optical perception
actually conveys, and this, too, Gehlen regarded as a product of the imaginative
faculty. Because similar associations exist in animals, he considered that
this act of imagination was present in them, too. The young human being
clearly displays an ability to project a wide variety of meanings into
its toys. To a girl, a building brick may become a house or a stove; a
boy may see it as a car or a fortress. This is expressive of a still higher
imaginative faculty, yet similar processes can be observed in learners
at play. Although we cannot tell if a cat has a mental image in our sense
when it plays "mice" with a cork, there is a definite analogy. Aristotle
said of ideas that the power of thought constructed them on the basis
(original book page 188)
of inwardly perceived images, but an ability to construct
averbal ideas has been demonstrated in animals, too. Although all these
phenomena are characterized by a conjunction between ideas and something
which is actually perceived, what we experience in our dreams is a world
of imagination which is not at all connected with direct perception. Observations
suggest that animals – dogs, for instance – also undergo dreamlike experiences,
and cerebral stimulation has produced phenomena suggestive of hallucination.
It is highly debatable whether all these phenomena should
be included under the heading of imagination. They are, however, a clear
indication that man's imaginative faculty, far from being totally new,
represents an intensification of a function performed by the central nervous
system in animals as well.
We might do better to restrict the scope of the term
and limit it to that special faculty which is obviously peculiar to man
alone: the ability to combine various ingredients of consciousness at will
in the mind. A sharp dividing line separates this from the performance
of the highest animal learners. As we have already mentioned, experiments
with chimpanzees have shown that they are capable of solving a problem
when the elements of that problem (banana, boxes, stick) are more or less
simultaneously within their field of view. Superimposed on each of these
objects is a certain number of experiences; by weighing them against one
another, the ape's brain eventually arrives at the correct correlation.
A causal nexus is discovered. Should the elements of the problem be spatially
or temporally farther apart, no solution will be forthcoming. The human
brain has evidently acquired a new and improved functional unit which permits
a far wider if not unlimited correlation o£ experiential values.
Our special faculty, which we call intelligence, may thus be largely derived
from that other faculty which we call imagination.
Our innate instincts supply our imagination with an important
source of motive power. No action ensues if one member of our parliament
of instincts "speaks," but optative images flash across the screen of our
imagination. If we feel hungry, they are images of food; if we are sexually
aroused, sexual
(original book page 189)
images; if we are aggressively inclined, images against
which we can mentally direct our aggression. Moreover, imagination promptly
and spontaneously devises more or less concrete plans for the satisfaction
of the instincts in question. The central government – our real ego –
expresses its views on the matter, rejects or approves,
switches off the optative picture or leaves it running, imposes other ideas,
or harnesses its own will to the attainment of the instinctive goal. Dialogues
between reason and instinct are familiar to all of us from experience and
have often been portrayed in literature. The battle here is for possession
of our internal projection screen. The images that appear on it excite
us and react upon our instincts. If we give free rein to sexual optative
images, the result will be an accentuation of our sexual proclivity. If
we give free rein to fear images, our fear is intensified. A significant
reciprocal action results. Our instincts kindle our imagination, and our
imagination reacts upon our instincts. Exactly the same applies to acquired
instincts, or habits. If they prompt us to act in a certain way (e.g.,
drink alcohol), this is associated with corresponding optative images.
If we abandon ourselves to these, they reinforce our urge. However, we
can also play off one instinct against another. If hunger announces itself
and we concentrate our imagination upon sexual or aggressive images, hunger
may lapse into oblivion for a while. The central government, our true ego,
is thus capable of a measure of control. We can, within certain limits,
forbid ourselves to imagine something and thereby – again, within certain
limits – inhibit the emotions associated with it. If an instinct or acquired
urge becomes too strong, however, its images will flash repeatedly across
our inner screen in defiance of our wishes. As often as we switch them
off, they reappear. If our fear mounts, we are powerless against images
that terrify us. If our anger mounts, we are tormented by ever more persistent
images productive of anger. The same applies to hunger, insomnia, the urge
to impress, habits – to the whole range of innate or acquired urges. So
that while we can influence and manipulate instincts by means of our imagination,
we can do so only to a certain degree.
It was in conjunction with our imagination, too, that
the human urge to play and explore attained such preeminent im-
(original book page 190)
portance. This impulse not only causes us to explore our environment and try out new movements; above all, it prompts us to indulge in the mental game of correlating ingredients of consciousness and exploring one avenue of the imagination after another. Man conquered the world less by his actions than by the interplay of his thoughts and ideas. This game – the game of the visionary and dreamer – is extraordinarily cheap in terms of energy. It costs us not a thousandth part of the effort needed to put the appropriate action into effect. Our mental games help us to prepare ourselves for the most diverse forms of behavior – in other words, to construct imaginative coordinations. To the best of my knowledge, nobody has yet drawn attention to the significant parallels between these structures, which we call plans, and our innate and acquired behavioral formulas. Each hereditary coordination is, as we have seen, linked with a corresponding appetency. Exactly the same is true of behavior patterns instilled by habit, or acquired coordinations. An inability to perform them not only arouses feelings of displeasure and restlessness but inspires us with an active desire to put them into effect just the same. Very much the same applies to the behavior patterns which we construct in our imagination. Once formed, a plan assumes a sort of independent existence. It declares its presence and demands to be put into effect. Success engenders a sense of satisfaction, failure an unpleasant sense of disappointment. Our illusions and ideals are no different in that respect. They are behavioral ideas which we project into the world and which prompt us to go in quest of them; failure to attain them leaves us troubled and disappointed. This relationship may well be of greater importance than first appearances would suggest because it demonstrates a functional affinity between three circuit patterns which come into being in quite different ways. Whether behavior control was built up by a hereditary formula, whether it was created by the process of learning and practice, or whether it originated through the pure exercise of our imagination, the phenomenon of spontaneous excitation occurs in every case, and appetencies declare themselves whose fulfillment or nonfulfillment gives rise to a corresponding sense of pleasure or displeasure.
(original book page 191)
Another link between imagination and instinct is found
in our ability to work off unfulfilled instincts in our imagination. This
applies particularly to our aggressive drive and our urge to impress. Whether
we are spontaneously disposed to be aggressive or have been aggravated,
whether we have only been frustrated in our urge to impress or have been
actually humiliated, we can – in our imagination-wallow in revenge, annihilate
our enemies, assume a commanding pose. It is these instinctive desires
which are so often hard to satisfy within society. Those without power
cannot pay their oppressors back in kind; the ugly or incompetent cannot
hope to impress their fellowmen. Here, man's imagination becomes a substitute
for that which reality forbids. It is possible, within limits, to divert
pent-up excitation along this channel. Imagination enables the serf to
be king, the sexually frustrated to play Casanova, the timid to display
courage, the rabid to wreak universal destruction. Here lies the key to
the special significance of literature. It not only imparts information
but enables man to satisfy his instincts through the medium of imagination.
How to write well – the author's prime concern – is in
direct line of descent from the prime concern of the storyteller, which
was how to narrate well. Successful examples of narrative technique from
every age convey what really matters in this art form from the scientific
point of view. The aim, obviously, is to activate the various instinctive
emotions of the listener – or reader – in such a way as to produce an agreeable
alternation of tension and relief. The narrator conducts people – in their
imagination – through a world of experience. Speech or writing must be
tailored so that the transmission of the narrative content from one brain
to another takes place as smoothly and uninterruptedly as possible. The
plot must not unfold faster than we can follow it, nor must its pace be
so slow that boredom sets in. It must take account of the multiplicity
of our instinctive desires; hence, it must not be directed exclusively
at only one specific instinct. It must toy with instincts, activate. them
in turn and set them off against one another. It must arouse tension born
of fear, and then – at the proper moment – release it. It must provoke
outrage and then allay it. We must feel love, see it threatened, and then
watch the storm clouds roll
(original book page 192)
away. The heroes in whose fate we become ensnared by imagination
must experience what we wish and fear for ourselves. However the story
ends, whether happily or tragically, it must hold our attention. In it,
we see ourselves; in it, our emotions are manipulated, allowed to build
up excitement and, ultimately, vent it. This is not to say that great writers
practice such a form of manipulation consciously and calculatingly; all
that is certain is that they practice it. In ethological terms, the narrator
who wishes to activate our imagination successfully must offer us "supernormal
series of stimuli."
We may infer how our imagination and instincts work from
the way in which it is easier to stimulate our imagination. The narrator
plays on them as if they were an instrument, and his method tells us a
great deal about the constitution of these hidden structures, reveals how
they react, how they flag, what stimulates them, and how various pleasurable
sensations are brought about. In all these matters, scientific exploration
of ourselves can derive clues from the rich experiences of art.
In the theater and the cinema, narrative is reinforced
by direct sensory impressions. Here, the action is presented with an intensified
realism which restricts the personal imagination in some ways but stimulates
it in others. The action is compressed into a specific time span – whence
there emerges another set of rules governing construction. These are the
concern of dramaturgy, another field which has yet to be considered from
the biological aspect. Additional factors are involved, notably the actor's
ability to transmit mood. By expressions, gestures, and words, he conveys
immediate reactions – a process which actually amounts to the offering
of supernormal dummies. The actor's art consists in manipulating innate
and acquired reactions as efficiently as possible. Because a play affects
us partly through direct perception and not just through the imagination,
the factors involved are more complex and the number of possibilities even
greater.
Painting and sculpture – viewed, once again, from the
scientific point of view – follow quite a different route. They appeal
directly to our innate and acquired recognition mechanisms. Isolated impressions
and the reactions they elicit from us are the factor involved here. One
particular area of our
(original book page 193)
nervous functions is plumbed to its depths. Perhaps today's
most consistent explorer of this domain is Picasso. By incorporating a
succession of new elements in his representational technique, weighing
and playing them off against one another, he has explored the abysses of
our subconscious. In this art form, a special element occupies the foreground:
acquired modes of recognition and evaluation, or, in other words, our taste.
This plays a role in literature, the theater, and the cinema, too, but
only a subordinate one because the center of the stage is occupied by human
life and passions. Outward form may also adapt itself to contemporary taste,
but the phenomena which excite us are ultimately the same. It is different
with painting and sculpture, where acquired taste may be the decisive factor.
To the painter or sculptor the fundamental criterion of his work is his
own reaction to it. Nevertheless, his personal taste may be so remote from
that of others that his work elicits false reactions from them or none
at all. It can happen, therefore, that an artist ultimately does no more
than satisfy the reactions of his own central nervous system, or that a
limited circle develops a sensitivity geared to special criteria which
mean nothing to the rest of their contemporaries. In this case, too, the
artist provides supernormal stimulus situations for the release of ideas
and sensations, but their effect depends predominantly on acquired forms
of recognition and is thus confined to people whose brains have developed
suitable receptive structures.
This also applies to music, probably the art which acts
most directly upon our emotions. Certain basic elements in the juxtaposition
of sounds may arouse similar emotions in all people (solemn, tragic, cheerful),
but reactions once again depend largely upon acquired recognition mechanisms.
The Westerner, for example, derives little or no aesthetic pleasure from
classical Japanese music. Upbringing and, possibly, imprinting play an
important part in this. The various plastic and graphic arts appeal to
the purely spatial components of our aesthetic judgment; music appeals
to the purely temporal. Immediate effects are focal to both forms of art,
but both forms can operate indirectly through our imagination. We can also
allow all kinds of works of art to work on us through imagination, just
as the artist does when creating them. Our imaginative projection
(original book page 194)
screen is aural as well as visual and embraces all forms
of sensory perception.
We have hitherto confined our examination to one aspect
of art, namely, its effect on other people and the problem of what makes
it effective. The essence of art – its true ability – lies elsewhere. Comparisons
are often and with justification drawn between the artist and the scientist
on the grounds that each seeks knowledge and truth in his own way. The
scientist looks for objective and measurable relationships. The artist
pursues a subjective quest for knowledge and truth. He strives to crystallize
what is peculiar to his own experience of life and condense plurality into
a comprehensible structure, whether narrative, pictorial, or musical. There
is, however, a close relationship between the human forming of ideas and
the special activity of the artist. The forming of ideas, on which all
man's thinking is based, depends upon the perception of common and typical
features in similar phenomena – undoubtedly a feat of imagination because
the common element is always something imagined and situated ultimately
in ourselves. We associate our conception of what is common with a verbal
symbol – for instance, we refer to everything that grows a trunk, branches,
and leaves as a tree. As Gehlen emphasized, this inner connection between
a conceptual structure and a certain series of sounds (spoken and heard)
is a peculiar feat of the imagination, and one which animals achieve only
in exceptional cases. The artist does something basically similar, except
on a higher plane. He endeavors to crystallize the totality of an experience
in symbolic terms; hence, his work of art is as much a symbol of this greater
totality as a word is that of a (usually simpler) concept. Whether in the
form of a narrative, spatial image, or temporal sound pattern, the artist's
symbol is always subjective, being the product of his abstractive act of
condensing plurality into an ordered unity. In this capacity –
the essence of art – a "better" and a "worse" can be
distinguished. The truly great artist, who can grasp the special features
of his subject, must possess a second, synthetic, capacity for transmitting
this impression to the brains of others and conveying his newly formed
concept to them as well. It may one day be demonstrated that man has an
innate urge to form concepts. Indeed, considering
(original book page 195)
the exceptional importance which this process has for
us, it would not be surprising. If this were true, however, one might advance
the theory that an artist is characterized by a particularly strong set
of impulses in this direction. His hypertrophic striving to form concepts
would thus manifest itself in an urge to form concepts of a higher order,
concepts which he condenses into symbols and strives to introduce into
the consciousness of others.
The genesis of primitive religions may also be traced
to similar processes. As soon as man acquired the ability to combine elements
of experience in his head, as soon as he was able, mentally, to survey
causes and effects which did not lie within his immediate range of perception,
as soon as he summarized the physical world in terms of concepts and labeled
them with word symbols, he left the uncomplicated paradise, "ate of the
Tree of Knowledge," and encountered a variety of frightening and worrying
problems which taxed his imagination. Phenomena such as thunder and lightning
demanded explanation. The ideas of supernatural forces, spirits, and gods
may be necessary consequences of the burgeoning of causal thought, a process
whereby imagination converts the inexplicable into a comprehensible something
in just the same way as it extracts the common elements from perceived
phenomena. Once formed, however, such ideas constituted an ideal dreamworld
to which everything could be related. Anything that troubled man or was
incomprehensible to him could be ascribed to the workings of these self-created
products of his imagination. And by being handed down by word of mouth
from one generation to the next, they acquired an almost unshakable reality.
Thus, invisible properties superimposed themselves upon
numerous objects or occurrences, rendering them sacred, taboo, or execrable.
The appeasement and influencing of gods by sacrifice and ceremonial was
a natural consequence of the belief in their existence. These ideas presented
leaders of human communities with a welcome opportunity to link the rules
of community life with some higher authority. Existing or projected systems
of government could thus be given a stronger and more stable foundation
in this way. Morality and law were more easily anchored to figments of
the imagination than to
(original book page 196)
any more real authority, because fear of the unknown always
exceeded fear of the familiar. Men of artistic bent were necessarily encouraged
to develop these ideas still further. The impulse to submit found an optimal
stimulus situation in which to fulfill itself through self-abasement. Man
thus created – like a work of art of a very special kind – a world of the
imagination which reacted upon, guided, and fulfilled him. It became the
invisible backbone of individual civilizations, a criterion of action,
a bond which strengthened the community – in short, an institution of high
selective value. Viewing things in this light, we can understand how such
ideas first originated in every center of human development. This is not
to say that every religion represents an imaginary structure of this kind.
From the scientific aspect, not a single religious idea is capable of refutation.
This applies even to the most primitive religions, even those that have
become extinct. All that we are concerned to show here is how the phenomenon
of our imagination, in conjunction with our capacity for causal thought,
positively demanded the forming of supersensual ideas. This furnishes a
plausible explanation of how these ideas took shape in such large numbers
and with such regularity, and why – once in existence they were so stubbornly
retained.
And with that we come to the opposite side of the coin.
Imagination is not only a human asset, not only the basis of discovery
and progress, not only a means of satisfying our unfulfilled urges and
providing ourselves with "mental" sensations of pleasure, but something
which debilitates and threatens mankind. It is, in a sense, our most vulnerable
spot. When Kant said that imagination was our good or evil genius, he meant
that it could – given a particular set of values – lead us into good or
evil ways. What interests us here, however, is another of imagination's
negative effects – and this brings us back to the question of whether we
are at all capable of wanting what we want.
Because our imagination can be so easily manipulated
by ourselves and others, it becomes the natural means whereby other people's
influence gains access to us. Speech and writing especially help to project
ideas on our internal screen which activate our innate or acquired emotions
willy-nilly. The ego
(original book page 197)
that rules us can resist these ideas, but when they are
presented in a way which disguises their dangers, we may be involuntarily
swayed by them. The invariable procedure is that emotions and reactions
are aroused in us by the kindling of our imagination. Advertising and propaganda
are especially purposeful examples of this. Science itself is enlisted
in order to dislodge our ego from its prepared defenses and manipulate
our reactions so as to inject us with another's will. This is the subtlest
and most sinister form of enslavement. As a means of transforming us without
our knowledge – into artificial organs controlled by an outside agency,
it is the most dangerous of all.
The greatest threat to which man's imagination indirectly
exposes him lies in demagogy and the deliberate fanning of national sentiment.
This process precedes the outbreak of every war and may one day result
in our self-annihilation.
Once again, we are dealing with an activation of instincts
which link us closely with our animal past. The first and most important
of these is the social aggression which welds gregarious creatures into
a fighting unit. This expresses itself in the social defensive reaction,
a phenomenon exhaustively studied in rhesus monkeys, baboons, and howling
monkeys. It is stimulated in these creatures by the sight of a strange
group of monkeys of the same species and leads to a battle for the territory
in question. As Lorenz has suggested, the sense of national exaltation
so sacred to human beings, far from being human or sacred, derives from
the analogous instinct which – by spontaneous production of excitation
– leads to self-forming appetitive behavior. The concomitant physiological
symptoms which occur in man are very similar to those in apes, which will
likewise sacrifice their lives for the community. Apes, too, goad one another
by the emission of rhythmical sounds comparable in effect to martial music,
and there are various other parallels as well. We shall probably find it
harder to reassess this precious and much-praised reaction than any other,
because it springs from an instinct which has us at its mercy. We derive
pleasure from yielding to it, and we associate it with our highest and
most ancient ideals. It declares itself in every group, whether it be a
circle of young people, a club, a community of ideas, or a nation. In man,
the social defensive reaction can – like all in-
(original book page 198)
stinctive behavior – be activated through the imagination.
Accounts of the enemy's evil may be exaggerated to any desired degree because
our capacity for rational thought is not equal to the idea of atrocities
and maltreatment. As an additional aid, our natural fears may be played
upon. We are told that we must fight because we cannot do otherwise; if
not, our goods and chattels will be seized, our wives raped, our children
maltreated, our lives forfeited. In other words, we must destroy in order
to avoid destruction. Two more instincts are also enlisted as aids: greed
and the sexual urge. The enemy's property and womenfolk are open to conquest.
If the rational ego remains unaffected in such circumstances, it is a positive
miracle. Afterward, the community demands to know how it all came about.
The demagogue is execrated but not his principal tool: the imagination
of his dupes.
Is there a way out, or will mankind continue to tread
the same path?
If man desires freedom, some freedoms will have to be
curtailed. The dangers that confront us are simply becoming too great,
and no amount of education and enlightenment will substantially change
this fact. Sporting contests, theatrical performances, and similar diversions
provide man with certain opportunities to work off his aggressive tendencies,
but this is not enough. We also need protection from certain forms of influence.
Imagination is at once our great strength and our great
weakness. It resembles the fire which Prometheus stole from the gods, and
for which he was chained to the rocks. It is, perhaps, the most singular
of our possessions – the most human element in humanity. As a faculty,
however, it also resembles the leaf which dropped on to Siegfried's shoulder
and rendered him vulnerable in that one spot. Imagination makes man exceptionally
vulnerable. He will always remain so.