Psychology Part 56

Taussig's _Inventors and Money-Makers_, 1915.

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CHAPTER XX

WILL

PLANNED ACTION, ACTION IN SPITE OF INTERNAL CONFLICT, AND ACTION AGAINST EXTERNAL OBSTRUCTION

If the psychologist were required to begin his chapter on the will with a clean-cut definition, he would be puzzled what to say. He might refer to the old division of the mind into the "three great faculties"

of intellect, feeling, and will, but would be in duty bound to add at once that this "tripart.i.te division" is now regarded as rather useless, if not misleading. It is misleading if it leads us to a.s.sociate will exclusively with motor action, for we also have voluntary attention and voluntary control in reasoning and inventing, and we have involuntary motor reactions. "Will" seems not to be any special kind of response, but rather to refer to certain relations.h.i.+ps in which a response may stand to other responses--but this is certainly too vague a definition to be of use.

"Will" is not precisely a psychological term, anyway, but is a term of common speech which need not refer to any psychological unit. In common speech it has various and conflicting meanings. "Since you urge me", one may say, "I _will_ do this, though much against my _will_."

Let the dictionary define such words. What psychology should do with them is simply to take them as a mining prospector takes an outcropping of ore: as an indication that it may pay to dig in the neighborhood.

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Voluntary and Involuntary Action

About the first thing we strike when we start digging is the distinction between voluntary and involuntary. A man has committed homicide, and the question in court is whether he did it "with malice aforethought", i.e., with full will and intention, whether he did it in a sudden fit of anger, i.e., impulsively rather than quite voluntarily, or whether it was an accident and so wholly unintentional or involuntary. The court wishes to know, since a man who has committed one sort of homicide is a very different character from one who has committed another sort; different acts can be expected from him in the future and different precautions need to be taken accordingly.

It is a fact, then, that an act may be performed either with or without foreknowledge--a remarkable fact both ways! An intentional act is remarkable from the side of physics or chemistry or botany--which is to say that it is very exceptional in nature at large. On the other hand, a completely involuntary act is rather exceptional in human behavior and perhaps in animal behavior as well, for almost always there is some striving towards an end, some impulse. The simplest reflexes, to be sure, are completely involuntary. The pupillary reaction to light is not done with malice aforethought, cannot be so done. The lid reflex, or wink of the eye, occurs many times in the course of an hour, without foreknowledge, or after-knowledge for that matter, though the same movement can be made voluntarily. Sneezing and coughing are not voluntary in the full sense, but they are distinctly impulsive, they strive towards desired relief. To sneeze voluntarily is to sneeze when you don't want to, and to sneeze involuntarily is to sneeze when you want to--which seems queer, since we usually think of a voluntary act as one done to further our wishes. The solution of this puzzle is, {525} of course, that a voluntary sneeze is desired not because of a direct impulse but to gain some ulterior end, such as to prove we can do it, or for histrionic purposes--in short, for some purpose beyond the immediate satisfaction of an impulse.

Thus we may cla.s.sify acts as wholly involuntary or mechanical, as impulsive, and as distinctly voluntary or purposive. Or, we may arrange acts in a scale from those that have no conscious end, through those aimed directly at an immediate end, up to those done to accomplish an ulterior end which is imagined beforehand. The last cla.s.s of fully voluntary acts belongs under the general head of manipulation, just as imagination does. We _imagine some change_ to be produced in the existing situation and then proceed to put our imagination into effect; and this is a typical voluntary act.

We seldom, however, picture a _complete_ act in imagination before executing it. Even so simple an act as closing the fist cannot be completely pictured beforehand; for if you try to imagine how the closed fist is going to feel and then close it, you will find that you left out of your image many details of the actual kinesthetic sensations. What we imagine and intend is _some_ change in the situation, and we then proceed to execute that change and other changes incidentally.

Besides the simple reflexes, there is another sort of involuntary and mechanical action. Through practice and repet.i.tion, an act may become so habitual as to be done automatically, that is, without being imagined beforehand, and even without conscious impulse. The practised typist responds in this way to the words he is copying. We should notice, however, that this does not mean that the total behavior and state of mind of the typist is mechanical and devoid of impulse. The typist may write the letters {526} mechanically, and if expert may write even words in this way, but all the time he is consciously aiming to copy the pa.s.sage. His attention and impulse have deserted the fully mastered details and attach themselves to the larger units.

In the same way, in signing your name you have no conscious intention or impulse to write each successive letter; but you fully intend to sign your name.

Development of Voluntary Control

The child's actions are at first impulsive but not voluntary in the full sense, since obviously he cannot imagine and intend an act till he has had experience of that act, and he must usually have experienced doing the act himself before he can effectively imagine it. At least, this is true of the simpler movements; compound movements, made up of familiar elements, may be first observed in other persons and then voluntarily imitated. The child's process of acquiring voluntary control over a movement is ill.u.s.trated by the story of how the baby learned to put his hand in his mouth. He first made this movement in the course of "aimless" throwing of his arms about, liked the sensation of the hand in the mouth, tried apparently to get it there again, and in the course of a few days was able to put it there at will. The child's "aimless" movements at the start were probably impulsive, but they were not directed towards any preconceived end. Then, having observed a desirable result of one movement, he worked towards that result by trial and error, till finally he had the necessary movement so closely linked to the thought of the result as to follow directly upon the thought.

Once brought under voluntary control, a movement becomes with further repet.i.tion habitual and mechanical, and no longer voluntary or even impulsive. Thus the voluntary {527} performance of an act intervenes between the native or instinctive doing of it and the later habitual doing of it. Blowing out a match affords another example of this course of events. A child can of course blow out, instinctively, when he has the natural stimulus for strong expiration, but he cannot at will blow at the lighted match. Being prompted and shown, he comes by degrees to be able to blow out the match; during the learning stage he has to try, and the act is voluntary; but with further practice it becomes involuntary, though it may still be executed as part of a larger voluntary act, such as preventing a burning match from setting fire to something on which it has fallen.

A complex act, or series of movements, may be voluntary as a whole, being directed towards some preconceived result, while the single movements that const.i.tute the series are mechanical, their particular results no longer being thought of separately. This is well ill.u.s.trated by the instances of typewriting, speaking, and signing the name, mentioned a moment ago. With practice, the interest in a performance goes more and more to the final result and deserts the elements of the act.

It is during the organization of reactions that they require attention and must be thought of before being executed. Organization goes on and on, a thoroughly organized reaction being later combined with others into a still bigger act. New demands constantly made upon the individual prevent him, however well organized, from ever reaching the condition of a wholly automatic machine. Will, in the sense of action aimed at the accomplishment of foreseen results, stays with him to the end.

Ideomotor Action

Involuntary movement is not always "sensorimotor", which means directly aroused by a sensory stimulus; oftener {528} it is "ideomotor", or directly aroused by an idea or thought. It may be so aroused and still be involuntary. We think of a certain result and our muscles produce this result, though we did not really mean to do this act ourselves. The thought arouses the movement because it has previously been linked with the movement. A thought which has previously served as the stimulus to an act will tend to have this effect again, unless inhibited by some contrary stimulus. There is no need of a definite _consent_ to the act, provided there is nothing present to inhibit it.

Good examples of ideomotor action can be observed among the audience at an athletic contest. You are watching one of your team do the pole vault, for instance, and are so much absorbed in his performance and so desirous for him to succeed that you identify yourself with him to a degree. He is rising to clear the high bar, and the thought of his clearing it, monopolizing your mind and leaving no room for the inhibitory thought that the performer is down there in the field and you up here in the stand, causes you to make an incipient leg movement as if you yourself were vaulting.

Voluntary action, in the fullest sense, occurs when you realize the situation and are definitely conscious of yourself, that is to say, when you differentiate yourself clearly out of the total situation, and not only imagine some change to be made, but think of that change as to be produced _by you_, without at the same time having any contrary thought to inhibit actual execution.

Conflict and Decision

It appears that in our "digging" we have now struck another vein, for here we have the fact of one tendency running contrary to another and inhibiting it. Conflict of desires and the consequent necessity of _choosing_ between {529} them, is thus brought vividly to our attention. Every one would at once agree that "will" and "choice"

belong closely together. The most distinctly voluntary acts occur when two alternatives are thought of, and one of them is chosen.

Organized as we are by nature, that is to say, on a large scale, but incompletely--environed as we are, with mult.i.tudinous stimuli constantly playing on us and arousing contrary tendencies--we cannot hope to escape conflict of motives and the necessity of making decisions. Every decision made, every conflict resolved, is a step in the further organization of the individual. It may be a step in a good direction, or in a bad direction, but it is a step in organizing the individual's reaction-tendencies into what we call his _character_--the more or less organized sum total of his native and acquired tendencies to reaction, with emphasis on those reactions that affect his life and social relations in a broad way.

The lowest animals, having few reaction tendencies, and being responsive to only a narrow environment, show little sign of internal conflict, and when it does occur it is resolved very simply by the advantage going to one of the opposing tendencies, with perhaps a s.h.i.+ft later to the other, in the way described in our earlier consideration of attention. [Footnote: See p. 251.] This type of decision is fundamental. In the behavior of higher animals, we sometimes detect signs of a longer-persisting conflict, as between curiosity and fear, when a wild creature seems poised between his inclination to approach and examine a strange object and his inclination to run away, veering now towards the one and now towards the other alternative, and unable, as it seems, to reach a decision.

Conflict between the enterprising tendency to explore, manipulate or somehow launch forth into the new, and the negative tendencies of fear, inertia, shyness, etc., is {530} something that recurs again and again in human experience, as ill.u.s.trated by making up your mind to get up in the morning, or to plunge into the cold water, or to speak up and have your say in a general conversation. There is a _hesitancy_ in such cases, due to a positive and a negative tendency. The conflict may be resolved in favor of the negative tendency by simple prolongation of the hesitation till the occasion for action has pa.s.sed, or it may be resolved in favor of the positive tendency when this is strong enough for an instant to enable the individual to commit himself to the enterprise, after which he usually stays committed. The positive motive must for an instant be stronger than the negative, in order to get action.

A somewhat different type of conflict, which may be called _vacillation_, occurs when two positive tendencies are aroused that are inconsistent with each other, so that gratification of the one entails renunciation of the other. Old Buridan's celebrated problem of the a.s.s, placed equally distant from two equally attractive bundles of hay, and whether he would starve to death from the exact balance of the two opposing tendencies, is a sort of parable to fit this case.

Probably the poor a.s.s did not starve--unless he richly deserved his name--but he may conceivably have ended the very uncomfortable state of vacillation by running away altogether, as a human being, who is really more subject to vacillation than any other creature, is sometimes so much disturbed at having to decide between two invitations for the same day as to decline both, and go fis.h.i.+ng.

Vacillation is certainly a very unpleasant state of mind. We want action, or else we want peace, but vacillation gives us neither. In spite of its irksomeness, we seem sometimes almost powerless to end it, because as soon as we have about decided on the one alternative, what we shall miss by not choosing the other comes vividly to mind, and swings the pendulum its way.

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However it comes about that a decision is reached, it usually is reached, and the curious fact then is that it usually sticks. A student may vacillate long between the apparently equal attractions of two colleges, but when he finally decides on one, the advantages of the other lose their hold on him. Now he is all for one and not at all for the other. Having identified himself with one college, he has completely altered the balance of attractions, his self-a.s.sertion now going wholly on the side of the chosen college, and even leading him to pick flaws in the other as if to reinforce his decision. In other words, he "rationalizes", justifies, and fortifies his decision, once he has reached it. Some people, indeed, are abnormally subject to vacillation and seem never to accept their own decisions as final, but normally there are strong influences tending to maintain a decision, once it is made: the unpleasantness of the state of vacillation and relief at having escaped from it; the satisfaction of having a definite course of action; and self-a.s.sertion, because we have decided, and now this course of action is _ours_. During vacillation, neither of the alternatives was identified with ourselves, but now we have decided and are not going to be so weak as to change. X is our college now and anything you say against it you say against us. Thus the person who has decided defends himself energetically against reopening the question.

The state of indecision and the state of decision seem thus fairly well understood, but the process of pa.s.sing from the one to the other is often obscure. It differs from one case to another. In one case we find the rational process of deliberation, in which each alternative is weighed and the decision awarded to the one that promises best.

This is essentially a work of imagination: you imagine that you have adopted the one alternative, and see how it suits you, then you do the same with the other alternative. You think each {532} alternative through to see how satisfactory it will be, balance one against the other, and choose accordingly. This is ideal, but often impracticable, since we have not the time for full deliberation, or since we cannot trust imagination to give us a correct picture, or since we have no common measure by aid of which to balance off different sorts of satisfaction. Even when practicable, the deliberate way of reaching a decision is likely to seem irksome, because of the delay involved and the natural propensity for impulsive action. Perhaps the most common process is a sort of partial deliberation, the two alternatives appealing to us by turns till at some moment one makes a strong enough appeal to secure action.

Sometimes there is a deadlock, and then we either give up deciding for the moment, and, sleeping over the matter, find when we next take it up that one alternative has lost its momentary attractiveness and the other has the field; or else, feeling the irksomeness and humiliation, almost, of being unable to make up our mind, we say, "Any decision is better than none; here goes, then; _this_ is what I will do", so breaking the deadlock by what seems like an arbitrary toss-up.

At other times, without such a distinct "act of will", and without any observable change in the attractiveness of either alternative, we simply find, after awhile, that a decision has emerged, and that we now know what we are going to do. What has happened in us to bring about the decision we cannot see, but here we are with a decision made and perhaps with the act already performed. The two alternatives remain theoretically equal, but one has somehow got hold of us, while the other has lapsed.

Then there is the case where we "see the better, but follow the worse", or are in great danger of so doing. The "worse" is usually something that appeals to the {533} "old Adam" in us, something that strongly arouses a primitive instinctive response; while the "better"

is a n.o.bler, more dutiful, or more prudent course. The lower motive being the stronger, how can it ever be that the higher motive gets the decision? Well, the fight is not just a contest between these two.

Other motives are drawn into the fray, the whole man is drawn in, and it is a question which side is the stronger. Fear of ridicule or criticism, sense of duty, self-respect, ambition, ideals of oneself, concern for the welfare of another person, loyalty to a social group, may be ranged on the side of the "weaker" motive and give it the advantage over the stronger.

_What becomes of the rejected motives?_ If unimportant and s superficial, they simply lapse into an inactive state and are gradually forgotten, perhaps recurring to mind once in a while with a faint tinge of regret, since after all we should have liked to gratify them.

"As a boy, I wanted to be a sailor; well, I would rather like to try it for once." When a motive is deeply rooted in our nature, it cannot be so easily eliminated. Sometimes it is simply _deferred_ and remains dormant, content to bide its time; "there will be time enough for that later on". Sometimes it is _disguised_ and then gratified, as when an apparently courteous deed contains an element of spite. Sometimes it is afforded a _subst.i.tute gratification_, as when the boastful boy, after having his "conceit taken out of him" by his mates, boasts of his school, profession, town or country. This is often called "sublimation". Sometimes, though denied, it remains insistent, and "_defense mechanisms_" have to be devised to keep it down; the "sour grapes" mechanism is an example, which may be used not only when the "grapes" are physically out of reach but also when for any reason we decide to leave them alone.

The psychoa.n.a.lytic school lays great stress on {534} "suppressed"

desires, holding that they become _unconscious while still remaining active_, and that they find gratification symbolically in dreams, and at times break into waking life in a disturbing way.

The most adequate way of handling rejected motives is to _coordinate_ them with other, accepted motives--to harness them into teams and put them to work. This cannot always be done; for example, if a young woman has two attractive suitors, she might find difficulty in harnessing them together, and will have to say good-by to one, at least. But when the boastful boy becomes a loyal and enthusiastic member of a school, his self-a.s.sertive motive is harnessed up with social motives into a very effective team. Probably a tendency can only be "sublimated" by being thus combined and coordinated with other strong tendencies.

These various ways of handling a rejected motive could be nicely ill.u.s.trated from the case of the s.e.x instinct. It so happens, partly because modern economic and educational conditions enforce a delay in marriage--and in part simply because there are so many attractive people in the world--that the cravings of s.e.x must often be denied.

What becomes of them? Of course the s.e.x instinct is too deep-seated to be eradicated or permanently to lapse into a dormant state. But the fascination for particular individuals may so lapse or be forgotten.

Certain people we remember, once in a while, with half-humorous and certainly not very poignant regret. Deferring the whole matter till the time is ripe works well with many a youth or maiden. Combined with social interests, the s.e.x motive finds sublimated satisfaction in a great variety of amus.e.m.e.nts, as well as in business a.s.sociations between the s.e.xes. Introduce a nice young lady into an officeful of men, and the atmosphere changes, often for the better,--which means, certainly, that the s.e.x motive of these men, combined with ordinary business {535} motives, is finding a sublimated satisfaction. The s.e.x motive thus enters into a great variety of human affairs. "Defense mechanisms" are common in combating unacceptable erotic impulses; the sour grapes mechanism sometimes takes the extreme form of a hatred of the other s.e.x; but a very good and useful device of this general sort is to throw oneself into some quite different type of activity, as the young man may successfully work off his steam in athletics. This is not sublimation, in any proper use of that term, for athletic sport does not gratify the s.e.x tendency in the least, but it gratifies other tendencies and so gratifies the individual. It is the individual that must be satisfied, rather than any specified one of his tendencies. As regards coordination, the fact was ill.u.s.trated just above that this method would not always work; but sometimes it works immensely well.

Here is a young person (either s.e.x), in the twenties, with insistent s.e.x impulses, tempted to yield to the fascination of some mediocre representative of the other s.e.x. Such a low-level attachment, however, militates against self-respect, work, ambition, social sense. Where is the "coordination"? It has to be found; some worthy mate will harness all these tendencies, stimulating and gratifying s.e.x attraction, self-respect, ambition, and others besides, and coordinating them all into the complex and decidedly high-grade sentiment of love.

Obstruction and Effort