Part 7

At those times when you suddenly catch yourself wandering, it would be a good plan to stop occasionally and trace back your train of thought to the point where it left its original direction. In this way you would get some valuable insight into the how and why of mind wandering; you would be helped in recognizing its appearance sooner the next time it occurred.

Whenever a person is left alone for a short time, with no one to talk to and no “reading matter”; when for instance, he is standing at a station waiting for his train, or sitting at a restaurant table waiting for his order, or hanging on a subway strap when he has forgotten to buy a newspaper, his “thoughts” tend to run along the tracks they have habitually taken. If a young man usually allows a popular tune to float through his head, that will be most likely to happen; if he usually thinks of that young lady, he will most likely think of her then; if he has often imagined himself as some great political orator making a speech amid the plaudits of the multitude, he is likely to see a mental picture of himself swinging his arms, waving flags and gulping water.

The only way a man can put a stop to such pleasant but uneducative roamings, is to snap off his train of day dreaming the first moment he becomes aware of it, and to address his mind to some useful serious subject. His thoughts will be almost sure to leak away again. They may do this as often as fifteen times in half an hour. But the second he becomes aware of it he should dam up the stream and send his thoughts along the channel he has laid out for them. If he has never done this he will find the effort great. But if he merely resolves now that the next time his mind wanders he will stop it in this manner, his resolve will tend to make itself felt. If he succeeds in following this practice once it will be much easier a second time. Every time he does this it will become increasingly easy, until he will have arrived at the point where his control over his thoughts will be almost absolute. Not only will it be increasingly easy for him to turn his mind to serious subjects. It will become constantly more pleasurable. Frivolous and petty trains of thought will become more and more intolerable.

This whole idea of forcing our thought has been questioned by no less a thinker than Herbert Spencer. Let us hear what he has to say regarding his own practice:

“It has never been my way to set before myself a problem and puzzle out an answer. The conclusions at which I have from time to time arrived, have not been arrived at as solutions of questions raised; but have been arrived at unawares—each as the ultimate outcome of a body of thoughts which slowly grew from a germ. Some direct observation, or some fact met with in reading, would dwell with me: apparently because I had a sense of its significance. It was not that there arose a distinct consciousness of its general meaning; but rather that there was a kind of instinctive interest in those facts which have general meanings. For example, the detailed structure of this or that species of mammal, though I might willingly read about it, would leave little impression; but when I met with the statement that, almost without exception, mammals, even as unlike as the whale and the giraffe, have seven cervical vertebræ, this would strike me and be remembered as suggestive. Apt as I thus was to lay hold of cardinal truths, it would happen occasionally that one, most likely brought to mind by an illustration, and gaining from the illustration fresh distinctiveness, would be contemplated by me for a while, and its bearings observed. A week afterwards, possibly, the matter would be remembered; and with further thought about it, might occur a recognition of some wider application than I had before perceived: new instances being aggregated with those already noted. Again after an interval, perhaps of a month, perhaps of half a year, something would remind me of that which I had before remarked; and mentally running over the facts might be followed by some further extension of the idea. When accumulation of instances had given body to a generalization, reflexion would reduce the vague conception at first framed to a more definite conception; and perhaps difficulties or anomalies passed over for a while, but eventually forcing themselves on attention, might cause a needful qualification and a truer shaping of the thought. Eventually the growing generalization, thus far inductive, might take a deductive form: being all at once recognized as a necessary consequence of some physical principle—some established law. And thus, little by little, in unobtrusive ways, without conscious intention or appreciable effort, there would grow up a coherent and organized theory. Habitually the process was one of slow unforced development, often extending over years; and the thinking done went on in this gradual, almost spontaneous way, without strain. . . .”

But compare this method with that of John Stuart Mill; who speaks of “the mental habit to which I attribute all that I have ever done, or ever shall do, in speculation; that of never abandoning a puzzle, but again and again returning to it until it was cleared up; never allowing obscure corners of a subject to remain unexplored because they did not appear important; never thinking that I perfectly understood any part of a subject until I understood the whole.” Mill’s method was, in short, “that of conscious and vehement effort directed towards the end he had in view. He solved his problems by laborious application and study.”

William Minto writes of Adam Smith: “His intellectual proceedings were calm, patient, and regular: he mastered a subject slowly and circumspectly, and carried his principles with steady tenacity through multitudes of details that would have checked many men of greater mental vigor unendowed with the same invincible persistence.”

With such thinkers differing so markedly in their methods, the ordinary man is left bewildered. He may indeed decide that effort or no effort makes little difference. Let us, however, look to the psychology of the question, and see whether we can find any guiding principle.

Spencer, defending his method, says: “A solution reached in the way described, is more likely to be true than one reached in pursuance of a determined effort to find a solution. The determined effort causes perversion of thought. When endeavoring to recollect some name or thing which has been forgotten, it frequently happens that the name or thing sought will not arise in consciousness; but when attention is relaxed, the missing name or thing often suggests itself. While thought continues to be forced down certain wrong turnings which had originally been taken, the search is vain; but with the cessation of strain the true association of ideas has an opportunity of asserting itself. And, similarly, it may be that while an effort to arrive forthwith at some answer to a problem, acts as a distorting factor in consciousness and causes error, a quiet contemplation of the problem from time to time, allows those proclivities of thought which have probably been caused unawares by experiences, to make themselves felt, and to guide the mind to the right conclusion.”

Spencer’s first argument, that an effort to recollect something is often without results, while the thing is remembered later when we are not trying to think of it, is true as to fact. But it does not show that the effort was unfruitful. As pointed out in the discussion of association, one idea is associated with not only one other idea but with an entire group. This may give a possible explanation of why it is so often difficult to recollect anything when we make a determined effort. The attempt partly arouses a whole cluster of ideas, each of which tends to return, but is prevented from doing so by all the others. It is analogous to a crowd of people all struggling to get through a narrow doorway. They cause such a jam that for a time no one succeeds. When the pushing and jostling cease one person at a time is able to pass through. When effort is abandoned, probably all but one of the associates become dormant, and this one slides into consciousness at the slightest provocation.

Whether or not this explanation is true, it is a fact that though an effort may not produce results at the time, still if it had not been made, the associate which finally comes to mind would probably never have occurred at all. The reader has possibly found that when learning some skilled movement, such as bicycle riding, skating or swimming, his first attempts seemed without result, but after an interval of a week or a month, when trying again, he suddenly discovered that he could do what he wanted from the very start. Surely no one would contend that this could happen without the previous effort!

I must also question Spencer’s remark that “with the cessation of strain the true association of ideas has an opportunity of asserting itself.” The brain has no hidden mechanism by which it can separate the true from the false. To be sure, if we use no effort the most usual and strongest associations will be more likely to assert themselves, and it may be that often these will have more warrant than unusual and weaker associations. Outside of this, there is no superiority.

But the main reason why we cannot follow the method of Herbert Spencer is that we are not all Herbert Spencers. His thought naturally tended to serious and useful channels. Consequently he did not have to force it there. If the reader is one of those rare and fortunate beings whose thoughts run only to useful subjects, and who always concentrate from pure spontaneous interest, I sincerely advise him not to force himself. And if such a being happens to be reading the present chapter I assure him he is criminally wasting his time, and that he should drop the book or turn to the next chapter with all possible haste. But if the reader numbers himself with the miserable majority whose minds are ever running away with them, he will find it necessary to use effort in thinking—at least for a while.

One remark of Spencer is undoubtedly true. This is “that an effort to arrive forthwith at some answer to a problem, acts as a distorting factor in consciousness and causes error.” And here, strange to say, his practice is in substantial agreement with the apparently opposite method of John Stuart Mill. For note that Mill speaks of “again and again returning to it [a puzzle] until it was cleared up.”

Both imply their agreement rather than state it outright; Spencer by his use of the word “forthwith” and Mill by his words “again and again.” Here the practice of both differs from that of the vast majority of men. Yet neither thinker seemed to be clearly conscious how it differed. The average man (that mythical creature!) when he has just been confronted with a problem, may wrestle with it with all the vigor of a great thinker. But as he sees difficulties multiplying about him, he gradually becomes more and more discouraged. Finally he throws up the problem in disgust, contenting himself with the reflection that it cannot be solved, or that it will take somebody who knows more than he to solve it.

A real thinker, however, if confronted with the same problem, will look for a solution from every possible viewpoint. But failing an answer he will not give up. Instead he will let the subject drop for a while, say a couple of weeks or perhaps longer, and then refer to it again. This time he will find that certain obscurities have become a little clearer; that certain questions have been answered. He will again attack his puzzle with energy. And if he does not obtain a complete solution he will once more put it aside, returning to it after another interval, until finally a satisfactory solution presents itself.

You may fail to see any difference between thinking for two hours separated by two weeks, and thinking for two consecutive hours. As an experiment, then, the next time you come across a puzzle which you fail to solve at first tilt, write down all the unsatisfactory solutions suggested, and all the questions, difficulties and objections met with. You may leave this for a few weeks. When you return to it a few of the difficulties will look less formidable, and some of the questions will have practically answered themselves. (Of course some of the difficulties may look more formidable, and a few new questions may have arisen.) If a solution is not found at the second attempt, the problem may again be sent to your mental waiting room. But if it is only of reasonable difficulty a solution is bound, soon or late, to be discovered.

It is difficult to say just what effects this change in thought, when apparently one has engaged in no reflection during the interval. The attempted solution probably gives a certain “set” to our minds. Without being aware of it we observe facts relating to our problem. Ideas which occur to us in other connections are unconsciously seen in their bearing on the unsolved question. In short, “those proclivities of thought which have probably been caused unawares by experience” make themselves felt.

It may be imagined that if we think too much we will be liable permanently to injure our mighty intellects. This has sometimes happened. But there is no serious danger of it. Thinking on one useful subject for a long while will not hurt you any more than thinking on a thousand different useless subjects for the same period. But of course you should not try to concentrate when you are sleepy, when you have a headache, when some other bodily pain distracts your attention, or when your mind is in any way tired. If you attempt to concentrate at these times you will endanger your mental and physical health. Not only this, but the thinking done during such periods will be of such poor quality that it will be practically useless if not harmful. This applies even to cases where mental fatigue is almost inappreciable. Thinking done in the evening seldom approaches in efficacy the thinking done in the first hours of the morning. But you should always make sure your mind is actually tired. It may merely be tired of a particular subject.

An objection of a different kind may be raised against concentrating at every opportunity. It has often been noticed that names have been recalled and problems solved when we were thinking of something else. It may be urged that such solutions would not have occurred when concentrating, because the exact associations which led up to them would not have been present. This is occasionally true. But there are still reasons why I must maintain my position. No matter how well a man may have trained himself to concentrate, there will always be short periods when his mind will wander, and these will suffice for any accidental associations. Moreover, the fact that these mind wandering periods occasionally do good does not excuse their existence. The most fallacious ideas, the most demoniacal practices, the most despicable characters of history, have occasionally done good. The fact is that for every useful association which occurs during mind wandering, ten associations just as useful will occur during concentration. The only reason useful mind wandering associations appear frequent is that they are unexpected, therefore more noticed when they come.

It has been frequently said that many of the world’s greatest inventions were due to accident. In a sense this is true. But the accident was prepared for by previous hard thinking. It would never have occurred had not this thinking taken place. It is said that the idea of gravitation came to Newton because an apple fell on his head. Perhaps. But apples had been falling ever since there were apple trees, and had probably been falling on men’s heads ever since men had acquired the habit of getting their heads in the way. The idea of the steam engine is supposed to have come to Watt while observing a tea kettle. But how many thousands before him had not seen steam coming out of kettles? The idea of the pendulum for regulating time occurred to Galileo from observing a swinging lantern in a cathedral. Think how many others must have seen that lantern swinging! It is probable that in all these cases the invention or idea had been prepared for, had been all but formed, by downright hard thinking in previous periods of concentration. All that was needed was the slightest unusual occurrence to make the idea complete and conscious. The unusual occurrence, the accident, which has so often received the credit for the invention or the idea, merely made it come sooner, for with the thinking these men did, it was bound to come eventually. . . .

Of course I really do not seriously expect anybody to concentrate at every opportunity. I don’t myself. I merely wanted to establish the fact that it’s the best thing. But every man, even the tired business variety, should set aside at least half an hour a day, or three and a half hours a week. I realize what a great hardship it is for some people to devote one-forty-eighth of their time to such a useless pastime as thinking. But if they will make the sacrifice for seven consecutive days they will find themselves bearing up nobly at the end.

There is even a possibility that they may be encouraged to extend the time.

PREJUDICE AND UNCERTAINTY

“From time to time there returns upon the cautious thinker, the conclusion that, considered simply as a question of probabilities, it is decidedly unlikely that his views upon any debatable topic are correct. ‘Here,’ he reflects, ‘are thousands around me holding on this or that point opinions differing from mine—wholly in most cases; partially in the rest. Each is as confident as I am of the truth of his convictions. Many of them are possessed of great intelligence; and, rank myself high as I may, I must admit that some are my equals—perhaps my superiors. Yet, while every one of us is sure he is right, unquestionably most of us are wrong. Why should not I be among the mistaken? True, I cannot realize the likelihood that I am so. But this proves nothing; for though the majority of us are necessarily in error, we all labor under the inability to think we are in error. Is it not then foolish thus to trust myself? When I look back into the past, I find nations, sects, philosophers, cherishing beliefs in science, morals, politics, and religion, which we decisively reject. Yet they held them with a faith quite as strong as ours; nay—stronger, if their intolerance of dissent is any criterion. Of what little worth, therefore, seems this strength of my conviction that I am right? A like warrant has been felt by men all the world through; and, in nine cases out of ten, has proved a delusive warrant. Is it not then absurd in me to put so much faith in my judgments?’ ”

I trust the reader will pardon this second rather extended quotation from Herbert Spencer, but the thought expressed must be kept in mind if we are to approach our present subject in the proper spirit. . . .

Our subject is prejudice. Our object is to free ourselves as much as possible from our own prejudices. But before we can get rid of a thing it is first necessary to recognize that thing when we see it.

Prejudice is often confused with intolerance. They are not the same. A man may be prejudiced and not intolerant. You may think that your alma mater, your city, or your country, is the greatest in the world, for little other reason than simply that it is yours. Your opinion is prejudiced. But you may not protest if any other man thinks that his alma mater, or his city, or his country, is the best in the world. In fact you may not have much respect for him if he doesn’t think so. And your opinion is tolerant.