Chapter XIX: Imagination (2)

Autistic thinking, indulged in by every imaginative person in moments of relaxation, is carried to an absurd extreme by some types of insane individuals. One type withdraws so completely from reality as to be inaccessible in the way of conversation, unresponsive to anything that happens, entirely immersed in inner imaginings. Others, while living in the world about them, transform it into a make-believe {509} world by attaching meanings to things and persons as suits themselves. This institution, in which the subject is confined, is his royal palace, the doctors are his officials, the nurses his wives, "thousands of them, the most beautiful women in creation". Or the delusion may take the line of the "suffering hero", the subject imagining himself a great man shut up in this place by the machinations of his enemies; the doctors are spies and enemy agents, and the nurses also act suspiciously; his food is poisoned, and he is kept in a weak and helpless condition, all out of fear of him. It is impossible to argue the patient out of his delusions by pointing out to him how clearly they conflict with reality; he evades any such test by some counter-argument, no matter how flimsy, and sticks to his dream or make-believe.

Autistic thinking is contrasted with realistic thinking, which seeks to check up with real facts; it may be contrasted also with socialized thinking, which submits to the criticism of other people; and it may even be contrasted with self-criticized thinking, in which the individual scrutinizes what he has imagined, to see whether it is on the whole satisfactory to himself, or whether it simply gratified a single or momentary impulse that should be balanced off by other tendencies.

Invention and Criticism

"Criticism"--the word has been used repeatedly, and it is time it gave an account of itself. Criticism evidently demands balancing off one desire by another. One tendency gets criticized by running afoul of another tendency, one idea by conflicting with another idea. We concoct a fine joke to play on our friend; but then the thought comes to us that he may not take it kindly; we don't want to break with our friend, and so we regretfully throw our promising invention on the scrap heap. That is self-criticism, the {510} balancing off of one impulse by another. Self-criticism is obnoxious to the natural man, who prefers to follow out any tendency that has been aroused till it reaches its goal; but he learns self-criticism in the hard school of experience. For plenty of criticism is directed upon the individual from without.

Criticism is directed upon him by the facts of the real world, so soon as he tries to act out what he has imagined. Often his invention will not work, his plan does not succeed, and he is involved in chagrin and even pain. He must perforce cast away his plan and think up a new one. At this point the "weak brother" is tempted to give up trying, and take refuge in autistic thinking, but the stronger individual accepts the challenge of reality. He sees that an invention is not satisfactory unless it will really work, and sets about learning what will work and what not, so accumulating observations that later enable him to criticize his own ideas, to some extent, before trying them out on real things.

Criticism is directed upon the individual from the side of other people, who from the day he first begins to tell his childish imaginings, are quite free with their objections. Humiliated by this critical reception of his ideas, the individual may resolve to keep them to himself for the future, and draw away, again, towards autistic thinking; or, more forcefully, he may exert himself to find some idea that will command the approval of other people. If he can take rebuffs goodnaturedly, he soon finds that social criticism can be a great help, that two heads are better than one in planning any invention that needs to work. He accumulates knowledge of what will pass muster when presented to other people, and thus again learns self-criticism.

Self-criticism is helped by such rules as to "think twice", to "sleep on it before deciding", to "drop the matter for a time and come back to it and see whether it still looks {511} the same". When you are all warmed up over an idea, its recency value gives it such an advantage over opposing ideas that they have no chance, for the moment, of making themselves felt in the line of criticism.

I once heard the great psychologist, and great writer, William James, make a remark that threw some light on his mode of writing. In the evening, he said, after warming up to his subject, he would write on and on till he had exhausted the lead he was following, and lay the paper aside with the feeling, "Good! Good! That's good". The next morning, he said, it might not seem good at all. This calls to mind the old advice to writers about its being "better to compose with fury and correct with phlegm than to compose with phlegm and correct with fury". The phlegmatic critical attitude interferes considerably with the enthusiastic inventive activity. Give invention free rein for the time being, and come around with criticism later.

Some over-cautious and too self-critical persons, though rather fertile in ideas, never accomplish much in the way of invention because they cannot let themselves go. Criticism is always at their elbow, suggesting doubts and alternatives and preventing progress in the creative activity, instead of biding its time and coming in to inspect the completed result. For a similar reason, much of the best inventive work--writing, for example, or painting--is done in prolonged periods of intense activity, which allow time for invention to get warmed to its task, when it takes the bit in its teeth and dashes off at a furious speed, leaving criticism to trail along behind.

Invention in the service of art or of economic and social needs is controlled imagination, realistic, socialized, subjected to criticism. It cannot afford to be autistic, but must meet objective or social standards. Mechanical inventions must work when translated into matter-of-fact wood and iron, and {512} must also pass the social test of being of some use. Social inventions of the order of institutions, laws, political platforms and slogans, plans of campaign, must "work" in the sense of bringing the desired response from the public. Social imagination of the very important sort suggested by the proverbs, "Seeing ourselves as others see us", or "Putting ourselves in the other fellow's place"--for it is only by imagination that we can thus get outside of our own experience and assume another point of view--must check up with the real sentiments of other people.

The Enjoyment of Imaginative Art

It requires imagination to enjoy art as well as to produce it. The producer of the work of art puts the stimuli before you, but you must make the response yourself, and it is an inventive response, not a mere repetition of some response you have often made. The novelist describes a character for you, and you must respond by putting together the items in the description so as to conceive of a character you have never met. The painter groups his figures before you, but you must get the point of the picture for yourself. The musical composer provides a series of chords, but you must get the "hang" of the passage for yourself, and if he has introduced a novel effect, it may not be easy to find any beauty in it, at least on the first hearing.

Art, from the consumer's side, is play. It is play of the imagination, with the materials conveniently presented by the artist. Now, as art is intended to appeal to a consumer (or enjoyer), the question as to sources of satisfaction in the enjoyment of art is fundamental in the whole psychology of art, production as well as consumption.

We have the same questions to ask regarding the enjoyment of a _novel_ as regarding a daydream. Novel-reading is daydreaming with the materials provided by the {513} author, and gratifies the same motives. A novel to be really popular must have a genuine hero or heroine--some one with whom the reader can identify himself. The frequency of novels in which the hero or heroine is a person of high rank, or wins rank or wealth in the course of the story, is a sign of appeal to the mastery motive. The humble reader is tickled in his own self-esteem by identifying himself for the time with the highborn or noble or beautiful character in the story. The escape motive also is relied upon to furnish the excitement of the story, which always brings the hero into danger or difficulty and finally rescues him, much to the reader's relief. Love stories appeal, of course, to the sex impulse, humorous stories to laughter, and mystery stories to curiosity. Cynical stories, showing the "pillars of society" in an ignoble light, appeal to the self-assertive impulse of the reader, in that he is led to apply their teaching to pretentious people whom he knows about, and set them down a peg, to his own relative advancement. But here again we have to insist, as under the head of sports and daydreams, that interests of a more objective kind are also gratified by a good work of fiction. A story that runs its logical course to a tragic end is interesting as a good piece of workmanship, and as an insight into the world. We cannot heartily identify ourselves with Hamlet or Othello, yet we should be sorry to have those figures erased from our memories; they mean something, they epitomize world-facts that compel our attention.

The appeal of art is partly emotional.

A very great work of art, the Apollo Belvedere or the Sistine Madonna, when you suddenly come upon it in walking through a gallery, may move you almost or quite to tears. Beautiful music, and not necessarily sad music either, has the same effect. Why this particular emotion should be aroused is certainly an enigma. "Crying because you are so happy" is similar {514} but itself rather inexplicable. In many other cases, the emotional appeal of art is easily analyzed. The pathetic appeals straightforwardly to the grief impulse, the humorous to the laughter impulse, the tragic to fear and escape. The sex motive is frequently utilized in painting and sculpture as well as in literature.

Art makes also an intellectual appeal.

It is satisfying partly because of this appeal, as is clear when we remember that many great works of art require mental effort in order to grasp and appreciate them. You must be wide-awake to follow a play of Shakespeare; you must puzzle out the meaning of a group painting before fully enjoying it; you must study some of the detail of a Gothic cathedral before getting the full effect; music may be too "classical" for many to grasp and follow. Unless, then, the artist has made a great mistake, the mental activity which he demands from his public must contribute to the satisfaction they derive from his works. If his appeal were simply to their emotions, any intellectual labor would be a disturbing element. The intellectual appeal is partly to objective interests in the thing presented, partly to interest in the workmanship, and partly to the mastery motive in the form of problem solution.

Perhaps we do not often think of a fine painting or piece of music as a problem set us for solution, but it is that, and owes part of its appeal to its being a problem. To "get the hang of" a work of art requires some effort and attention; if the problem presented is too difficult for us, the work of art is dry; if too easy, it is tame.

The mastery motive is probably as important in the enjoyment of art as it is in play and dreaming. It comes in once in the joy of mastering the significance of the work of art, and again in self-identification with the fine characters portrayed.

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Empathy in art enjoyment.

At first thought, some forms of art, as architecture, seem incapable of making the just-mentioned double appeal to the mastery motive. Architecture can certainly present problems for the beholder to solve, but how can the beholder possibly identify himself with a tower or arch? If, however, we remember the "empathy" that we spoke of under the head of play, we see that the beholder may project himself into the object, unintentionally of course, and thus perhaps get satisfaction of his mastery impulse.

Look at a pillar, for example. If the pillar is too massive for the load supported, it gives you the unsatisfactory impression of doing something absurdly small for your powers. If on the contrary the pillar is too slender for the load that seems to rest upon it, you get the feeling of strain and insecurity; but if it is rightly proportioned, you get the feeling of a worthy task successfully accomplished. The pillar, according to empathy, pleases you by arousing and gratifying your mastery impulse; and many other architectural effects can be interpreted in the same way.

Empathy can perhaps explain the appeal of the _big_ in art and nature. In spite of the warnings put forth against thinking of mere bigness as great or fine, we must admit that size makes a very strong appeal to something in human nature. The most perfect miniature model of a cathedral, however interesting and attractive as it rests on the table before you, fails to make anything like the impression that is made by the giant building towering above you. Big trees, lofty cliffs, grand canyons, tremendous waterfalls, huge banks of clouds, the illimitable expanse of the sea, demonstrate cogently the strong appeal of the big. Perhaps the big is not necessarily grand, but the grand or sublime must be big or somehow suggest bigness. The question is, then, what it is in us that responds to the appeal of the big.

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Perhaps it is the submissive tendency that is aroused. This great mountain, so far outclassing me that I am not tempted in the least to compete with it, affords me the joy of willing submission. The escape motive may come in along with submissiveness--at the first sight of the mountain a thrill of fear passes over me, but I soon realize that the mountain will not hurt me in spite of its awe-inspiring vastness; so that my emotion is blended of the thrill of fear, the relief of escape, and the humble joy of submission. That is one analysis of the esthetic effect of bigness.

Empathy suggests a very different analysis. According to this, projecting myself into the mountain, identifying myself with it, I experience the sensation of how it feels to be a mountain. It feels big--I feel big. My mastery impulse is gratified. To decide between these two opposing interpretations ought to be possible from the behavior or introspection of a person in the presence of some big object. If he feels insignificant and humble and bows reverently before the object, we may conclude that the submissive tendency is in action; but if the sight of the grand object makes him feel strong and fine, if he throws out his chest and a gleam comes into his eye, then everything looks like the mastery motive. Quite possibly, the effect varies with the person and the occasion.

We have to think of art as a great system or collection of inventions that owes its existence to its appeal to human nature, and that has found ways, as its history has progressed, of making its appeal more and more varied. Art is a type in these respects of many social enterprises, such as sport, amusement, and even such serious matters as politics and industry. Each of these is a collection of inventions that persists because it appeals to human impulses, and each one appeals to a variety of different impulses.

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The Psychology of Inventive Production

To the consumer, art is play, but to the producer it is work, in the sense that it is directed towards definite ends and has to stand criticism according as it does or does not reach those ends. What is true of the producer of art works is true also of other inventors, and we may as well consider all sorts of controlled imagination together.

In spite of the element of control that is present in productive invention, the really gifted inventor seems to make play of his work to a large extent. Certainly the inventive genius does not always have his eyes fixed on the financial goal, nor on the appeal which his inventions are to make to the public. It is astonishing to read in the lives of inventors what a lot of comparatively useless contrivances they busied themselves with, apparently from the pure joy of inventing. One prolific writer said that he "never worked in his life, only played". The inventor likes to manipulate his materials, and this playfulness has something to do with his originality, by helping to keep him out of the rut.

That "necessity is the mother of invention" is only half of the truth; it points to the importance of a directive tendency, but fails to show how the inventor manages to leave the beaten path and really invent. Necessity, or some desire, puts a question, without which the inventor would not be likely to find the answer; but he needs a kind of flexibility or playfulness, just because his job is that of seeing things in a new light. We must allow him to toy with his materials a bit, and even to be a bit "temperamental", and not expect him to grind out works of art or other inventions as columns of figures are added.

When inventive geniuses have been requested to indicate their method, they have been able to give only vague hints. How does the musical composer, for example, free himself of {518} all the familiar pieces and bring the notes into a fresh arrangement? All that he can tell about it is usually that he had an "inspiration"; the new air simply came to him. Now, of course the air did not really come to him from outside; he made it, it was his reaction, but it was a quick, free reaction, of which he could observe little introspectively.

Perhaps the best-studied case of invention is that of the learner in typewriting, who, after laboriously perfecting his "letter habits" or responses to single letters by appropriate finger movements on the keyboard, may suddenly find himself writing in a new way, the word no longer being spelled out, but being written as a unit by a coördinated series of finger movements. The amazing thing is that, without trying for anything of the kind, he has been able to break away from his habit of spelling out the word, and shift suddenly to a new manner of writing. He testifies that he did not plan out this change, but was surprised to find himself writing in the new way. He was feeling well that day, hopeful and ambitious, he was striving for greater speed, and, while he was completely absorbed in his writing, this new mode of reaction originated.

We see in this experimentally studied case some of the conditions that favor invention. Good physical condition, freshness, mastery of the subject, striving for some result, and "hopefulness". Now, what is that last? Confidence, enterprise, willingness to "take a chance", eagerness for action and readiness to break away from routine? Some of this independent, manipulating spirit was probably there.

A soldier, so wounded as to paralyze his legs but capable of recovery by training, had advanced far enough to hobble about with a cane and by holding to the walls. One morning, feeling pretty chipper, he took a chance and left the wall, cutting straight across the room; and getting through without a fall, was naturally much encouraged and {519} maintained this advance. This might be called invention; it was breaking away from what had become routine, and that is the essential fact about the inventive reaction. This playful spirit of cutting loose, manipulating, and rearranging things to suit yourself is certainly a condition favorable to invention. It does not guarantee a valuable invention, but it at least helps towards whatever invention the individual's other qualifications make possible.

Another condition favorable to invention is youth. Seldom does a very old person get outside the limits of his previous habits. Few great inventions, artistic or practical, have emanated from really old persons, and comparatively few even from the middle-aged. On the other hand, boys and girls under eighteen seldom produce anything of great value, not having as yet acquired the necessary mastery of the materials with which they have to deal. The period from twenty years up to forty seems to be the most favorable for inventiveness.

Imagination Considered in General

Finally, we must return to the question of definition or general description that was left open near the beginning of the chapter. There seem to be two steps in the inventive response, one preliminary, the other strictly inventive. The preliminary step brings the stimuli to bear, and invention is the response that follows.

Typically, the preliminary stage consists in recall; and association by similarity, bringing together materials from different past experiences, is very important as a preliminary to invention. Facts recalled from different contexts are thus brought together, and invention consists in a response to such novel combinations of facts. The two steps in invention are, first, getting a combination of stimuli, and second, responding to the combination.

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Sometimes it has been said that imagination consists in putting together material from different sources, but this leaves the matter in mid-air; recall can bring together facts from different sources and so afford the stimulus for an imaginative response, but the response goes beyond the mere togetherness of the stimuli. Thinking of a man and also of a horse is not inventing a centaur; there is a big jump from the juxtaposition of the data to the specific arrangement that imagination gives them. The man plus the horse may give no response at all, or may give many other responses besides that of a centaur; for example, a picture of the man and the horse politely bowing to each other. The particular manipulation, or imaginative response, that is made varies widely; sometimes it consists in taking things apart rather than putting them together, as when you imagine how a house would look with the evergreen tree beside it cut down; always it consists in putting the data into new relationships.

Imagination thus presents a close parallel to reasoning, where, also, there are two stages, the preliminary consisting in getting the premises together and the final consisting in perceiving the conclusion. The final response in imagination is in general like that in reasoning; both are _perceptive reactions_; but imagination is freer and more variable. Reasoning is governed by a very precise aim, to see the actual meaning of the combined premises; that is, it is exploratory; while imagination, though it is usually more or less steered either by a definite aim or by some bias in the direction of agreeable results, has after all much more latitude. It is seeking, not a relationship that is there, but one that can be put there.

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EXERCISES

1. Outline the chapter.

2. Make a list of hobbies and amusements that you specially enjoy,
and try to discover the sources of satisfaction in each.

3. Recall two stories that you specially enjoyed, and try to
discover the sources of satisfaction in each.

4. How far does the account of daydreams given in the text square
with your own daydreams, and how far does it seem inadequate?

5. An experiment on the speed of revery or of daydreaming.
Beginning at a recorded time, by your watch, let your mind wander
freely for a few moments, stopping as soon as your stream of
thoughts runs dry. Note the time at the close. Now review your
daydream (or revery), and tally off the several scenes or
happenings that you thought of, so as to count up and see how many
distinct thoughts passed through your mind. How many seconds, on
the average, were occupied by each successive item?

6. Why do dreams seem real at the time?

7. Analysis of a dream. Take some dream that you recall well, and let
your thoughts play about it, and about the separate items of
it--about each object, person, speech, and happening in the
dream--with the object of seeing whether they remind you of
anything personally significant. Push the analysis back to your
childhood, by asking whether anything about the dream symbolizes
your childish experiences or wishes. To be sure, the psychoanalyst
would object that the individual cannot be trusted to make a
complete analysis of his own dream--just as the psychologist would
object to your accepting the recalled experiences and wishes as
necessarily standing in any causal relation to your dream--but, at
any rate, the exercise is interesting.

8. Problems in invention. Solve some of these, and compare the
mental process with that of reasoning.

(a) Devise a game to be played by children and adults together,
to everybody's satisfaction.

(b) Imagine a weird animal, after the analogy of the centaur.

(c) Imagine an interesting incident, bringing in an old man,
a little girl, and a waterfall.

(d) Design the street plan for an ideal small town, built on
both sides of a small river.

9. Show how empathy might make us prefer a symmetrical building to
one that is lop-sided.

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REFERENCES

On the imagination and play of children, see Norsworthy and Whitley's _Psychology of Childhood_, 1918, Chapters IX and XII.

For Freud's views regarding dreams, see his _Interpretation of Dreams_, translated by Brill, 1913.

For a view which, though psychoanalytical, diverges somewhat from that of Freud, see Maurice Nicoll, _Dream Psychology_, 1917; also C. W. Kimmins, _Children's Dreams_, 1920.

For studies of play, see Edward S. Robinson, "The Compensatory Function of Make-Believe Play", in the _Psychological Review_ for 1920, Vol. 27, pp. 429-439; also M. J. Reaney, _The Psychology of the Organized Group Game_, 1916.

On invention, see Josiah Royce, "The Psychology of Invention", in the _Psychological Review_ for 1898, Vol. 5, pp. 113-144; also F. W. Taussig's _Inventors and Money-Makers_, 1915.

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