White 1949

The Science
of Culture
A STUDY OF MAN AND CIVILIZATION
B)> Leslie A. White ^.
GROVE PRESS, INC. NEW YORK

1949
CONTENTS
AUTHOR'S NOTE xi
PREF ACE xvii
PART 1 SCIENCE AND SYMBOLS

Introduction 2
I. Science is Sciencing 3
II. The Symbol: the Origin and Basis of Human
Behavior 22
III. On the Use of Tools by Primates 40
IV. Mind is Minding 49
V. The Expansion of the Scope of Science 55
PART II MAN AND CULTURE

Introduction 120
VI. Culturological vs. Psychological Interpretations of
Human Behavior 121
VII. Cultural Determinants of Mind 146
VIII. Genius: Its Causes and Incidence 190
IX. Ikhnaton: The Great Man vs. the Culture Process 233
X. The Locus of Mathematical Reality 282
XI. The Definition and Prohibition of Incest 303
XII. Man's Control over Civilization: An Anthropocentric
Illusion 330
PART III ENERGY AND CIVILIZATION

Introduction 362
XIII. Energy and the Evolution of Culture 363
vU
CONTENTS
viii
PART IV CULTUROLOGY
of Culture 397
XIV. The Science
4^
Chapter References
'^^5
BibHography
Index 4^
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to thank the following publishers for per-

mission to quote from their publications:
Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc., for excerpts from Ralph Linton,

The Study oi Man, New York, 1936.
Cambridge University Press (England), for excerpts from G.

H. Hardy, A Mathematician's Apology, Cambridge, 1941.
Geo. E. G. Catlin, for excerpts from Emile Durkheim, The

Rules oi Sociologies] Method, University of Chicago Press, 1938.
The University of Chicago Press, for excerpts from The Nature

of the World and Man, H. H. Newman, ed., Chicago, 1926; Marc
Ruffer, Studies in the Palaeopathology of Egypt, R. L. Woodie,
ed., Chicago, 1921; and from Geo. Steindorff and K. C. Seele,
When Egypt Ruled the East, Chicago, 1942.
Thomas Y. Crowell Co., for excerpts from Clark Wissler, Man

and Culture, New York, 1923.
Crown Publishers, for excerpts from A. Einstein, The World As

I See It, copyright 1934 by Covici-Friede, New York,
Doubleday and Co., Inc., for excerpts from Helen Keller, The
Story of My Life, New York, 1903.
Eyre and Spottiswoode, Ltd., for excerpts from Arthur Weigall^

The Life and Times of Akhnaton, London, 1923.
ix
X ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Harper and Brothers, for an excerpt from Thomas Wolfe, You

Can't Go Home Again, copyright The Sun Dial Press, 1942, New
York.
Henrj- Holt and Co., Inc., for an excerpt from John Dewey,
ReconstTuction in Philosophy, New York, 1920; and from Clark
Wissler, An Introduction to Social Anthropology, New York, 1929.
Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., for excerpts from A. A. Moret, The Nile

and Egyptian Civilization, New York, 1927.
McGraw-Hill Book Co., Inc., for excerpts from Wm. I. Thomas,

Piimitive Behavior, New York, 1937; and from Recent Social
Trends, New York, 1933.
The Macmillan Co., for excerpts from E. A. Hooton, Up From

the Ape, New York, 1931; F. H. Giddings, Principles of Sociology,
New York, 1896; A. M. Schlesinger, New Viewpoints in American
History, New York, 1922.
W. W. Norton and Co., Inc., for an excerpt from Erwin

Schrodinger, Science and the Human Temperament, New York,
1935-
The Science Press, for excerpts from H. Poincare, Foundations

oi Science, New York and Garrison, 1913.
Charles Scribner's Sons, for excerpts from James H. Breasted,

A History of Egypt, revised edition. New York, 1909.
Simon and Schuster, Inc., for an excerpt from Living Philoso-

phies, New York, 1931.
Stechert-Hafner, Inc., for excerpts from E. T. Bell, The Queen

of the Sciences, Baltimore, 1931.
The Viking Press, Inc., for excerpts from Wm. F. Ogburn,

Social Change, New York, 1922.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Oome time ago Mr. Arthur Orrmont, formerly a student

at the University of Michigan, now on the editorial staff of
Farrar, Straus and Company, suggested that certain articles
of mine that have appeared in various journals might well be re-
printed in a single volume. This book has grown out of his

suggestion. The previously published articles that reappear here
in more or less modified form are as follows:
1. "Science is Sciencing," (Philosophy of Science, Vol. 5,
pp. 369-389, 1938).

2. "Mind is Minding," (The Scientific Monthly, Vol. 48,
pp. 169-171, 1939).
3. "The Symbol: The Origin and Basis of Human Behavior,"
(Philosophy of Science, Vol. 7, pp. 451-463, 1940).
4. "On the Use of Tools by Primates," (Journal of Com-
parative Psychology, Vol. 34, pp. 369-374, 1942).
5. "The Expansion of the Scope of Science," (Journal of the
Washington Academy of Sciences, Vol. 37, pp. 181-210, 1947).

6. "The Locus of Mathematical Reality: An Anthropological
Footnote," (Philosophy of Science, Vol. 14, pp. 289-303, 1947)-
7. "Culturological vs. Psychological Interpretations of Human
Behavior," (American Sociological Review, Vol. 12, pp. 686-698,
1947)-
8. "Man's Control over Civilization: An Anthropocentric Il-
lusion," (The Scientific Monthly, Vol. 66, pp. 235-247, 1948).

Xi
jjji
AUTHOR'S NOTE
9. "Ikhnaton: The Great Man vs. the Culture Process,"
(Journal of the American Oriental Society, Vol. 68, pp. 91-114,
1948).
10. "The Definition and Prohibition of Incest," (American
Anthropologist, Vol. 50, pp. 416-435, 1948).
"Education: America's Magic," which appeared in School and
Society (Vol. 61, pp. 353-354, 1945) has been incorporated in the
chapter "Man's Control over Civilization: An Anthropocentric
Illusion." Material from "Atomic Energy: An Anthropological
Appraisal" and "Energy and the Development of Civilization"
has been incorporated in the chapter "Energy and the Evolution
of Culture." "Atomic Energy: An Anthropological Appraisal"
was read before the annual meeting of the American Anthro-
pological Association in Philadelphia on December 28, 1945. It
was never published in a journal * but was printed in its entirety
some newspapers, including: The Baltimore Sun,

or large part in
December 29, 1945; The Milwaukee Journal, January 10, 1946;
and The Norfolk Virginian-Pilot, January 13, 1946. "Energy and
the Development of Civilization" was a radio address delivered
over the Columbia Broadcasting System in New York City on
February 16, 1947, on a program sponsored by the United States
Rubber Company. It was subsequently published with a series of
* The curious reader will find interesting comment on this talk by Dr.
E. U. Condon, Director, National Bureau of Standards, in an address to the

winners of a science scholarship contest in Science News Letter, March 16,
1946; Science, April 5, 1946; and the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists of
Chicago, March 15, 1946. Dr. Condon, in effect, advises the young men and
women to have nothing to do with prophets of "fatalism" (i.e., determinism
in human affairs) such as I. He quotes the Holy Scriptures, and concludes
with an inspiring passage from Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
See, also, a reply to Dr. Condon by M. F. Ashley Montagu in Science,
May 3, 1946, in which he tells of a resolution, proposed by himself, seconded
by Margaret Mead, and adopted by the American Anthropological Association,
pledging anthropologists to work with other scientists to make "appropriate
social inventions" to "guard against the dangers inherent in atomic use."
. . .
No report on progress toward such inventions has appeared as yet.

AUTHOR'S NOTE xiii
talks on science in The Scientists Speak, Warren Weaver, editor

(New York, 1947). It was also reprinted by Technocracy Digest,
May, 1947, and The Great Lakes Technocrat, May-June, 1947.
I am grateful to the editors of the journals in which my articles
originally appeared for their kind permission to reprint them here.
Two of the articles republished here were reprinted some time

ago in ETC., a Review of General Semantics: "The Symbol"
(Vol. 1, pp. 229-237, 1944), and "Mind is Minding" (Vol. 1,
pp. 86-88, 1943-44). 'The Symbol" was rewritten at the request

of Dr. Wm. S. Knickerbocker and published in Twentieth
Century English, which he edited (New York, 1946).
A
number of the articles republished in this volume evoked
comment when they originally appeared. "Mind is Minding"
brought forth a harsh criticism from Professor Jared Sparkes
Moore (Scientific Monthly, Vol. 50, p. 365, 1940) to which I
replied briefly {ihid., pp. 365-66). "The Expansion of the Scope

of Science" was reviewed at length in a sympathetic article by
Professor A. L. Kroeber, "White's View of Culture" (American
Anthropologist, Vol. 50, pp. 405-415, 1948). It was reviewed
briefly in Man, by Professor J.
L. Myres (Vol. 48, p. 11, January,
1948). And it received brief comment in Science (Vol. 106, p. 84,
1947) from Mr. Alden A. Potter.

"Man's Control over Civilization" drew a reply entitled
"Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos" from Harold H. Steinour in
ScientificMonthly (Vol. 66, pp. 447-48, 1948). Mr. Steinour
argues that it would be a good thing to believe that the human
will is free even though it were not. He believes, however, that
it is, at least to a degree. And "Ikhnaton" moved a distinguished
Egyptologist, Professor Wm. F. Edgerton, to criticize me severely
for venturing "to oppose the opinions of competent scholars"
although I am unable to read inscriptions in the Egyptian
language (Journal of the American Oriental Society, December,
1948).
xJY
AUTHOR'S NOTE
To the above list of articles Ihave added the following chapters,

written expressly for this volume: "Cultural Determinants of
Mind;" "Genius: Its Causes and Incidence;" "Energy and the
Evolution of Culture;" "The Science of Culture."
"Energy and the Evolution of Culture" was written in its
entirety for this volume although based upon the thesis of an
earlier article by the same title published in the American Anthro-
pologist, Vol. 45, pp. 335-356, 1943. Material from "Cultural

Determinants of Mind" was used for a paper, "The Individual
and the Culture Process," presented in the symposium on
"Human Individuality" at the Centennial meeting of the Ameri-
can Association for the Advancement of Science in Washington,
D. C, on September 14, 1948. An abstract of this paper appeared
in Science, Vol. 108, pp. 585-86, Nov. 26, 1948.
Since each of the articles reprinted here was originally written

to stand on its own feet and by itself, there is some duplication
and overlapping among them when all are placed together. Thus,
a number of them contain a definition, or a characterization, of
culture as an order of phenomena; or, a description of the science
of culture and how it will operate. In preparing these articles for
republication I have tried to reduce duplication and overlapping
among them to a minimum, but perhaps too much still remains.
We hope the reader will keep in mind the fact that, with a few
exceptions, each chapter was originally an independent article
and will be correspondingly indulgent. We might add, however,

that some repetition is often very desirable, especially when a
relatively novel theme— such as the science of culture— is being
treated.
The articles as originally published have undergone revision in

other respects also. We have added new material in some places
and have cut out passages in others. In some instances we have
transferred material from one article to another. The extent to
which the original articles have undergone alteration varies; some
AUTHOR'S NOTE xv
have changed considerably, others very httle. In every case, how-

ever, the premises and point of view, as well as much of the
formulation and presentation, of the original articles have re-
mained substantially the same.

I am greatly indebted to many persons for sympathetic interest,,
encouragement and assistance tendered me in the labors repre-
sented by the material in the present volume, written during a

period of more than a decade. No expression of thanks of which
I am capable could encompass the magnitude of my obligation
nor adequately convey my sense of gratitude. Nor can I name here
all of those who have, in one way or another, contributed to the
pages that follow. I would like, however, to mention a few to
whom I am especially indebted, I have received much inspiration
and encouragement from a warm friendship of many years with
Dr. Harry Elmer Barnes. My colleague, Professor Volney H. Jones,

has kindly and patiently read almost all of my manuscripts for
over a decade and I have profited greatly from his wise and sym-
pathetic counsel. Professor R. L. Wilder, of the Department of
Mathematics, University of Michigan, kindly read "The Locus of
Mathematical Reality" in manuscript and offered many helpful
suggestions.
I believe, however, that my greatest obligation is to the many
students in my courses during the last fifteen years upon whom I
have, so to speak, "tried out" the ideas set forth in this book.
They are too numerous to mention here singly and by name. I
hope, therefore, that they will accept this simple statement of

my gratitude and affection, both for their interest and construc-
tive criticism and for their patience and forbearance.
In planning the arrangement of this volume, Mr. John Farrar
and his son, Curtis Farrar, have assisted with valuable suggestions.
My wife has helped enormously in the preparation of the manu-
script, not to mention the years of encouragement and loyal
support during which time the articles were conceived and written.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
XVI
cannot find words to express the

full sense of my obligation
I
to her. ^ ,_.
Leslie A. White
Universit)' of Michigan
Ann Arbor, Michigan
PREFACE
a rulture became differentiated as soon as

since the earliest days of human
it
history local
appeared. Ever
groups of
people have been distinguished from one another by dif-
ferences in speech, custom, belief, and costume, in so far as any

was worn. We may believe, also, that man has always been aware
of those differences that set his own group apart from others.
Thus we might say that, in a sense, mankind has always been
culture conscious. And, ever since the time of Herodotus at
least there have been attempts to account for cultural variations

among mankind. Some thinkers accounted for cultural differences
in terms of environmental influence; one kind of habitat would
produce one type of culture, another habitat a different type.
Others were inclined to attribute cultural variation to innate

mental or temperamental differences. In comparatively recent
times the new sciences of sociology and social psychology worked
out general principles of a science of social behavior, but these
were assumed to be common to mankind and so could not
all
account for cultural differences among tribes and nations. Social

interaction is a universal process; conflict, co-operation, accom-
modation, the four wishes, etc., are worldwide; they might account
for cultural uniformities, but not differences. True, these sciences
did not address themselves to the problem of cultural variation;
they were limited almost entirely to the framework of one culture.
Western civilization. But when one turned to the question of
xvii
xviii PREFACE
cultural differences among peoples, it was found that sociology

and social psychology had virtually nothing to offer.
Apart from theories of environmental determinism which con-

sidered merely the relationship between habitat and culture, all
t\pes of interpretation prior to the emergence of anthropology

as a science thought of man and culture together; no one con-
sidered culture apart from its human carriers. With the advance
of science, however, came a recognition of culture as a distinct
class of events, as a distinct order of phenomena. It was seen

that culture is not merely a reflex response to habitat, nor a simple
and direct manifestation of "human nature." It came to be
realized that culture is a continuum, a stream of events, that
flows freely down through time from one generation to another
and laterally from one race or habitat to another. One came
eventually to understand that the determinants of culture lie
within the stream of culture itself; that a language, custom, belief,

tool or ceremony, is the product of antecedent and concomitant
cultural elements and processes. In short, it was discovered that
culture may be considered, from the standpoint of scientific
analysis and interpretation, as a thing sui generis, as a class of

events and processes that behaves in terms of its own principles
and laws and which consequently can be explained only in terms
of its own elements and processes. Culture may thus be con-
sidered as a self-contained, self-determined process; one that can
be explained only in terms of itself.
This profound discovery and advance in science was the lot of
anthropology: it was the anthropologists, as Kroeber has said,
who "discovered culture." In contrast with the sister sciences of

social psychology and sociology, the- new science of anthropology
found itself in the very midst of cultural differences; concern with
such things was in fact a large part of its objective. It was in a
position to note that, in many instances at least, marked cultural
variation is associated with a uniformity of human physical type.
Thus, among North American Indian tribes who were of a highly
PREFACE xix
uniform physical type, there was nevertheless a great variety of

culturaltypes. A biological constant could not account for a
cultural variable. The anthropologist was able to see also that,

whereas a certain type of habitat would condition the form and
content of a culture, it did not determine them. An arctic climate,
for example, did not necessarily mean tailored fur clothing and
snug dwellings. As a matter of fact, a great variety of cultures are
compatible with any given type of environment, as a comparative

survey of regions or the archeological record of a single area over
a long period of time will show. Thus anthropologists were able
to free themselves from the old interpretative biases— that culture
was determined by habitat or by "human nature"— and to discover
the culturological determination of culture.
The great English anthropologist, E. B. Tylor, seems to have
been the first clearly to grasp this new conception. In the first
chapter of his great work. Primitive Culture (1871 he formulated

),
in succinct fashion the culturological point of view and outlined

the scope of the science of culture. Tylor was followed by Durk-
heim, Kroeber, Lowie, Wissler, and many others in the develop-
ment of this new science. But progress has not been steady and
continuous. Of late there has been a falling away from the culturo-
logical point of view and objectives. Instead of interpretation of
culture as such, many American anthropologists in recent years
have turned to the overt reactions of human organisms and to the
deep subconscious forces that underlie these reactions. Thus, many
men and women anthropologists, who are by training and tradition
best qualified to study culture, have abandoned it for adventures
in psychology or psychiatry for which they have had little or no
technical training and with but little equipment save a ready
intuition. They have sold their culturological birthright for a mess
of psychiatric pottage.
And who is to study culture if not the anthropologists, particu-
larly the culturologists? We have witnessed a definite regression in
anthropology in America in recent years. But it will not last.
XX PREFACE
Sooner or later the advance in science begun with Tylor will be

resumed. As Kroeber has indicated in a recent article, fashions
and fads come and go in science, but underneath the currents and
eddies on the surface is the deep strong flow of scientific progress.
"Personalit}'," says Kroeber, "is the slogan of the moment . . . De-
vices like 'ink-blot tests' have some of the outward qualities of a
gadget . . . [and] as a nation we love gadgets ... In a decade or
two Rohrschachs may have been displaced as stimuli of fashion
response by their successor of the day."

In the chapters that follow we treat the Science of Culture in
its several aspects: the origin and nature of culture, the emergence
of the scientific interpretation of culture and an historical sketch
of this new venture, the fundamental distinction between psy-

cholog}^ and culturolog}^, and, finally, a few demonstrations of the
point of view and techniques of culturological interpretation.
PART I SCIENCE AND SYMBOLS
Introduction
e preface our treatise on the Science of Culture with an
essay on science in general, "Science is Sciencing." Science
is not a body of data; it is a technique of interpretation. And
this technique is as applicable to cultural phenomena as to any
other class. The science of culture, or the science of psychology,
is not as mature as astronomy or physics; neither is it nearly as
old. But it is fallacious or chauvinistic to assert that "physics is a
science, but psychology or culturology is not." One can science in

any sector of experience.
"The Symbol" we lay bare the mechanism that has brought
In
culture, as a new and distinct order of phenomena, into being. We
discover culture as a new field of scientific exploration and inter-
pretation. "On the Use of Tools by Primates" attempts to show
why man has a continuous, cumulative, and progressive material
culture whereas the anthropoid apes, who are able to make tools
and who use them with great skill and versatility, do not. The
answeris, again, the Symbol. "Mind is Minding" breaks with the
old-fashioned view which regarded mind as a thing, as an entity,

and sees it merely as a process of reacting to external stimuli. This
helps to clarify the relationship between man as organism and the
extrasomatic cultural tradition to which he reacts as he does to
his natural habitat.
In "The Expansion of the Scope of Science," we trace the

course of the conquest of science of ever more and more of the
terrain of human experience, first of the heavenly bodies in as-
tronomv, then terrestrial physical phenomena, then the various
sectors of biological phenomena, and, finally, the realm of culture.
In tracing the course of the advance and progress of science we
come face to face with its predecessor and rival: the philosophy
of anthropomorphism, anthropocentrism, and Free Will. As sub-
sequent chapters will bring out clearly and emphatically, this is
the philosophy that science has had to contend every inch of the
way. And it is this age-old and primitive philosophy that we still
have to oppose until it is at last eradicated, root and branch.

CHAPTER ONE
SCIENCE IS SCIENCING
"Science is a kind of human behavior."
5<•cience is not merely a collection of facts and formulas. It
is pre-eminently a way of dealing with experience. The word

may be appropriately used as a verb: one sciences, i.e., deals
with experience according to certain assumptions and with certain

techniques. Science is one of two basic ways of dealing with
experience. The other is art. And this word, too, may appropriately
be used as a verb; one may art as well as science. The purpose of
science and art is one: to render experience intelligible, i.e., to

assist man to adjust himself to his environment in order that he
may live. But although working toward the same goal, science
and art approach it from opposite directions. Science deals with
particulars in terms of universals: Uncle Tom disappears in the
mass of Negro slaves. Art deals with universals in terms of par-

ticulars: the whole gamut of Negro slavery confronts us in the
person of Uncle Tom. Art and science thus grasp a common
by opposite but inseparable poles.
experience, or reality,
To use the word science as a noun is not, however, without
justification. The words chemistry, physiology, history, sociology,
etc., are both legitimate and useful. As categories they are de-
rived from two sources. On the one hand, they reflect analytical
distinctions which may be made within the field of reality:
erosion, respiration, hysteria, voting, etc., are phases or segments
3
4 THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
of experience which find their reflections in the categories geol-

og\^ physiology-, psychology, and political science, respectively.
On the other hand, division of labor in society, essential in
modern times, also finds its reflection in the same, or similar,
categories. This is a fact often ignored. Psychology is a category
that is a reflection of the division of society into disparate occu-
pational groups just as truly as it is an expression of analytical

distinctions which may be made in experience ("subject matter")
itself. "Psychology is what ps)rcho]ogists (i.e., a guild of workers
bearing the label 'psychologist') do," is as valid a definirion as
"psycholog}^ is the study of mind, or behavior." The one is an

expression of social reality; the other derives from the nature of
the subject matter of the study.
This dual nature of the categories becomes manifest in the re-
current protest against the partition of science into "watertight"

compartments, in the impossibility of telling whether a given
study is historical, sociological, or psychological. Does the story of
John Brown's "insurrection" belong to psychology, sociology,

economics, political science, or history? Obviously and equally to
each. Nor can the distinction between inanimate, biologic and
cultural withstand the categorizing process which is implicit in
the division of labor in society. When Harlow Shapley studies the
responses of ants to varying quantities of heat reaching them from
the sun,^ is he an astronomer or an entomologist? Obviously, he
is contributing to an understanding of insects as well as stars; this
thermodynamic process has both entomologic and astronomic

aspects. Dr. A. E. Douglass, an astronomer at the University of
Arizona, has, by working out a correlation between rainfall and
growth of trees in the Southwest, provided archeologists with the
most precise technique for dating prehistoric remains unaccom-
panied by written records that has yet been devised.^ In this case
an "astronomer" has become an archeologist via climatology and

1 References are grouped by chapters and appear on pp. 416-424.
SCIENCE IS SCIENCING 5
botany. Conventionally, however, "an astronomer" is any mem-

ber of a certain group, formal or informal, of scientific workers
produced by the social division of labor, even though he may con-
tribute to an understanding of insects, the growth of forests, and
the sequence of Indian cultures, as well as to our knowledge of
heavenly bodies. Logically, astronomy is the scientific interpreta-
tion of the behavior of celestial bodies regardless of the profes-
sional label borne by the one who makes it.
The custom of viewing "science" as a vast terrain divided into

a number of "fields" each tilled by its own appropriately named
guild has a certain justification in utility and convenience. But it
tends to obscure the nature of science as a way of interpreting

reality and to spread confusion in the ranks of scientists and lay-
men alike. The use of the word science as a noun not only leads
to jurisdictional disputes— does the study of juvenile delinquency
belong to sociology or to psychology, the study of fossils to
geology or to biology?—but to such questions as, is history a science?
is sociology a science? There is a tendency to identify "science"
with some of its techniques. For example, one can perform ex-
periments in chemistry and make accurate predictions in astron-
omy. Chemistry and astronomy are "sciences." Experimentation
is exceedingly limited in sociology and predictions in history are

seldom more than guesses. Therefore, the tendency is to say,
"history and sociology are not sciences." Despite the fact that
much of geology is more historical than certain studies of human
culture, there is a willingness to call the one "a science" but to
deny this status to the other.
Then a distinction is made between the physical sciences
(frequently called by the flattering term "the exact sciences") and
the "social sciences." Implicit in this distinction is the assumption
that a fundamental difference obtains between the nature of
physical reality and human social reality. This assumption leads
to, if indeed it does not include by implication, the further as-
sumption that the data of human society, being essentially differ-
really not
ent from the data of physics ("the exact sciences"), are
susceptible to scientific treatment, hence the social sciences are
really not sciences at all; * they are not and cannot be "scientific."
The same observations are made, although with less emphasis,
with reference to biology: "Biology is less scientific than physics,
but more scientific than sociology." These assumptions are not

only confusing; they are unwarranted. The basic assumptions and
techniques which comprise the scientific way of interpreting
reality are applicable equally to all of its phases, to the human-

social, or cultural, as well as to the biological and the physical.
This means that we must cease viewing science as an entity which
is divisible into a number of qualitatively different parts: some
wholly scientific (the "exact sciences"), some quasi-scientific, and
some only pseudo-scientific. We must cease identifying science
with one or another of its techniques, such as experimentation.
We must, in short, view science as a way of behaving, as a way of
interpreting reality, rather than as an entity in itself, as a segment

of that reality.
Science distinguishes living, sentient beings on the one hand,
and an external world independent of sentient organisms on the
other.** Reality in this context consists of the organisms' inter-
action with the external world. As such it may be regarded as a
one or as a many. It may be thought of as the totality of the inter-
action, or experience, of the organism; or, it may be analyzed into
its component parts. On the perceptual level reality is analyzed
into sense impressions— odors, tastes, colors, sounds, etc. On the
conceptual level it is analyzed with symbolic instruments— words,
mathematical symbols, etc. Matter, energy, time, space, motion,
etc., are conceptual devices with which we analyze reality and in
*"...! think that social science is like a '\^'elsh rabbit —

not really a rab-
bit at all." E. A. Hooton, in Apes, Men, and Morons, p. 62.
** "The belief in an external world independent of the perceiving subject is
the basis of all natural science." Einstein, 1934, p. 60.
terms of which we make our adjustments to it. Matter, energy,
time, motion, and so on, are not therefore discrete entities, but
aspects or phases of a common reality. We may also analyze the
totality of reality, insofar as we can experience it, into equivalent

component parts, or "units," which we may call events. Experience
is therefore conceived by us on the one hand as a one, as a totality,
and on the other as an infinite number of parts, or events.

"Whole and parts" means relationships. "Relationship," too,
is another conceptual device, a symbolic instrument, with the aid

of which we render experience intelligible to a degree, and by
means of which we effect our adjustments to our environment.
Events are related to each other. But how?
"Every event that happens in the world is determined by the
space-co-ordinates x, y, z and the time-co-ordinate t," ^ The
fundamental relationship, or "interval," between events is one of
space-time. Whereas formerly space and time were thought of as
properties of the external world independent of each other, they
are now seen to be merely aspects of the basic and primary prop-
erty, space-time. To quote Minkowski: "The views of space and
time which I wish to lay before you have sprung from the soil of
experimental physics, and therein lies their strength. They are radi-
cal. Henceforth space by itself, and time by itself, doomed to
are
fade into mere shadows, and only a kind of union of the two
will preserve an independent reality." * Thus reality confronts us,
in modern thought, as a four-dimensional continuum; the process

of reality in which events are manifested is a temporal-spatial (or
temporal-formal) one.
Thus the primary and fundamental relationship between events
is temporal-formal. But by purely logical analysis, we may distin-
guish the temporal aspect of the process from the spatial; although
inseparable in actuality, we may occupy ourselves with either to
the exclusion of the other. Thus we may distinguish three kinds
of processes, one primary, the temporal-formal, and two secondary
temporal on the one hand and the spatial, or

and derivative, the
formal, on the other. In the first category we would deal with

intervals. In
events as being related to one another by space-time
the interval (or rela-
the other two we would in the one consider
tionship) in its temporal aspect only; and in the other

the interval
would be dealt with in its spatial, or formal, aspect alone.
Scicncing must adapt itself to the structure of reality; its tools
must be so shaped and its techniques so ordered as to grasp reality

effectively and render it intelligible to us. This means, therefore,
that we have three ways of sciencing: one which grasps the
shall
space-time property of reality in its entirety, and two subsidiary

and derivative ways, each of which deals with one of the two as-
pects of this property, viz., space and time. All of "science" or
sciencing will be found to be assignable to one or another of these
three categories; there is no way of sciencing apart from these
three.
"History" is that way of sciencing in which events are dealt

with in terms of their temporal relationships alone. Each event is
unique. The one thing that history never does is to repeat itself:
Lincoln is assassinated only once. To be sure, the events them-

selves that constitute history are related to one another in ways
other than temporal. This must of necessity be true since all kinds
of relationships are equally attributes of a common reality. But in
"histor)'-ing" we arbitrarily select for our consideration the con-

nective tissue of time, and just as arbitrarily ignore the relation-
ship of space.*
This process of reducing concrete experience to artificial abstrac-
tions, or, to put it more precisely, the act of substituting concepts,
"free inventions of the human intellect" (to borrow Einstein's
* To be sure, those who bear the label "historian" concern themselves with
relationships other than temporal:they wish to know where Lincoln was
assassinated as well as when. "The temporal process" would probably be a
better term for our purpose here than "history."
phrase), for the concrete experiences of the senses,^ is not only-
unavoidable, it is the very essence of sciencing.

"History," or the temporal aspect of experience, is co-extensive
with reality; it is a property common to the inanimate, biological,
and cultural orders of phenomena. Stars, the solar system, the

earth, rivers, lead, granite, plants and animals, species and indi-
viduals, customs and institutions, each have their respective his-
tories. Astronomy, physics, geology, biology, psychology, sociology,

and anthropology are therefore, in part at least, historical "sci-
ences."There is no antagonism nor even distinction between

history and science: history is simply one way of sciencing whether
it be in geology or sociology. If we refuse to accept this conclusion
we are forced to its "An astronomer is a scientist when
alternative:
he deals with a non-temporal, repetitive process, but when

he concerns himself with a chronological sequence of events (the
history of the solar system, e.g. ) he is no longer a scientist."
Events are related to each other spatially, and we may deal with
reality in terms of spatial, or formal, relationships, ignoring the
aspect time.
Spatial relationships between events may be regarded as either
constant or variable. Events, or material objects, whose mutual

spatial relationships are regarded as constant, constitute a structure.
This property is characteristic of all phases of reality. In the inani-
mate, biologic and cultural levels it manifests itself in such forms

as atoms, molecules, stars, constellations, planets, orbits, strata,
the elements; in skeletons, bones, muscles, organs, bodies, limbs;
in families, clans, societies, grammars, constitutions. When the
spatial relationships uniting a number of events, or material ob-
jects, are regarded as variable, then we speak of function. This
property likewise manifests itself on all levels of reality in atomic,
molecular, meteorological, astronomic behavior; in physiological
and psychological processes; and on the supra-biological level, in
cultural processes. Thus the physicist, chemist, astronomer, geolo-
gist, zoologist, botanist, physiologist, psychologist, sociologist.

linguist, cultural anthropologist, etc., are all concerned with the

spatial or fomial * (non-temporal) aspect of reality, in its struc-
tural or functional aspects, or both.
We come now to the third kind of relationship, or process: the
temporal-spatial. This is like the two preceding processes, but

different from each. As we have already noted, all three kinds of
relationships are always intrinsic in any series of actual events, in
any phase of reality. The temporal process (or "history") is a
selective arrangement of events according to the principle time.

Spatial relationships, though actually existent in these events, are
disregarded: in the history of thought it is immaterial whether

Newton cogitates under an apple tree or in his bath. Similarly,
when dealing with spatial relationships, i.e., with structure and

function, the time relationships which are inseparable from these
events in objective reality are here divorced by logical analysis:
the stmcture of the crystal, the rusting of iron, respiration,
cowardice, secret societies, may be studied without reference to

clocks or calendars.
But in the temporal-spatial process both temporal and spatial
relationships are simultaneously significant. And it is not a case of

time and space— "up from the South at break of day . . . and
Sheridan twenty miles away." The conventional historian wishes
to know not only that Napoleon fought battles, but where he
fought them. The zoologist and the ethnologist are interested in
the distribution of species and culture traits as well as their history.

These are examples of a simultaneous interest in both temporal
and spatial relationships. But they are not examples of temporal-
spatial relationships. Hydrogen + oxygen = hydrogen -|- oxygen;
t + = +
s t s. But hydrogen x oxygen =: water (H2O); t x s = ts.
The temporal-spatial process is not, then, equivalent to a space
* Structure and function are not confined to the realm of metric space.
Structure or form is a characteristic of such non-spatial systems as language,
music, kinship systems, social organization, poetry, and so on.

SCIENCE IS SCIENCING IT
and time organization of phenomena; it is not the sum of these

factors but their product.
It is of interest to note in passing that in many instances in
which both temporal and spatial relations are involved, one

is significant only in terms of the other. Thus the thickness of
a geologic stratum measured in feet indicates its age measured in
years. Similarly, the distribution of a plant or animal species may
indicate its age: the wider the distribution the greater the age.
And, using the same principle, the anthropologist has been able,
in many instances, to reconstruct the history of a tool, myth,

custom, or institution by inference from its geographic distribu-
tion.® And, of course, our clocks measure time by a repetitive
movement of a mechanism through space.
But the temporal-formal process is more than a concern with

temporal and formal relationships taken either alone or each in
terms of the other. It is one in which both time and space, or
form, are significant, a process in which both are integrated into
a single, undifferentiated event.
The temporal-formal process is an evolutionary, or develop-
mental process. It is distinguished from the temporal process on
the one hand and the formal process on the other. Like the others,
this process is inherent in all experience and is manifest in all
realms of reality, inanimate, biological, and cultural. Thus we have

stellar and cosmic evolution, biological evolution and cultural
evolution. This process differs from the temporal and formal proc-
esses in that in the evolutionary process, time and space are both
integrally involved, they are fused, inseparable. Evolution is
temporal-alteration-of-forms. A comparison of these three processes

will make each one more distinct.
The temporal process is non-repetitive. In the sequence or

process that is temporal (and temporal only), each event is
unique; it occurs only once. Tlie Rocky Mountains are formed

only once, there is only one Wiirm glaciation, each raindrop is
unique, each movement of every living creature is distinguished

from every other movement,* John Brown is executed only once,

each meeting of the women's sewing circle is a unique event. The
spatial, or functional, process, being non-temporal, is repetitive;
mountain systems may be formed repeatedly, ice-age may follow

ice-age, raindrops fall again and again, water freezes, ice thaws and
water freezes again, metal may be melted and remelted, monkeys

sneeze, men die, insurrectionists are executed, prices rise and fall
and rise again, societies and clubs are organized in every age. The
evolutionary process, being in part temporal in character, is also
non-repetitive;** a reptile becomes a mammal only once; radium

decomposes only once; stars "die" only once.*** Growth is also a
may be. Actually they usually are not, for the reason that such distinc-
* It
tions except in rare instances —such as the real or imagined kick of Mrs.
O'Lean's cow that started the great Chicago fire, or the honking of the geese
—
who "saved Rome" have no significance for us as ordinary human beings.
But for a philosophy of science the sneeze of an anonymous monkey in the
depths of a jungle is as significant as illustrating the uniqueness of each event
in a temporal series as is the birth of Christ or the death of Caesar.
** Actually, this may depend upon one's point of view, or more accurately,
upon the temporal scope of one's vision. To us, the cosmic process seems to
be evolutionary in character: the universe is expanding (it may be assumed),
or matter is being transmuted into energy. The process seems to be temporal-
formal in character: non-repetitive and irreversible. But this appearance may
be an illusion due to the temporal limits of our observation. Were the period
longer, sufficiently longer, the cosmic process might reveal itself as a repetitive
one: an era of contraction might follow expansion, and so on, in an endless
series of pulsations; matter may be transmuted into energy and re-congealed
into matter, an endless vibration of a cosmic pendulum. So, to a creature that,
compared with us, had an infinitcsimally brief span of observation, the repeti-
ti\'e and rhythmic character of respiration or the heart beat or the rusting of
iron would appear to be evolutionary in character, for seeing only a minute

part of the process, neither the beginning nor the end, he would observe only
a temporal alteration of form, and might declare it to be a non-repetitive
process. And he would be correct too, for the process which he observes is
non-repetitivc just as the dying star and the decomposing radium represent
non-repetiti\e processes to us. Thus, whether a process be labelled repetitive
or e\olutionary depends upon the unit of measurement. Any repetitive process
is made up of a sequence of events which in themselves are non-repetitive.
Conversely, any repetitive process is but a segment of a larger one which is

cvolutionarv in character.
*** One must not confuse duplication with lepetition: there may be transi-
tions from reptile tomammal in many different phyla. These are duplications,
not repetitions.
temporal-spatial process; the term, however, is usually applied to

individuals rather than to classes. Growth is a non-repetitive
process: one is a child only once— second childhood is always a
novelty.
Even at the cost of repetition, it might be well, for the sake
of clarity, to re-emphasize the nature of the distinctions just made.
Actually, each event has a four-dimensional character and has its
place in a four-dimensional, space-time continuum. Thus the rain-

drop is an event in the process of cosmic evolution, and we may
view it as such. But we may also view it in other contexts: in a
purely temporal context, or in a wholly non-temporal context (in
which we consider only the alteration in spatial relationships be-
tween the raindrop, the earth, the clouds, etc.). These contexts
are, of course, devices of own making. They are arbitrarily
our
selected points of view from which we regard and consider reality;
they are the forms, the channels, so to speak, within which we
science.
The formal process is reversible as well as repetitive. Water
freezes, ice thaws; iron rusts, iron oxide decomposes; hay becomes
beef; beef may become hay again; revolt and reaction are cyclical
and opposite processes in society; prices rise and fall, etc. But the
temporal order of events remains immutable; it cannot be reversed.
Only in Through the Looking Glass do Queens scream before
they prick their fingers, or Alices pass the cake before they cut
it. The evolutionary process, being temporal as well as formal, is
likewise irreversible. The stars do not reabsorb energy once ema-

nated, mammals do not return to reptilianism, the days when
knighthood was in flower can never return, "make me a child
again just for tonight" is an impossible request.
The historic process and the evolutionary process are alike in
being temporal in character, i.e., non-repetitive and irreversible.
But, whereas the historic process is merely temporal, the evolu-

tionary process is formal as well: it is a temporal-sequence-of-forms.
Historically Eli Whitney and the invention of the cotton gin are
inseparable events in a chronological sequence. But had Whitney

died in his cradle the evolutionary process expressed in technology
would have produced a machine for ginning cotton. Similarly,
although Lincoln is bound historically to the emancipation of
slaves and Darwin to the formulation of certain biological prin-
ciples, the processes of politico-economic evolution would have
achic\ed the one without Lincoln just as evolution of thought

\\ould have produced the other without Darwin. The invention
of the calculus, which took place almost simultaneously, and inde-

pendently, in the activities of Newton and Leibnitz, was the logi-
cal expression of a developmental process, i.e., it was the emer-
gence of a new mathematical form from previous forms. Just as
the invention of the calculus was not dependent upon either New-
ton or Leibnitz alone, so it was not necessarily dependent upon
them both; it would have occurred eventually if both Newton
and Leibnitz had died in infancy. The development of mathe-
matics, like the development of technology or medicine, is an
evolutionary process:* new forms grow out of preceding forms.
But whose person and labors a new form is to appear, and when
in
and where it is to appear is a matter that belongs to the context

history alone. From the point of view of the evolutionary process
every histoncal event is an accident and in a sense unpredictable.
We may predict that a cure for cancer will be found, but to pre-
dict who will make the discovery and when is impossible. That
the nations of Europe will be embroiled again in a great war in
the not distant future is as safe a prediction as one could make;
the development of technological, economic, political, and military
forces makes another war inevitable. But who will strike the spark
that will set oif the conflagration, and when and where— what
archduke or official will be shot, when, where, and by whom— it
is utterly impossible to say. The passing of a star, drawing out from
the sun a gigantic filament from which the planets of our solar
* Einstein and Infcld have called their recent book The Evolution of
Physics, not the History of Physics, it is significant to note.
system were formed, if a fact, is an historic fact; the process is an

historic process in which specific and severally unique events take
place in a purely temporal context. But this is quite a different
process from that of cosmic or galactic evolution as exemplified,
for instance, by the equi-partition of energy, or the transmutation
of matter into energy, the dying of a star. Similarly, in the biologic
realm, the narrative of the specific wanderings over the face of
the earth, the struggles, intermixture, vicissitudes, etc., of the
various species and races of man is quite a different story from the
account of the evolutionary development.
So far, we have spoken of the inorganic, organic, and superor-
ganic realms, or levels, of reality as if these distinctions could be
taken for granted. For the sake of completeness and clarity, how-
ever, a few words on this subject are desirable.
The distinctions between these levels, or strata, of reality are
valid, and are fundamental for science. The phenomena of these

three levels do not differ from each other in that one is composed
of one kind of basic substance, another of a different kind. They
differ in the manner in which their component parts are organ-
ized into patterns or forms, respectively. Basically all reality may
be assumed to be made up of a common stuff; differences in
various manifestations of realit\' are due to differences in the forms
in which reality confronts us. There are classes, or kinds, of forms
amid the infinite range of specific variation. Physical, biological,
and cultural are labels for three qualitatively different and scientifi-
cally significant classes of forms of reality.
The physical category is composed of non-living phenomena or

systems; the biological, of living organisms. The cultural category,
or order, of phenomena is made up of events that are dependent
upon a faculty peculiar to the human species, namely, the ability
to use symbols. These events are the ideas, beliefs, languages,
tools, utensils, customs, sentiments, and institutions that make up
the civilization— or culture, to use the anthropological term— of
any people, regardless of time, place, or degree of development.
Culture is passed down from one generation to another, or, it may

be borrowed freely by one tribe from another. Its elements inter-
act with one another in accordance with principles of their own.
Culture thus constitutes a supra-biological, or extra-somatic, class
of events, a process suf generis. We
shall analyze this order of
phenomena at some length in the following chapter on The Sym-

bol
Even a casual inspection of our three categories reveals the fact
that biological and cultural phenomena are but particular kinds
of organization of events in the inanimate, and the biological and

physical categories, respectively. Thus, a plant or an animal is but
a peculiar form of organization of carbon, oxygen, calcium, etc.
phenomenon
Likewise a cultural is but a manifestation of biologi-
cal (human beings) and inanimate phenomena organized in a
special manner. Thus events on tlie biologic level (for levels, or
strata, are what these categories are in reality) can be dealt with
in terms of inanimate phenomena: a plant or animal is so much
carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen; it has weight, will fall as a rock, may
be frozen, transformed by fire, and so on. Similarly, a cultural
event— a man taking a Christian oath of office— may be dealt with

in terms of his gestures, vocal and manual, and these, in turn, to-
gether with the book upon which the oath is taken, can be treated
in terms of acoustics, mechanics, physical and chemical properties
of the Bible, and so on.
But the fact that the phenomena of one category (except of
course the first, the inanimate) can be "reduced" to the one, or
ones, below it does not destroy the categories themselves, nor even
minimize their distinctness. Meteors, bullets, pterodactyls, birds,
squirrels, fish, bats, bees, and airplanes "fly" through the air. A
physicist could deal with each as a material body, in terms of mass,
momentum, acceleration, atmospheric resistance, and so on. Con-
sidered merely as material bodies the fact that some are animate,
others inanimate, is of course irrelevant. But merely because this
distinction is not significant to the physicist does not mean that
it is not meaningful in other sectors of science. On the contrary,

organizations of events cannot be fully understood unless they are
interpreted upon the level of their organization. It is a fact, of
course, that bees, bullets, and bats are composed of atoms and
molecules, and this fact is not without significance. But we cannot
appreciate the difference between bees and bullets on the one
hand or between bees and bats on the other on the basis of physi-
cal organization alone. Living organisms constitute a distinct order
of material systems and they must be interpreted as such. Cultural
systems are composed of psycho-physical events, but we cannot

comprehend such a thing as taking an oath of ofEce and distin-
guish it from use of a formula to make beer merely by knowing
that each is made up
of neuro-sensory-muscular reactions and that
these in turn arecomposed of molecular and atomic particles and
processes. However illuminating it may be to reduce systems of
one level to the events of the level below it— and this is unques-
tionably valuable— each order of events, each kind of system, must
be comprehended on its own level also. /
Thus we see that we have three qualitatively distinct levels or

strata of phenomena: the cultural, which is characterized by the
symbol; the biological, characterized by the cell; and the physical,
characterized by the atom, proton, electron, wave, or whatever

other unit, or units, the physicist decides upon.
There are, however, instances in which our ends are not served
by maintaining the distinctions between these three levels. We
may wish to inquire into the relationship between one level and
another. Inquiries of this sort are, needless to say, as legitimate and
potentially profitable as any other. Thus bio-chemistry inquires
into the relationship between the inanimate and the living. Similar
inquiries are directed to the relationship between the biological

and cultural levels. Take the Oedipus complex of psychoanalysis,
for example. A boy's love for his mother, hatred or hostility toward
his father, is of course a reaction of his organism. But these atti-
tudes are functions of the culture in which he was born, also. His
culture not only channels the expression of these emotions but

plays a part in their evocation as well. The attitude of a boy toward
his parents will not be the same in a patriarchal society as in one
matrilincally organized, or in one that recognizes both lines of
descent equally. Thus the Oedipus or Elcctra complex, as well as

all other examples of human behavior— i.e., human behavior as
distinguished from non-human, or sub-human, behavior; there is
nothing peculiarly human about a sneeze, e.g.— are made up of

elements drawn from two different categories: the biological and
the cultural. The formula for human behavior is: Human organism
X Cultural stimuli -^ Human behavior.
Studies of soil erosion may inquire into the relationship between
such things as farming or grazing methods, the lumber industry,
prices of building materials, and reforestation; the quantity and
frequency of rainfall, natural and artificial drainage structures;
winds, and legislation. The search for a material that will destroy
plant or animal pests may involve relationships between all three

levels: the price of commodities, the biological organisms and the
chemicals capable of killing them.
Here again, whether we deal with reality in terms of distinct
categories, or levels, of phenomena, or in terms of relationships
between them, depends upon our purposes and ends. Both ap-
proaches are equally legitimate and potentially profitable.
In summary, we see that we have two classifications of reality
which cut across each other at right angles: the one has to do with
structure (the atom, the cell, the symbol), the other has to do
with process (temporal, formal, and temporal-formal). This gives
us nine categories in which all reality and all manners of sciencing
may be logically and consistently divided as indicated in the
diagram on the opposite page.
On the inanimate level we have cosmic and galactic histories
(such as they are or may be), the history of our solar system, the
history of the earth or of a continent, a mountain chain, a river,
or even a snowflake, encompassed within the purely temporal con-

SCIENCE IS SCIENONG 19
text. In the formal-functional context we have the non-temporal

and repetitive, structural and functional aspects of astronomy,
geology, chemistry, and physics. And in the primary category, the
temporal-formal one, of which the other two are but aspects, we
have cosmic, galactic, stellar,'^ and solar evolution, and the de-
composition of radio-active substances.
category, we have evolution of biologic forms in general, of genera,

species, varieties in particular. The growth of an individual also
comes within this category.

Biography, the history of a human individual, should, in most
instances, be regarded as dealing with both the biologic and the
cultural levels since our interest in a human individual is seldom,
if ever, divorced from the culture in which he has his human be-
ing. Similarly with significant individuals in the sub-human animal

or plant world: the cow that started the Chicago fire, the goose
that saved Rome, the wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus, Man
o' War, the hemlock that killed Socrates, each is significant only
because it enters the context of human cultural history.
On the cultural level we have culture history; a consideration of

nations, reigns, tribes, institutions, tools, ideas, beliefs, etc., in
the temporal context. In the formal-functional context, we have
the studies of "social morphology" in sociology, cultural anthro-
pology', and the other "social sciences." The so-called Functionalist
schools of cultural anthropology— Radcliffe-Brown, Malinowski

and their respective students and co-workers— and the "Chicago
school" of sociolog}', as exemplified by Robert E. Park and E. W.
Burgess and their students, belong here. In the basic category,
that of evolution of culture, we have at present virtually nothing.
After a vigorous and bitter struggle the philosophy of evolution

conquered on the biological field, but, after a few brief advances
it has been routed from the cultural level. A few giants like Her-
bert Spencer, E. B. Tylor, and Lewis H. Morgan, in the "boom"
days of evolutionism in the second half of the nineteenth century
were able to occupy the cultural field for a time. But the anti-
evolutionists regained the field and have held it successfully since
the turn of the century. To be sure both Morgan and Spencer
committed errors in the use of their philosophy, but a mistake
made in the use of a tool does not render the tool worthless. But
cultural anthropologists— and many sociologists— have repudiated
the philosophy of evolutionism along with the errors of some evo-
lutionists: they have poured the baby out with the bath. But the
victory of the anti-evolutionists on the cultural level is only tempo-
rary. As social science matures, the basic concept of science and
philosophy, that reality is temporal-formal in character, will win
its way on the cultural level as it has upon the biologic and inani-
mate levels.
be noted, of course, that the conventional names for "the

It will
sciences" do not readily fit our system of categories. But this is

quite understandable: the terms physics, zoology, sociology, etc.,
have come into use as science has grown, and this growth has
been more or less accidental. The concepts time and space existed
long before it was discovered that time and space are but aspects
of a third thing for which there is no more adequate a name than
space-time. But the fact that the names of "the sciences" do not
correspond to our nine categories in no way invalidates the cate-
gories. The maturity of science in any field can be rather accu-
rately gauged by its vocabulary: as "a science" matures it develops
its own terminology. This has taken place extensively in the physi-
cal and the biological sciences. And such words as instinct,
intelligence, race, society, are now being found so difficult to use

that it is likely they will give way soon to a more effective ter-
minology.
For the scientific worker such terms as psychology, botany,
chemistiy, etc., will no doubt continue to be useful and satis-
factory except in so far as further division of labor and specializa-
tion should make new terms necessary. But for the thinker, for
the philosopher of science, new technical terms are needed. I shall
not presume to supply names for our nine categories. But, since
they represent a realistic and logical analysis of the field, it seems
likely that as these categories obtrude themselves more and more
into systematic thinking, they will eventually receive names.
CHAPTER TWO
THE SYMBOL:
The Oriain and Basis of Human Behavior
"In the Word was the Beginning . . . the beginning of Man and of
Culture."
1n July, 1939, a celebration was held at Leland Stanford

University to commemorate the hundredth anniversary of
the discovery that the cell is the basic unit of all living tissue.
Today we are beginning to realize and to appreciate the fact that
the symbol is the basic unit of all human behavior and civilization.
All human behavior originates in the use of symbols. It was the
symbol which transformed our anthropoid ancestors into men
and made them human. All civilizations have been generated, and
are perpetuated, only by the use of symbols. It is the symbol which
transforms an infant of Homo sapiens into a human being; deaf
mutes who grow up without the use of symbols are not human
beings. All human behavior consists of, or is dependent upon, the
use of symbols. Human behavior is symbolic behavior; symbolic
behavior is human behavior. The symbol is the universe of
humanity.
II
The great Danvin declared in The Descent of Man that

"there is no fundamental difference between man and the higher
22
THE SYMBOL 23
mammals in their mental faculties," that the difference between

them consists "solely in his [man's] almost infinitely larger power
of associating together the most diversified sounds and ideas . . .
the m_ental powers of higher animals do not differ in kind, though

greatly in degree, from the corresponding powers of man" (Chs.
3, 18; emphasis ours).
This view of comparative mentality is held by many scholars
today. Thus, F. H. Hankins, a prominent sociologist, states that
"in spite of his large brain, it cannot be said that man has any
mental traits that are peculiar to him ... All of these human su-
periorities are merely relative or differences of degree." Professor
Ralph Linton, an anthropologist, writes in The Study of Man:
*'The differences between men and animals in all these [behavior]
respects are enormous, but they seem to be differences in quantity
rather than in quality." "Human and animal behavior can be

shown to have so much in common," Linton observes, "that the
gap [between them] ceases to be of great importance." Dr. Alex-
ander Goldenweiser, likewise an anthropologist, believes that "In
point of sheer psychology, mind as such, man is after all no more
than a talented animal" and that "the difference between the
mentality here displayed [by a horse and a chimpanzee] and that
of man is merely one of degree." ^
That there are numerous and impressive similarities between the

behavior of man and that of ape is fairly obvious; it is quite pos-
sible that chimpanzees and gorillas in zoos have noted and appre-
ciated them. Fairly apparent, too, are man's behavioral similarities
to many other kinds of animals. Almost as obvious, but not easy to
define, is a difference in behavior which distinguishes man from
all other living creatures. I say 'obvious' because it is quite ap-
parent to the common man that the non-human animals wdth
which he is familiar do not and cannot enter, and participate in,
the world in which he, as a human being, lives. It is impossible

for a dog, horse, bird, or even an ape, to have any understanding
of the meaning of the sign of the cross to a Christian, or of the
fact that black (white among the Chinese) is the color of mourn-
ing. No chimpanzee or laboratory rat can appreciate the difference
between Holy water and distilled water, or grasp the meaning of
Tuesday, 3, or sin. No animal save man can distinguish a cousin
from an uncle, or a cross cousin from a parallel cousin. Only man
can commit the crime of incest or adultery; only he can remember
the Sabbath and keep it Holy. It is not, as we well know, that the
lower animals can do these things but to a lesser degree than our-
selves; they cannot perform these acts of appreciation and dis-
tinction at all. It is, as Descartes said long ago, "not only that the
brutes have less Reason than man, but that they have none at
2
all."
But when the scholar attempts to define the mental difference

between man and other animals he sometimes encounters diffi-
culties which he cannot surmount and, therefore, ends up by
saying that the difference is merely one of degree: man has a bigger
mind, "larger power of association," wider range of activities, etc.
We have a good example of this in the distinguished physiologist,

Anton J.
Carlson. After taking note of "man's present achieve-
ments in science, in the arts (including oratory), in political and
social institutions," and noting "at the same time the apparent
paucity of such behavior in other animals," he, as a common man
"is tempted to conclude that in these capacities, at least, man has
a qualitative superiority over other mammals." But, since, as a
scientist. Professor Carlson cannot define this qualitative differ-
ence between man and other animals, since as a physiologist he
cannot explain it, he refuses to admit it— ". . . the physiologist
does not accept the great development of articulate speech in man
as something qualitatively new; . .
." —and suggests helplessly that
some day we may find some new "building stone," an "additional
lipoid, phosphatid, or potassium ion," in the human brain which
will explain it, and concludes by saying that the difference be-
tween the mind of man and that of non-man is "probably only
^
one of degree."
THE symbol" 25
The thesis that we shall advance and defend here is that there
is a fundamental difference between the mind of man and the
mind of non-man. This difference is one of kind, not one of de-
gree. And the gap between the two types is of the greatest im- 1]
u
portance— at least to the science of comparative behavior. Man
uses symbols; no other creature does. An organism has the ability
to symbol or it does not; there are no intermediate stages.
Ill
A symbol may be defined as a thing the value or meaning of

which is bestowed upon it by those who use it. I say 'thing' be-
cause a symbol may have any kind of physical form; it may have
the form of a material object, a color, a sound, an odor, a motion
of an object, a taste.
The meaning, or value, of a symbol is in no instance derived
from or determined by properties intrinsic in its physical form: the
color appropriate to mourning may be yellow, green, or any other
color; purple need not be the color of royalty; among the Manchu
rulers of China it was yellow. The meaning of the word "see" is
not intrinsic in its phonetic (or pictorial) properties. "Biting one's

thumb someone might mean anything. The meanings of sym-
at" *
bols are derived from and determined by the organisms who use
them; meaning is bestowed by human organisms upon physical
things or events which thereupon become symbols. Symbols "have
their signification," to use John Locke's phrase, "from the arbi-
*
trary imposition of men."
All symbols must have a physical form otherwise they could not
enter our experience. This statement is valid regardless of our
theory of experiencing. Even the exponents of "Extra-Sensory
Perception" who have challenged Locke's dictum that "the knowl-
edge of the existence of any other thing [besides ourselves and
God] we can have only by sensation," ^ have been obliged to work
* "Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?" —Romeo and Jnliet, Act I, Sc. i.
with physical rather than ethereal forms. But the meaning of a

symbol cannot be discovered by mere sensory examination of its
physical form. One cannot tell by looking at an x in an algebraic
equation what it stands for; one cannot ascertain with the ears
alone the symbolic value of the phonetic compound si; one cannot
tell merely by weighing a pig how much gold he will exchange
for; one cannot tell from the wave length of a color whether it
stands for courage or cowardice, "stop" or "go"; nor can one dis-
cover the spirit in a fetish by any amount of physical or chemical
examination. The meaning of a symbol can be grasped only by

non-sensory, symbolic means.
The nature of symbolic experience may be easily illustrated.
When the Spaniards first encountered the Aztecs, neither oould

speak the language of the other. How could the Indians discover
the meaning of santo, or the significance of the crucifix? How
could the Spaniards learn the meaning of calli, or appreciate
Tlaloc? These meanings and values could not be communicated
by sensory experience of physical properties alone. The finest ears
will not tell you whether santo means "holy" or "hungry." The
keenest senses cannot capture the value of holy water. Yet, as we
all know, the Spaniards and the Aztecs did discover each other's
meanings and appreciate each other's values. But not with sensory
means. Each was able to enter the world of the other only by
virtue of a faculty for which we have no better name than symhoh
But a thing which in one context is a symbol is, in another con-
text, not a symbol but a sign. Thus, a word is a symbol only when
one is concerned with the distinction between its meaning and its
physical form. This distinction must be made when one bestows

value upon a sound-combination or when a previously bestowed
value is discovered for the first time; it may be made at other
times for certain purposes. But after value has been bestowed
upon, or discovered in, a word, its meaning becomes identified, in
use, with its physical form. The word then functions as a sign,
5'y'^ôu v^ S^linU
THE SYMBOL 27
rather than as a symbol. Its meaning is then grasped with the

senses.
We define a sign as a physical thing or event whose function is
to indicate some other thing or event. The meaning of a sign may

be inherent in its physical form and its context, as in the case of
the height of a column of mercury in a thermometer as an indica-
tion of temperature, or the return of robins in the spring. Or, the
meaning of a sign may be merely identified with its physical form
as in the case of a hurricane signal or a quarantine flag. But in
either case, the meaning of the sign may be ascertained by sensory
means. The fact that a thing may be both a symbol (in one con-
text) and a sign (in another context) has led to confusion and
misunderstanding.
Thus Darwin says: "That which distinguishes man from the
lower animals is not the understanding of articulate sounds, for
as everyone knows, dogs understand many words and sentences,"
(Ch. Ill, The Descent of Man).
It is perfectly true, of course, that dogs, apes, horses, birds, and
perhaps creatures even lower in the evolutionary scale, can be
taught to respond in a specific way to a vocal command. Little
Gua, the infant chimpanzee in the Kelloggs' experiment, was, for
a time, "considerably superior to the child in responding to human

words." ^ But it does not follow that no difference exists between
the meaning of "words and sentences" to a man and to an ape or
dog. Words are both signs and symbols to man; they are merely
signs to a dog. Let us analyze the situation of vocal stimulus and
response.
A dog may be taught to roll over at the command "Roll over!'*
A man may be taught to stop at the command "Halt!" The fact
that a dog can be taught to roll over in Chinese, or that he can be
taught to "go fetch" at the command "roll over" (and, of course,
the same is true for a man) shows that there is no necessary and
invariable relationship between a particular sound combination
and a specific reaction to it. The dog or the man can be taught
to respond in a certain manner to any arbitrarily selected combi-

nation of sounds, for example, a group of nonsense syllables,
coined for the occasion. On the other hand, any one of a great
number and variety of responses may become evocable by a given
stimulus. I'hus, so far as the origin of the relationship between
vocal stimulus and response is concerned, the nature of the rela-
tionship, i.e., the meaning of the stimulus, is not determined by

properties intrinsic in the stimulus.
But, once the relationship has been established between vocal
stimulus and response, the meaning of the stimulus becomes
identified with the sounds; it is then as if the meaning were intrin-
sic in the sounds themselves. Thus, 'halt' does not have the same
meaning as 'hilt' or 'malt,' and these stimuli are distinguished from
one another with the auditory mechanism. A dog may be con-
ditioned to respond in a certain way to a sound of a given wave
length. Sufficiently alter the pitch of the sound and the response
will cease to be forthcoming. The meaning of the stimulus has
become identified with its physical form; its value is appreciated
with the senses.
Thus in sign behavior we see that in establishing a relationship
between a stimulus and a response the properties intrinsic in the
stimulus do not determine the nature of the response. But, after
the relationship has been established the meaning of the stimulus
is as if it were inherent in its physical form. It does not make any
difference what phonetic combination we select to evoke the re-
sponse of terminating self-locomotion. We may teach a dog, horse,

or man to stop at any vocal command we care to choose or devise.
But once the relationship has been established between sound and
response, the meaning of the stimulus becomes identified with its
physical form and is, therefore, perceivable with the senses.

So far we have discovered no difference between the dog and
the man; they appear to be exactly alike. And so they are as far
as we have gone. But we have not told the whole story yet. No
difference between dog and man is discoverable so far as learning
THE SYMBOL 29
to respond appropriately to a vocal stimulus is concerned. But we

must not let an impressive similarity conceal an important differ-
ence. A porpoise is not yet a fish.
The man differs from the dog— and all other creatures— in that
he can and does phy an what value the
active role in determining
vocal stimulus is to have, and the dog cannot. The dog does not
and cannot play an active part in determining the value of the
vocal stimulus. Whether he is to roll over or go fetch at a given
stimulus, or whether the stimulus for roll over be one combination
of sounds or another is a matter in which the dog has nothing
whatever to "say." He plays a purely passive role and can do
nothing else. He learns the meaning of a vocal command just as
his salivary glands may learn to respond to the sound of a bell. But
man plays an active role and thus becomes a creator: let x equal
three pounds of coal and it does equal three pounds of coal; let
removal of the hat in a house of worship indicate respect and it
becomes so. This creative faculty, that of freely, actively, and arbi-
trarily bestowing value upon things, is one of the most common-

place as well as the most important characteristic of man. Children
employ it freely in their play: "Let's pretend that this rock is a
wolf."
The difference between the behavior of man and other animals
then, is that the lower animals may receive new values, may ac-
quire new meanings, but they cannot create and bestow them.
Only man can do this. To use a crude analogy, lower animals are
like a person who has only the receiving apparatus for wireless
messages: he can receive messages but cannot send them. Man can
do both. And this difference is one of kind, not of degree: a crea-
ture can either "arbitrarily impose signification," can either create
and bestow values, or he cannot. There are no intermediate
stages. This difference may appear slight, but, as a carpenter once
told William James in discussing differences between men, "It's
very important." All human existence depends upon it and it
alone.
The confusion regarding the nature of words and their signifi-
cance to men and the lower animals is not hard to understand.

It arises, first of all, from a failure to distinguish between the two
quite different contexts in which words function. The statements,
"The meaning of a word cannot be grasped with the senses," and

"The meaning of a word can be grasped with the senses," though
contradictory, are nevertheless equally true. In the symbol context
the meaning cannot be perceived with the senses; in the sign con-
text it can. This is confusing enough. But the situation has been
made worse by using the words 'symbol' and 'sign' to label, not
the different contexts, but one and the same thing; the word. Thus
a word is a symbol and a sign, two different things. It is like saying
that a vase is a doU and a kana— twô different things— because it
may function in two contexts, esthetic and commercial.
IV
That man is unique among animal species with respect to

mental abilities, that a fundamental difference of kind— not of
degree— separates man from all other animals is a fact that has
long been appreciated, despite Darwin's pronouncement to the

contrary. Long ago, in his Discouise on Method, Descartes pointed
out that "there are no men so dull and stupid ... as to be incapa-
ble of joining together different words ... on the other hand, there
is no other animal, however perfect . . . which can do the like,"
John Locke, too, saw clearly that "the power of abstracting is not
at all in them [i.e., beasts], and that the having of general ideas
is that which puts a perfect distinction between man and brutes,
and is an excellency which the faculties of brutes do by no means
attain to . . . they have no use of words or any other general
signs." ^ The great British anthropologist, E. B. Tylor, remarked
upon "the mental gulf that divides the lowest savage from the
highest ape ... A young child can understand what is not proved
to have entered the mind of the cleverest dog, elephant, or ape." ^
y I Jr^ it/> ^^r\i

THE SYMBOL 31
And, of course, there are many today who recognize the "mental
gulf" between man and other species.
Thus, for over a century we have had, side by side, two traditions
in comparative psychology. One has declared that man does not
differ from other animals in mental abilities except in degree. The
other has seen clearly that man is unique in at least one respect,
that he possesses an ability that no other animal has. The difficulty
of defining this difference adequately has kept this question open

until the present day. The distinction between sign behavior and
symbol behavior as drawn here may, we hope, contribute to a
solution of this problem once and for all.
V
Very little indeed is known of the organic basis of the sym-
bolic faculty: we know next to nothing of the neurology of
"symbolling." And very few scientists— anatomists, neurologists or
physical anthropologists— appear to be interested in the subject.
Some, in fact, seem to be unaware of the existence of such a prob-
lem. The duty and task of giving an account of the neural basis of
symbolling does not, however, fall within the province of the
sociologist or the cultural anthropologist. On the contrary, he
should scrupulously exclude it as irrelevant to his problems and
interests; to introduce it would bring only confusion. It is enough
for the sociologist or cultural anthropologist to take the ability to
use symbols, possessed by man alone, as given. The use to which

he puts this fact is in no way affected by his, or even the anato-
mist's, inability to describe the symbolic process in neurological
terms. However, it is well for the social scientist to be acquainted
with the little that neurologists and anatomists do know about the
structural basis of symbolling. We, therefore, review briefly the
chief relevant facts here.

The anatomist has not been able to discover why men can use
symbols and apes cannot. So far as is known the only difference
between the brain of man and the brain of an ape is a quantitative
one: ". . . man has no new kinds of brain cells or brain cell con-
nections," as A. Carlson has remarked. Nor does man, as dis-

J.
tinguished from other animals, possess a specialized "symbol-

mechanism." The so-called speech areas of the brain should not
be identified with symbolling. The notion that symbolling is
identified with, or dependent upon, the ability to utter articulate

sounds is not uncommon. Thus, L. L. Bernard lists as "the fourth
great organic asset of man ... his vocal apparatus, . . . character-
istic of him But this is

alone." an erroneous conception. The great
apes have the mechanism necessary for the production of articulate
sounds. "It seemingly is well established," write R. M. and A. W.

Yerkes in The Great Apes, "that the motor mechanism of voice
in this ape [chimpanzee] is adequate not only to the production
of a considerable variety of sounds, but also to definite articula-
tions similar to those of man." And the physical anthropologist,
E. A. Hooton, asserts that "all of the anthropoid apes are vocally
and muscularly equipped so that they could have an articulate
language if they possessed the requisite intelligence." Furthermore,

as Descartes and Locke pointed out long ago, there are birds who
do actually utter articulate sounds, who duplicate the sounds of
human speech, but who of course are quite incapable of symbol-
ling. The "speech areas" of the brain are merely areas associated
with the muscles of the tongue, with the larynx, etc. But, as we
know, symbolling is not at all confined to the use of these organs.
One may symbol with any part of the body that he can move at
will.«
To be sure, the symbolic faculty was brought into existence by

the natural processes of organic evolution. And we may reasonably
believe that the focal point, if not the locus, of this facultv is in
the brain, especially the forebrain. Man's brain is much larger than
that of an ape, both absolutely and relatively. Tlie brain of the
average adult human male is about 1500 c.c. in size; brains of
seldom exceed 500 c.c. Relatively, the human brain weighs
gorillas
about i/5oth of the entire body weight, while that of a gorilla

THE SYMBOL 33
varies from i/i5oth to i/20oth part of that weight.^'^ And the

forebrain especially is large in man as compared with ape. Now
in many situations we know that quantitative changes give rise to

qualitative differences. Water is transformed into steam by addi-
tional quantities of heat. Additional power and speed lift the

taxiing airplane from the ground and transform terrestrial locomo-
tion into flight. The difference between wood alcohol and grain
alcohol is a qualitative expression of a quantitative difference in
the proportions of carbon and hydrogen. Thus a marked growth
in size of the brain in man may have brought forth a new kind
of function.
VI
All culture (civilization) depends upon the symbol. It was
the exercise of the symbolic faculty that brought culture into ex-
istence and it is the use of symbols that makes the perpetuation
of culture possible. Without the symbol there would be no cul-
ture, and man would be merely an animal, not a human being.
Articulate speech is the most important form of symbolic ex-
pression. Remove speech from culture and what would remain?

Let us see.
Without articulate speech we would have no human social or-

ganization. Families we might have, but this form of organization
is not peculiar to man; it is not per se, human. But we would have
no prohibitions of incest, no rules prescribing exogamy and en-
dogamy, polygamy or monogamy. How could marriage with a
cross cousin be prescribed, marriage with a parallel cousin pro-
scribed, without articulate speech? How could rules which prohibit

plural mates possessed simultaneously but permit them if pos-
sessed one at a time, exist without speech?
Without speech we would have no political, economic, ecclesi-
astic, or military organization; no codes of etiquette or ethics; no

laws; no science, theology, or literature; no games or music, except
on an ape level. Rituals and ceremonial paraphernalia would be
meaningless without articulate speech. Indeed, without articulate

speech we would be all but toolless: we would have only the oc-
casional and insignificant use of the tool such as we find today
among the higher apes, for it was articulate speech that trans-
formed the non-progressive tool-using of the ape into the

progressive, cumulative tool-using of man, the human being.
In short, without symbolic communication in some form, we
would have no culture. "In the Word was the beginning" of cul-
ture—and its perpetuation also.
To be sure, with all his culture man is still an animal and strives
for the same ends that all other living creatures strive for: the
preservation of the individual and the perpetuation of the race.
In concrete terms these ends are food, shelter from the elements,
defense from enemies, health, and offspring. The fact that man
strives for these ends just as all other animals do has, no doubt,
led many to declare that there is "no fundamental difference be-
tween the behavior of man and of other creatures." But man does
differ, not in ends but in means. Man's means are cultural means:
culture is simply the human animal's way of living. And, since
these means, culture, are dependent upon a faculty possessed by
man alone, the ability to use symbols, the difference between the
behavior of man and of all other creatures is not merely great, but
basic and fundamental.
VII
The behavior of man is of two distinct kinds: symbolic and

non-symbolic. Man yawns, stretches, coughs, scratches himself,
cries out in pain, shrinks with fear, "bristles" with anger, and so
on. Non-symbolic behavior of this sort is not peculiar to man; he
shares it not only with the other primates but with many other
animal species as well. But man communicates with his fellows
with articulate speech, uses amulets, confesses sins, makes laws,
observes codes of etiquette, explains his dreams, classifies his rela-
tives in designated categories, and so on. This kind of behavior
THE SYMBOL 35
is unique; only man is capable of it; it is peculiar to man because

it consists of, or is dependent upon, the use of symbols. The non-
symbolic behavior of Homo sapiens is man the
the behavior of
animal; the symbolic behavior is that of man the human being.
It is the symbol which has transformed man from a mere animal
to a human animal.
Because human behavior is symbol behavior and since the be-
havior of infra-human species is non-symbolic, it follovi^s that we
can learn nothing about human behavior from observations upon
or experiments with the lower animals. Experiments with rats and
apes have indeed been illuminating. They have thrown much light
upon mechanisms and processes of behavior among mammals or
the higher vertebrates. But they have contributed nothing to an
understanding of human behavior because the symbol mechanism
and all of its consequences are totally lacking among the lower
species. And as for neuroses in rats, it is of course interesting to
know that rats can be made neurotic. But science probably had a
better understanding of psychopathic behavior among human be-
ings before neuroses were produced experimentally in rats than
they now have of the neuroses of the rats. Our understanding of
human neuroses has helped us to understand those of rats; we
have, as a matter of fact, interpreted the latter in terms of human
pathology. But I cannot see where the neurotic laboratory rats
have served to deepen or enlarge our understanding of human be-

havior.
As it was the symbol that made mankind human, so it is with
each member of the species. A baby is not a human being until he
begins to symbol. Until the infant begins to talk there is nothing
to distinguish his behavior qualitatively from that of a very young
ape, as The Ape and the Child showed. As a matter of fact, one
of the impressive results of this fascinating experiment by Professor
and Mrs. Kellogg was the demonstration of how ape-like an infant
of Homo sapiens is before he begins to talk. The baby boy ac-
quired exceptional proficiency in climbing in association with the
littiechimpanzee, and even acquired her "food bark"! The Kel-

loggs speak of how the httle ape became "humanized" during her
sojourn in their home. But what the experiment demonstrated so
conclusively was the ape's utter inability to learn to talk or even to
make any progress in this direction— in short, her inability to be-
come "humanized" at all.
The infant of the species Homo sapiens becomes human only
when and as he exercises his symbol faculty. Only through articu-
late speech— not necessarily vocal— can he enter the world of hu-
man beings and take part in their affairs. The questions asked
earlier may be repeated now. How could a growing child know
and appreciate such things as social organization, ethics, etiquette,
ritual, science, religion, art and games without symbolic communi-

cation? The answer is of course that he could know nothing of
these things and have no appreciation of them at all.
The question of "wolf children" is relevant here. A belief in
instances in which human children have been reared by wolves or

other animals has flourished ever since the myth of Romulus and
Remus— and long before that time. Despite the fact that accounts
of "wolf children" have been shown repeatedly to be erroneous or
unsupported by adequate evidence ever since Blumenbach dis-
covered that "Wild Peter" was merely a half-witted boy ejected

from his home at the instance of a newly acquired stepmother,
this deplorable folk-tale still flourishes in certain "scientific" circles
today. But the use to which these lupine wards and "feral men"
are put by some sociologists and psychologists is a good one,
namely, to show that a member of the species Homo sapiens who
lives is a world without symbols is not a human being but a brute.
To paraphrase Voltaire, one might say that if wolf children did
not exist "social science" would have to invent them.
Children who have been cut off from human intercourse for
yearsby blindness and deafness but who have eventually effected
communication with their fellows on a symbolic level are ex-
ceedingly illuminating. The ease of Helen Keller is exceptionally
THE SYMBOL 37
instructive, although those of Laura Bridgman, Marie Heurtin,

and others ^^ are very valuable also.
Helen Keller was rendered blind and deaf at a very early age
by illness. She grew up as a child without symbolic contact with

anyone. Descriptions of her at the age of seven, the time at which
her teacher, Miss Sullivan, came to her home, disclose no human
attributes of Helen's behavior at all. She was a headstrong, un-
disciplined and unruly little animal.^^
Within a day or so after her arrival at the Keller home, Miss
Sullivan taught Helen her first word, spelling But
it into her hand.
this word was merely a sign, not a symbol. A
week later Helen
knew several words but, as Miss Sullivan reports, she had "no idea
how to use them or that everything has a name." Within three
weeks Helen knew eighteen nouns and three verbs. But she was
still on the level of signs; she still had no notion "that everything
has a name."
Helen confused the word signs for "mug" and "water" because,
apparently, both were associated with drinking. Miss Sullivan
made a few attempts to clear up this confusion but without suc-
cess. One morning, however, about a month after Miss Sullivan's
arrival, the two went out to the pump in the garden. What hap-
pened then is best told in their own words:
I made Helen hold her mug under the spout while I pumped.
As the cold water gushed forth, filling the mug, I spelled

V-a-t-e-r' into Helen's free hand. The word coming so close
upon the sensation of cold water rushing over her hand seemed
to startle her. She dropped the mug and stood as one trans-
fixed, A new light came into her face. She spelled 'water'
several times. Then she dropped on the ground and asked for
its name and pointed to the pump and the trellis, and sud-
denly turning round she asked for my name ... In a few hours
she had added thirty new words to her vocabulary.
But these words were now more than mere signs as they are to
a dog and as they had been to Helen up to then. They were sym-
boh. Helen had at last grasped and turned the key that admitted
her for the first time to a new universe: the world of human be-
ings. Helen describes this marvellous experience herself:
We walked down the path to the well-house, attracted by the

fragrance of the honeysuckle with which it was covered. Some-
one was drawing water and my teacher placed my hand under
the spout. As the cool stream gushed over one hand she spelled
into the other the word water, first slowly, then rapidly. I stood
still, my whole attention fixed upon the motion of her fingers.
Suddenly I felt a misty consciousness as of something for-

gotten— a thrill of returning thought; and somehow the mystery
of language was revealed to me. I knew then that 'w-a-t-e-r'
meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my
hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope,
joy, set it free!
Helen was transformed on the instant by this experience. Miss

Sullivan had managed to touch Helen's symbol mechanism and
set it in motion. Helen, on her part, grasped the external world
with this mechanism that had lain dormant and inert all these
years, sealed in dark and silent isolation by eyes that could not see
and ears that heard not. But now she had crossed the boundary
and entered a new land. Henceforth her progress would be rapid.
"I left the well-house," Helen reports, "eager to learn. Every-
thing had a name, and each name gave birth to a new thought.
As we returned to the house ever}' object which I touched seemed
to quiver with life. That was because I saw everything with the
strange new sight that had come to me."
Helen became humanized rapidly. "I see an improvement in
Helen from day to day," Miss Sullivan wrote in her diary, "almost
horn hour to hour. Everything must have a name now . . . She
drops the signs and pantomime she used before as soon as she has
words to supply their place . . . We notice her face grows more
expressive each day . .
."
THE SYMBOL 39
A more eloquent and convincing account of the significance of

symbols and of the great gulf between the human mind and that
of minds without symbols could hardly be imagined.
VIII
SummaTy. The natural processes of biologic evolution

brought into existence in man, and man alone, a new and distinc-
tive ability: the ability to use symbols. The most important form
of symbolic expression is articulate speech. Articulate speech
means communication of ideas; communication means preserva-
tion — tradition— and preservation means accumulation and pro-
gress. The emergence of the faculty of symbolling has resulted in
the genesis of a new order of phenomena: an extra-somatic,
cultural, order. All civilizations are born of, and are perpetuated
by, the use of symbols. A culture, or civilization, is but a particular
kind of form which the biologic, life-perpetuating activities of a
particular animal, man, assume.

Human behavior is symbolic behavior; if it is not symbolic, it
is not human. The infant of the genus Homo becomes a human

being only as he is introduced into and participates in that order
ofphenomena which is culture. And the key to this world and the
means of participation in it is— the symbol.
CHAPTER THREE
ON THE USE OF TOOLS BY PRIMATES
"Tools X Symbols = Culture."
IVl an has often been characterized as "the tool-using ani-

mal," the implication being that no other animal uses tools.
Benjamin Franklin went farther, it is said,* and defined
man as the tool-malcing animal. A century later, when everyone
was discussing Darwinism, many learned men were willing to ad-
mit that other animals might use tools, but insisted that man alone
was able to make them. The Duke of Argyll, for example, argued
in his Primeval Man that a great "gulf," a "whole immeasurable

distance," ^ lay between man and the brutes with respect to tools.
He admitted that some of the lower animals use tools, but he in-
sisted that "in no case whatever do they ever use an implement

made by themselves." Edward Clodd also insisted that if man
"is not the only tool-user, he is the only tool-maker among the
Primates." ^ Danvin, unwilling to go farther than the evidence of
his day would permit, wisely left the question open. Today, thanks
particularly to the observations and experiments made among
chimpanzees by Wolfgang Kohler and reported in his fascinating
book. The Mentality of Apes, we know that apes can and do make
tools. The evidence on this point is accepted as conclusive by such
* Anthologies of quotations and authors without number credit Franklin with

this definition. The writer has not had time to plough through his Collected
Works, but considerable research has failed to discover this statement in
Franklin's writings. Someone asked for the reference in Notes and Queries
years ago (Vol. 8, 1913), but received no answer, apparently. Did Franklin
really say this, or is it merely scholars' folklore?
40
ON THE USE OF TOOLS BY PRIMATES 41
students of primates as R. W. Yerkes, E. A. Hooton, T. C.

Schnierla, and A. L. Kroeber. However, we still find some reluc-
tance to admit anthropoids to the category of tool-makers. Thus,

the British anthropologist, Grahame Clark, in his recent From
Savagery to Civilization, asserts that "the understanding use of
tools and their purposive devising is a characteristic of man alone"
(p. 7). And Wilhelm Schmidt, the leader of the so-called Kultur-
kreis school of anthropology, is unwilling to admit that the lower
primates are able even to use "real tools," let alone make them.^
Scientific studies of apes during recent decades have disclosed a
skill and a versatility in the use of tools that is quite remarkable.
They readily employ sticks as levers; they build structures of boxes;
use sticks in digging; and otherwise employ a great variety of ma-
terials as tools. More noteworthy still, apes (chimpanzees) have
shown themselves capable of inventing—by a process of under-
standing and insight— tools, and of accomplishing their manufac-
ture in instances that required the artificial shaping of materials.
Sultan, one of the chimpanzees observed by Kohler, combined
two sticks by inserting the end of one into the hollow end of the
other, thus making a tool long enough to obtain food hitherto out
of reach. "That the combined sticks were perceived and used as
a true tool and not used simply by accident," writes the compara-
tive psychologist Schnierla, "was indicated by the fact that when
the sticks became separated, the animal straightway reconnected
them in a manner that suggested an understanding of their func-
tion together." * He even contrived to put three sticks together
in this manner. Once when the one stick was too large to be in-
serted into the hollow end of the other. Sultan chewed it down
until it would fit. Chimpanzees readily build structures of boxes
and crates, sometimes four or five storeys high, in order to obtain
food originally suspended out of reach. They demonstrate in this
way their ability to modify and to rearrange their environment,

to relate one thing to another and to an objective in terms of their
physical properties, which is the essence of the tool-process.
The question naturally arises, therefore, why do not apes have

a culture, at least a material culture? Why is it that tool-using
among apes is not a cumulative and progressive phenomenon as

it is among mankind?
The limitations upon the use of tools by apes are not imposed,
it appears, by anatomical or sensory shortcomings. The senses of
apes, with the exception of the sense of statics, are quite as keen
and as suitable for wielding material objects as are those of men.
Nor are apes limited to coarse and crude implements, or to those
requiring brute strength rather than delicacy. They can handle
string and straws with skill; they are able deftly to remove slivers
from their hands and feet. One chimpanzee under observation

readily learned to thread a needle. Little Gua, the baby chimpan-
zee in the Kelloggs' experiment, learned to eat with a spoon more
readily than did the child who was trained with her. She was more
skillful and effective, too, in her solution of the "suspended cookie
test," and in obtaining food by means of a hoe. Thus it appears
that the limitations upon the use of among apes are not
tools
physical in character. As Professor E. A. Hooton has expressed it:
. . . observation of the anthropoid apes does not make it seem

probable that their tool-using abilities are strictly limited by the
conformation of their hands or arms, in spite of the relative
coarseness of these members, resulting, no doubt, from the loco-
motor and suspensory uses to which they are put ... I do
not believe that the anthropoid apes are manually incapable
of most of the ordinary movements in which man employs
his hands.^
Professor R. H. Lowie has suggested that the reason for the lack
of culture among apes lies in their inability to transmit their tool
knowledge and experience from one to another by imitation. "If
his neighbors imitated him," says Professor Lowie, speaking of
the chimpanzee who invents and uses a tool, "if he taught them
his trick and they all passed it on to their offspring, chimpanzees
would be on the highroad to culture. But they do nothing of the

® Professor Lowie seems to be misinformed concerning apes.
sort."
According to such authorities as R. M. and A, W. Yerkes, "the

chimpanzee commonly and with great facility imitates acts." ^
Numerous examples of communication of experience by imitation

are to be found also in W. Kohler's The Mentality of Apes. Apes,
it would appear, do ape. As E. B. Tylor long ago observed,
really
"the faculty of learning by imitation comes out in the apes in an

almost human way." ^ Thus the reason for their lack of a material
culture cannot lie in this direction.
It can hardly be argued that apes have no material culture be-
cause they have no need for one, or because they could derive no
advantage or benefit from it. In the first place we must note that
levers, hammers, digging sticks, poking sticks, missiles, etc., are
actually used to practical advantage by apes. Why would not spears
and daggers be useful to them in self-protection? Would not bags
be useful to carry or store food or other things? To turn from the
practical and utilitarian to the esthetic and recreational, and,
noting the fondness of chimpanzees for games, dancing, and per-
sonal adornment, would not drums, rattles, necklaces, gorgets, and
a hundred other similar things bring endless joy and satisfaction
to the simian heart? Indeed, the ape could use and enjoy a culture
quite as well as his human cousin.
Why, then, do apes lack a material culture? It is due to his
"lack of brains," or "lack of intelligence," according to Professor
Hooton.^ This, in our opinion, is quite correct. But it is not a
sufEcient answer. Merely to say "lack of brains" tells us very little
about the difference between the use of tools by man and ape.
The essential difference between apes and men with regard to
use of tools is not, as we have seen, that man is more skillful,
versatile, or even inventive. As a matter of fact, the inventive
ability of man is frequently over-rated. The archeological record of
cultural development makes it clear that until relatively recent
times inventions were decidedly infrequent; thousands of years
might elapse between the appearance of an awl and the invention

of the needle— although all one had to do to effect this advance
was to drill a hole in the blunt end of the awl. The invention of
the steamboat is often regarded as a great achievement and indeed

it was. Yet is consisted merely of combining already existing tools—
an engine and a boat— of putting one and one together. Chim-
panzees are able to do this. Nor does the difference between man
and ape lie in an ability to imitate, to communicate tool-expe-
rience from one to another, for, as we have noted, apes freely

do The fundamental difference consists in the fact that the
this.
use of tools among men is a cumulative and progressive process

whereas among apes it is neither. This is not to say that an indi-
vidual ape does not make progress in his use of tools nor that he
cannot increase his repertory of tool behavior. What we are say-
ing is that apes as species make no progress in tool-using; one
generation is no further advanced than its predecessor. With
man, of course, it is the reverse: each generation may build upon
and add to the tools and techniques of its predecessors. It is
precisely this process of accumulation and progress in technology

that has lifted man from the level of the brute and carried him
through savager}' and barbarism to civilization.
But our question is still unanswered: Why does this difference

between man and ape exist?
Tool-using among men is a different kind of activity, fundamen-

tally and qualitatively different in a psychological sense, from tool-
using among apes. Among apes the use of tools is a conceptual

By conceptual we
process as well as a neuro-sensory-muscular one.
mean the formation by the ape of a configuration of behavior in
which he, a tool, and the thing upon which the tool is to be used
are functionally related to one another. The ape is able to solve
his problem by means of insight and understanding, and to effect
the solution implicitly before he executes it overtly. This is what
we mean by conceptual. In the human species, the tool process is
also conceptual and neuro-sensory-muscular in character. But it is

more than this; it is symbolic as well. Human beings express their

concepts in symbolic form. Thus they not only have tools and
concepts of tools, but they have and use words of tools— axe, knife,
hammer, etc. It was the introduction of symbols, word-formed
symbols, into the tool process that transformed anthropoid tool-
behavioT into human tool-behavior.
We must distinguish two aspects of the tool-using process, the
intra-organismal and the extra-organismal, the subjective and the
overt or explicit. On the one hand we have the animal's sensory
perception of tools and other material objects in the external
world and his bodily reactions to them. On the other hand, are
the inner, neural processes of imagination and insight in which
patterns of behavior to be executed overtly are formed. In short,
we have the inner, mental aspect of tool-using and the outer,
motor aspect.
A significant characteristic of ape tool-behavior is that it is a

discontinuous psychological process. In its overt, motor aspect
the discontinuity of tool-experience is, of course, a necessity; one
cannot be engaged in wielding tools all the time. But in the ape,
tool-experience is discontinuous on the subjective side as well as
upon the objective. "Out of sight out of mind" fairly well char-
acterizes the ape's mentality. Kohler observes that the "disap-
pearance of a sick (or dying) animal [chimpanzee] has little effect
on the rest, so long as he is taken out of sight." ^° There is some

foresight and some hindsight in the ape. But the characteristic
feature of their mental life is the "extremely narrow limits" of

the temporal world in which they live; this, according to Kohler,
is "the chief difference . . . between anthropoids and even the
most primitive human beings." ^^ The ape lives in a small world.
Spatially it is confined to the range of his senses; temporally it is
limited to the moment, with perhaps an occasional dawn of antici-

pation and a twilight of reminiscence. Thus, tool-experience in
the ape is a series of disconnected episodes. He wields a tool then
lays it down. When he is confronted by a "tool situation" he sizes
up the situation, formulates a plan, puts it into execution, solves
his problem, and that is the end of it. On the inner, subjective
side, the ape's tool-experience is limited to the external and overt
experience. Tool-using among apes is thus a discontinuous_psycho-
logical process subjectively as well as objectively;..
With man, tool-experience is quite different. Overtly, tool-
using is a discontinuous process as, of course, must be. But

it
subjectively, tool-experience in man is continuous and enduring.

Man differs from the apes, and indeed all other living creatures
so far as we know, he in that is capable of symbolic behavior.
With words man creates a new world, a world of ideas and philos-
A^ ophies. In this world man lives just as truly as in the physical
world of his senses. Indeed, man feels that the essential quality
of his existence consists in his occupancy of this world of symbols
and ideas— or, as he sometimes calls it, the world of the mind or
spirit. This world of ideas comes to have a continuity and a per-
manence that the external world of the senses can never have.
It is not made up of the present only, but of a past and a future as
well. Temporally it is not a succession of disconnected episodes,

but a continuum extending to infinity in both directions, from
eternity to eternity. As John Dewey has aptly expressed it:
Man from the lower animals because he preserves his

differs
past experiences With the animals, an experience perishes

. . .
as it happens, and each new doing or suffering stands alone.

But man lives in a world where each occurrence is charged with
echoes and reminiscences of what has gone before, where each
event is a reminder of other things. Hence he lives not, like
the beasts of the field, in a world of merely physical things but
in a world of signs and symbols.^^
This inner world of ideas in which man dwells seems more real
to him than the outer world of the senses. We have a classic
example of this in the philosophy of idealism: ideas come first;
they are the real things; they endure forever; material objects and
sensory experiences are merely imperfect and ephemeral manifesta-
tions of the Ideas.* We have essentially the same idea, though

perhaps in a more primitive, and also more graphic, form in the
Christian conception of the Word: "In the beginning was the
Word." The Word is also creative: from the spoken word the
world came into being. The Word also became flesh (John, I,
14). Thus, in man's naive philosophies, ideas and words come first.
They are "more real" than the things of the senses. They are
enduring and eternal.
It is in such a world as this that man knows and wields tools.
To him a tool is not merely a material object, or even a sensory
image as it may be to an ape. It is also an idea. It is a part of that
timeless inner world in which man lives. It is not something
that exists for the moment only: it functions in the living past
and is projected into the unborn future. The tool in man's mind,
like Plato's ideas in the mind of God, is eternal. Hence tool-
experience for man is more than a series of disconnected episodes,

of grasping and using tools and laying them down again. These
overt acts are merely occasional expressions of an ideational expe-
rience within him that is continuous and unbroken.
Thus the difference between ape and man: In the ape, tool-
experience is a series of discrete episodes; the inner experience

begins and ends with the overt act. In man, tool-experience is a
continuum. Though the overt expression of this experience is dis-
connected and episodic, the inner experience is an uninterrupted

flow. And it is the symbol, the word-formed idea, that makes this
continuity of experience possible.
When Professor Lowie endeavors to account for the ape's lack
of culture by the and hence to transmit and
inability to imitate,
perpetuate tool-experience, he is on the right track even

really
though his premise is wrong. For what he is getting at is con-
* Plato thought of these ideas as "laid up in the mind of God" rather than
originating and functioning in the minds of men. But it is not uncommon
for man to mistake himself for God; even great philosophers are guilty of this
cnor occasionally.
tinuity of experience. Similarly, Professor A. L. Kroeber in dis-
cussing "the inventive but cultureless ape/' suggests that "perhaps

the thing which essentially makes culture is precisely those trans-
missive and preservative elements, those relational or binding

factors, which social scientists have indeed occupied themselves
with, but have been inclined to regard as after all of secondary
importance in comparison with the dynamic phenjomenon of
^^
invention."
Culture without continuity of experience is, of course, im-
possible. But what sort of continuity of experience is prerequisite
to culture? It is not the continuity which comes from the com-
munication of experience by imitation, for we find this among
apes. Clearly, it is continuity on the subjective side rather than
on the objective, or overt, that is essential. As we have shown, it
is the symbol, particularly in word form, which provides this

element of continuity in the tool-experience of man. And, finally,
it is this factor of continuity in man's tool-experience that has

made accumulation and progress, in short, a material culture,
K possible.
..A-
''^"-'^ ft- l-t^^ 'M ^ "MIo-^^

rl v\
Ta /... ^
,
I ./ .
^
1
CHAPTER FOUR
MIND IS MINDING
"We should have a great many fewer disputes in the world if words
were taken for what they are, signs of our ideas only, and not for things
in themselves." —
Locke, An Essay Concerning Human Understanding.
J. he problem of the relation between body and mind has

occupied philosophers and scientists since the dawn of
thought, and to many it appears no nearer a solution now
than then. It has been named the central problem of all philos-
ophy, fundamental alike in the theory of knowledge, in ethics and

in religion. Not less fundamental, however, is it for psychology
."
and for physical science . .
These are the opening words of the article "Body and Mind" in
the Encyclopedia oi Religion and Ethics by James Lewis
Mclntyre, Anderson lecturer in comparative psychology to the
University of Aberdeen. Hundreds of books and thousands of
lectures and articles have been devoted to the "mind-body" prob-
lem. How is it possible for the body to have a mind? How can the
mind have a body? Which is the reality,the body or the mind?
How are body and mind articulated with each other? These are
some of the questions which have plagued mankind for many a
century. And "to many they appear no nearer to solution now
than then."
Why has the "solution" not been reached? Where is the
difficulty?
49
It is the thesis of this essay that the "solution" has not been
reached because the problem is a false one, somewhat like the
paradoxes of Zeno. The difficulty is one of verbal origin; it is of
our own making. By rewording the problem, the "problem" dis-
appears: use the word mind as a verb instead of a noun and no

"problem, fundamental either to the theory of knowledge, ethics,
psycholog)-, science" or to anything else, remains. Mind is mind-
ing; it is the behaving, reacting, of a living organism as a whole, as
a unit.
Once upon a time, in a far-off land, a people was concerned
with the problem of Golshok. No one knew exactly what Golshok
was, but everyone agreed that he (she or it) was very important
and that their existence and welfare depended in large measure
upon Golshok. Many of the best minds among this people devoted
their lives to the study of Golshok. Their lucubrations were re-
corded and their pronouncements carried great weight. It was

decreed that all social life was to be conducted in accordance with
the principles of Golshok as set forth by the wise men. Of course
it was necessary to put people to death occasionally because of
their failure to comply with these principles. This was usually
done by burning them alive. This went on for centuries. But not
all people were content. Some were bent upon discovering just
what Golshok really was — if anything. But they never got any
farther than words, save for an occasional burning of a rebel.
Finally some one broke a way out of the impasse. He declared
in plain language that the whole Golshok business, from start to
finish, was nothing but "words, words, words," that the wise men
had been chasing their tails for centuries, with "the solution no
nearer now than then." He declared, moreover, that if people
would conduct upon human principles instead of Gol-
their lives
shok principles they would be much better off.

Of course the wise men had him burned to death and his ashes
scattered to the four winds. But they were too late. The secret
MIND IS MINDING 51
was out. The common people went around saying, "There ain't
no Golshok." And they hved happily ever after.
And so it has been with "Mind." "Mind" is a noun. A noun is
a name of something. Therefore there must be something in the
cosmos that is mind.* A person has a mind; it is possible for him

to "lose" it. Thus "mind," an entity, a "thing-in-itself," was
created and projected into the cosmos. Then people set about
trying to find it as they have been searching for Truth, the Good,
and Beauty, these many weary years. One might as well search the
cosmos for V'l- Philosophic tail chasing, nothing more.

Living organisms may be distinguished from non-living systems.
The former appropriate materials from their environments and
incorporate them into their own structures. They capture free
energy from the external world and utilize it to maintain, extend,

and multiply themselves. They eat, grow, and reproduce; and
they have cellular structure. We may distinguish two classes of
motions, or reactions, of living organisms, intra-organismic and

extra-organismic. In the former class we have the relationships of
part to part and of part to whole. In the latter, we have the
relationship of the organism as a whole to the external world. It
is the reactions of the organism as a whole, as a coherent unit, to
the external world that we may call mind, or minding.
This commits us to such statements as "an oyster has a mind."
Similarly, a paramecium, a radish, a lichen, etc., "have minds." It
* We have "The un-

a parallel situation in the history of physical theory.
known man who invented the word heat," says Henri Poincar^ in The Value
of Science, "devoted many generations to error. Heat has been treated as a
substance simply because it was designated by a substantive [noun]." Sub-
stances have weight. But when it was finally discovered that a body weighed
no more when hot, i.e., when it "contained much heat," than when cold, i.e.,
contained little heat, the logical conclusion that heat is not a substance was
not drawn. On the contrary, so much at the mercy of words is man that he
continued to think of heat as a substance, but he concluded that there must
be weightless substances. It took a long time to realize that heat is not a thing
but a doing.
may sound ridiculous to say that a radish "has a mind." But it
does not sound ridiculous at all to say that a radish minds, i.e.,
reacts as a living organism to its external world. So much are we

at the mercy of words that even so slight a change as one from
noun-use to verb-use makes the whole world look different. Mind,
or minding, is thus co-extcnsive with life. It is the extra-organismal
aspect of that class of motions peculiar to material systems of
cellular structure.*
To return to our starting point: what is mind? How can a mind

have a body? The solution: mind is minding, the reacting of an
organism as a whole, as a coherent unit (as distinguished from
the reacting of parts of the organism with reference to other
parts). Mind is a function of the body. The "organ" of the mind
is the entire organism functioning as a unit. Mind is to body as
cutting is to a knife.**
But Alexander merely cut the Gordian knot; he did not untie
it. Neither have we "solved" the mind-body problem, for in the
form in which it has plagued the reflecting portion of mankind,

it is insoluble. But we have disposed of it. We have not proved,
nor can it be proved, that there is no cosmic entity, mind, which
has an existence independent of bodies. We have not proved that
the "fundamental reality" is not mind, of which bodies are but
* The
Dictionary of Psychology, H. C. Warren, ed., defines mind as "the
sum an organism by means of which it responds as
total of those activities of
an integrated, dynamic system to external forces."
** Since the above was written, I have learned that a Chinese philosopher.
Fan Chen, of the fifth century A.D., said the same thing and in almost the
same words: "The body is the material basis of the spirit, and the spirit is
only the functioning of the body. The spirit is to the body what sharpness
is to a sharp knife. We
have never known the existence of sharpness after
destruction of the knife. How can we admit the survival of the spirit when
the body is gone?" Quoted by Hu Shih in the symposium Living Philoso-
phies, (New York, 1931), pp. 243-44.
Aristotle, too, "rejected any attempt to make the soul a thing or entity."
Instead he treated it as a "function of the organism," as "a class of motions,"
(Brett, 1929) p. 707.
^
MIND IS MINDING 53
material expressions. So far as I know, there is no convincing
proof for the non-existence of Santa Claus. Mankind progresses,
often, not by disproving propositions but by outgrowing them.
The "Mind-Body" problem is of one piece with the Vitalism-
Mechanism controversy. No one has ever "disproved" the theory
of Vitalism, but scientists, and many philosophers, are agreed
that the time has come when it should be ignored as obsolete,
outgrown and, above all, sterile. It is not that the philosophy of
Mechanism isTrue (with a capital T) and that of Vitalism False.
It is that Mechanism has been fruitful, productive; Vitalism
barren and sterile. Vitalism as "a view is exactly opposite to
those which have led to all the scientific piogTcss that has been
made," declares Professor H. H. Newman.^ Biologists have "clung
to the materialistic or mechanistic explanation of life, simply be-
cause was the only way in which progress could be made" ^
it
(emphases ours), declares the distinguished paleobiologist. Pro-

fessor Ermine C. Case, As T. H. Huxley long ago made clear,
In itself it is of little moment whether we express the phenom-
ena of matter in terms of spirit, or the phenomena of spirit in

terms of matter; matter may be regarded as a form of thought,
thought may be regarded as a property of matter . . . But with
a view to the progress of science, the materialistic terminology
is in every way to be preferred. For it connects thought with
the other phenomena of the universe . . . whereas the spirit-
ualistic terminology is utterly barren, and leads to nothing but

obscurity and confusion of ideas.
Thus the importance of terminology. Words are the channels

as well as the tools of thought. Some lead us into blind alleys;
others, to fertile fields. And so, while we have not "proved" that
mind is not some cosmic entity, or proved that it is not the "real
reality," we have shown that this view is barren and sterile at its
best and confusing and paralyzing at its worst. The opposite view,
THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
54
a function of the
minding, or behavior, that mind
is
that mind is
bondage of a sterile and a paralyz-

body, releases us from the verbal
sets us free to sow and reap m a field that
ing metaphysics, and
will bear fruit.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE EXPANSION OF THE SCOPE
OF SCIENCE
"Anyone who acquainted with the history of science will admit that
is
its all ages, meant, and now more than ever means,
progress has, in
the extension of the province of what we call matter and causation,
and the concomitant gradual banishment from all regions of human
thought of what we call spirit and spontaneity ." T. H. Huxley,
. . —
The Physical Basis of Lite.
JK>
hen we survey the history of science we see at a glance
that progress has not been equal and uniform on all fronts.
Advance has been more rapid in some quarters than in

others. Greater progress has been made in astronomy and physics
than in biology; physiology more advanced, as a science, than
is
psychology; and psychology older and more mature than soci-

is
ology. The birth of each science cannot be neatly marked with a

precise date, of course; there has been overlapping, and growth
has been simultaneous among many, if not all, of them. Never-
theless, it is clear that some sciences are older and more mature
than others. Since there is a close correspondence between the age

of a science and its degree of development, we may treat these
two factors as one. We may thus arrange the sciences in a scale

in the order of their respective ages and degrees of maturity.
Generalizing broadly, we may say that the physical sciences
appeared earlier and have developed farther than the biological
sciences; the biological sciences took form earlier and have

developed farther than the social sciences. The question naturally
55
"Social"
Sciences
THE EXPANSION OF THE SCOPE OF SCIENCE 57
sciences." The whole hypothesis is fundamentally false (p. 144;
see, also, pp. 190-193).
I am not sure that I fully understand Spencer's argument.

Throughout this essay he exhibits science as the accumulating
product of a many-sided psychological process. But with the pos-

sible exception of an allusion to "social science" in ancient times,
he does not show, nor does he attempt to show, that the physical
sciences have not matured earlier than the biological sciences, and
these in turn earlier than the social sciences.
A decade later in "The Classification of the Sciences" (1864),
Spencer again returns to the subject, and again opposes Comte's

hierarchy. But he ends up with an order essentially like Comte's.
Lester F. Ward Comte and Spencer at this

noted the similarity of
point in his Dynamic Sociology. When, however, he repeated the
observation in "The Place of Sociology among the Sciences," he
received a sharp letter from Spencer who again insists upon his
distinctness from Comte. Ward made effective reply to Spencer
and published both letters in Pure Sociology. Ward again points
out that despite his vigorous opposition to Comte, Spencer adopts
the Comtean order of the sciences. In "The Filiation of the
Sciences," a paper read before the Philosophical Society of Wash-

ington in 1896, Ward exhibited the two systems, Comte's and
Spencer's, in parallel columns for comparison. They are funda-
mentally alike.
It would probably be unfair to say that Spencer's opposition to
Comte's hierarchy was due wholly to a jealous claim to inde-

pendence and originality on Spencer's part, although it is difficult
to escape the conclusion that jealousy played a part in the con-

troversy. It does appear that Spencer viewed the problem from a
somewhat different angle than Comte, that he started from a
slightly different premise. But he ends up with much the same
conclusion nevertheless, and it is hard not to believe that it was
willful stubbornness on Spencer's part that kept him from recog-
nizing his similarity to Comte as well as pointing out such dif-
ferences as did exist.

We find, then, that both Comte and Spencer present the
sciences in essentially the same order, the physical sciences coming

first, the biological sciences next, and finally
the social sciences.
Spencer points out that physical phenomena must precede bio-

logical phenomena— that there nmst be atoms and molecules
before we can have living cells and organisms— and that social
systems must rest upon a biological basis. But he does not explain
why scientific interpretation of physical phenomena should pre-
cede interpretation of biological events, or why interpretation of
biological forms should come before interpretation of social phe-
nomena. Auguste Comte, however, does precisely this. He explains

the order of development of the sciences. Let us turn now to his
theory.
Comte's conception of the hierarchy of the sciences differs
somewhat from ours. He does not begin with the events of history,
with dates and sequences, and with varying degrees of develop-
ment among the sciences, and then proceed to consider what
interpretation might be given to these facts. Rather, he begins
with the nature of the sciences, as he conceives it, and with what
he assumes to be their necessary logical relationships one to an-
other. The "hierarchy" of the sciences is arrived at by deduction.
It is a "rational order" to Comte (p. 43). He observes, however,
that his "classification agrees in the main, with the history of
science; the more general and simple sciences actually occurring
first and advancing best in human history, and being followed by
the more complex and restricted," (p. 43y. Thus, the general
picture of the development of the sciences/ as seen by Comte is
essentially the same as ours; the physical sciences appeared earlier

and have developed farther than the biological sciences, as the
latter have developed earlier and progressed farther than the social
sciences.
Comte explains this chronological order and these varying

degrees of development in this way: The physical sciences deal

with more simple and universal phenomena than the biological
sciences; the biological sciences deal with more universal and
simple phenomena than the social sciences. Since biological phe-
nomena are made up of chemical and physical events, a science
of biology cannot come into being until the sciences of chemistry

and physics have been developed. Similarly, since social phe-
nomena consist of, or are the expressions of, psychological
responses, and these in turn rest upon physiological processes, a
science of sociology cannot be achieved until the underlying
sciences of psychology and physiology have been developed. He
says:
. . . every science is [rooted] in the one which precedes it . . .
(p. 398) ... no science can be effectually pursued without the

preparation of a competent knowledge of the anterior sciences
on which it depends (p. 48). must begin then with the We
study of the most general or simple phenomena, going on
successively to the more particular or complex. This must be
the most methodical way, for this order of generality or sim-
plicity fixes the degree of facility in the study of phenomena,
while it determines the necessary connection of the sciences by
the successive dependence of their phenomena (p. 44).
We seem to have here three closely related propositions: first,
that sciences higher in the hierarchy deal with more "complex"

phenomena than sciences lower in the scale; secondly, that dif-
ferences in degree of complexity have determined the order of
emergence and degree of maturity of the sciences; and thirdly,
that one cannot "effectually pursue" a science "without the

preparation of a competent knowledge of the anterior sciences on
which it depends." We believe that these propositions are either
unsound or definitely misleading. Let us examine them in turn.
In one sense, psychological phenomena may be regarded as
more complex than those of physiology, as physiological events,

in turn, may be considered more complex than chemical and
physical events. By "complex" in these contexts we would mean

"possessing more classes, or kinds, of factors." Thus, a psycho-
logical event, such as perceiving, approaching and grasping food,
can, by logical analysis, be reduced to physiological, chemical,
dnd physical processes: smelling or seeing the food and the various
physiological responses which find overt expression in approach-
ing and seizing it; and the physiological processes may be broken
down into chemical reactions and physical events. In this sense,
thephenomena of one science may be said to be more "complex"
than those of another. And in this sense, also, one may say that
one science "rests upon" another.
While the foregoing is perfectly true logically and philosophi-
cally, it is beside the point scientifically. From the standpoint of
the scientist, there is only one class of phenomena to be con-
sidered in any given situation. Even in biochemistry, which might
appear to include two classes of phenomena, we really have only
one class; the possibility of referring biochemical events to
chemistry on the one hand and to biology on the other in no

way negates the integrity of biochemical events as biochemical
phenomena. Let us illustrate the distinctness of levels of phe-

nomena and the integrity of the class of events corresponding to
each level with an example:

I give my broker an order to buy one hundred shares of stock.
He telegraphs the order to the exchange in New York, a seller is
found and the transaction completed. We may distinguish many

classes of phenomena involved in this transaction taken as a
whole and in its entire extent and depth. First there are the
psychological motives for buying and selling: desire, anticipation
of gain, fear of loss, excitement of risk-taking, etc. Underneath
are physiological processes: the condition of my thyroid, my
digestion, etc. And we can analyze the physiological processes
into chemical reactions. Atomic motion, electrical tensions and
discharges in my nervous system, and so on, give us a class of
physical factors. But, for an understanding of the transfer of
the stock as an event oi huying-and-seUing, as a social event, the

scientist need not and does not concern himself with all of these
kinds, or levels, of processes at all. The scientist never grapples
with ail of the interrelated phenomena that confront him in a

given situation. To do so would be to embrace the cosmos every
time a sparrow falls. This is undesirable as well as impossible. The
scientist must always abstract a certain segment of reality, a
certain class of phenomena, from all others, and deal with it as if
it existed by itself, independent of the rest.*
Similarly the physiologist abstracts certain processes from the

totality of reality and regards them as a closed system. Thus,
the argument that the sciences higher in the hierarchy are more
complex— i.e., consist of more classes of phenomena— than those
on lower levels is irrelevant from the standpoint of science,
since the scientist deals with only one class at a time anyway.
Socio-psychological phenomena, such as the purchase-and-sale of
stock, may be treated as a single, homogeneous, class of events
despite the fact that physiological, chemical, electrical, and phys-
ical processes underlie it. In this respect psychology does not
differ from physics.
Sociologists and cultural anthropologists are accustomed to
account for the meagerness of their accomplishments, as compared
with physicists or physiologists, by declaring that the phenomena
with which they deal are so much more complex than the phe-
nomena confronting the physicist or biologist.** They seldom
explain what they mean by "complexity," and more rarely do they
attempt to prove that complexity of phenomena must mean
meagerness of scientific achievement. They merely assume, in the
first place, that everyone knows what is meant by complexity, and,
* "In all scientific procedure we begin by marking out a certain region or

subject as the field of our investigations. To this we must confine our atten-
tion, leaving the rest of the universe out of account till we have completed
the investigation in which we are engaged," Clerk Maxwell, (1892), p. 11.
** "The facts of society are far more complex than those of physics, hence
no laws have hitherto been discovered," Lowie, (1940), p. 384.
—
in the second place, they assume without argument that com-

plexity means difEculty. Wc regard their reasoning as unsound.
Social phenomena arc no more complex in the sense of "difficult
to treat scientifically" than physical or physiological phenomena.

The social scientist's plea of "complexity" is usually an attempt,
unconscious no doubt, to conceal his helplessness. The difference
lies not in complexity of phenomena but in knowing what youi

problem is and how to attack it. The physicist knows what his
problem is and how to go about solving it; the social scientist

does not. And the reason for this is that the point of view and
the techniques of science have been growing and maturing in the
physical domain for centuries, whereas they were introduced into
the social realm only yesterday. A science cannot be built in a
year like a skyscraper. Indeed, it cannot be built at all; it must

grow, and this requires time.
We have already seen that the purchase-and-sale of stock is a
ver)' simple affair; it is no more complex than an apple falling
to the ground. And, what is more, we probably know more about

stock markets than we do about gravitation. A war between two
nations is really a very simple thing at bottom: two nations, A
and B, want the same thing— a fertile river valley, an oil field,
a foreign market, a seaport— and both are determined to have

it. This is no more complex than the rusting of iron or the freez-
ing of water. As a matter of fact, may be simpler than the
it
formation of ice or a snowflake. And it appears to be much

simpler— simple in the sense of ease of scientific explanation
than matricide, masochism, or dementia praecox, events upon a
lower level (psychological) than a war between nations (socio-
logical level). We understand symbol behavior (e.g., articulate
speech) much better on the psychological level than upon the
lower level of neurology. We know more about the psychology of
jealousy than its physiology. We understand the physiology
of intoxication better than its chemistry, and the chemistry of
the glands better than their physics.
As a matter of fact, one could make a good case for the exact
opposite of the proposition that social scientists sometimes use to
rationalize their shortcomings, and say that the complexity of
phenomena and the difficulty of scientific interpretation increase
rather than decrease as we descend the scale of the sciences. What

is simpler than the purchase-and-sale of a share of stock? And
what is more complex than a ray of light? Two hundred and
sixteen years have passed since the great Newton died and we
do not know how to describe light yet. One might well argue
that aswe approach "ultimate reality" in physics the complexity
of phenomena increases and the difficulties of scientific explana-
tion become greater.
Complexity is a quality of a phenomenon, not a measure of its
size. An atom is as complex as a pebble, a cell as complex as a
cow. Nor is complexity a function of the level on which the phe-

nomena are found except in the sense of resolving a class of
events into sub-classes as we have already noted. Complexity and
smiplicity obtain on all levels alike. So much for the concept
of "complexity."
The third proposition, namely, Comte's contention that one
cannot "effectually pursue a science" until he has a "competent
knowledge of the anterior sciences," has been taken care of fairly
well in our treatment of the first two propositions. Who would

wish to argue that one cannot explain a transaction on the stock
exchange until he had mastered physics and chemistry— or even
the rudiments of those sciences? As we have previously pointed
out, we often understand a phenomenon better on a higher level
than upon a lower. Doris is jealous of Jane; Tom hates his father.
We understand these events quite well psychologically; we know
almost nothing about them on the physiological level. And, so
far as we can see, anything that the physiologist might tell us
would add little if anything to our understanding. And is the
"chemistry," or "physics," of jealousy more than a metaphor?
^ THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
We would reject, therefore, Comte's contention that prepara-

tion in sciences lower in the hierarchy must precede effective work
in sciences higher in the scale. Since we have rejected Comte's
premise that varying degrees of complexity have determined the
order of filiation of the sciences, and since we admit differences
in complexity only in so far as this term refers to the number- of
kinds of phenomena into which a situation can be analyzed,
we have, in effect, rejected Comte's rationalization of his hier-

archy almost in toto. In place of Comte's explanation of the order
in which the various sciences have emerged and matured, we
venture to propose the following theory.

Every living organism strives to evaluate the various items in its
environment, to discover which are beneficial, which injurious,

so that advantage may be derived from the one and injury from
the latter avoided. In addition to the sensory means employed in
this evaluating process by other animals, man employs verbal
symbols. He not only translates the evaluations of his senses into

words— "fire is hot," "thorns are sharp"— but he posits relational
values between one thing and another. Thus he declares that the
hoot of the owl presages death, a falling star means good luck,
etc. In this manner, man creates a philosophy, a body of ideas
and beliefs expressed in verbal form, which he employs as a means

of adjustment to the world he lives in.
From our standpoint of analysis and classification, there have
been, and logically can be, only two major types of philosophy:
one in which the external world is interpreted in terms of the
human ego; the other in which it is explained in terms of itself.
In the first type, man unconsciously projects himself into the ex-
ternal world, describing and interpreting in terms of his own
it
psychic processes. The whole world is made alive and peopled

thus
with spirits who feel and behave as men do. They have desires
like men, show preferences for certain foods and drink; they are
susceptible to jealousy and flattery; they fight and make love. One
"^
spirit makes the earth, another brings rain, a third sends game or
brings forth crops. The gods favor or oppose certain types of eco-
nomic and pohtical systems, and aid the armies of their chosen
nations. Thus man creates the world in his own image. This is
the philosophy of supernaturalism of animism and anthropo- :
morphism.
In the second type of philosophy, the phenomena of nature are
explained in terms of themselves, in terms of the events of nature.
Thus, rain falls because other meteorologic phenomena precede
and accompany rainfall; a fossil is merely a link in a chain of
paleontologic events. Explanation in this type of philosophy con-
sists of a recitation of relevant events; scientific explanation is thus
condensed description. This is the philosophy of naturalism.
Between these two major types, in the process of development
of philosophy, lies an intermediate, or transitional type, which
Comte has called "metaphysical." This may be illustrated by such
statements as "fossils were produced by stone-making forces;"
"opium puts one to sleep because of its dormative powers," "cattle
graze together because of a gregarious instinct." * This kind of
interpretation partakes of both of the major types of philosophy.
It eschews animism, and points to the external world for its ex-
planations. Tlius it says that fossils are produced by stone-making

forces— i.e., by natural phenomena that exist and function in the
realm of nature— not by gods with minds like ours. But, the
explanatory device, "stone-making forces," is merely a part of our
selves, a verbal formula created ad hoCy and projected into the
external world. Functionally, it is like the concept "spirit," and
* We occasionally find this kind of explanatory device used in cultural

anthropology even today. Thus, Lowie says that "owing to the separatism of
the natives, no large population was ever anciently brought under a common
head" in Polynesia, (1940, p. 293). RadclifFe-Brown says that certain insti-
tutions "are the results of the action of sociological principles," (1930-31,
p. 429). Franz Boas finds certain cultural phenomena "due to a classificatory
tendency," (1940, p. 323). Herskovits tells us that "the essential democracy
of the Plains Indian life inhibited the development of economically
. . .
privileged classes ."

. .
(1940, p. 393).
hence has affinity with the anthropomorphic philosophy of
animism.
In the beginning of human history, man's philosophies were
wholly animistic; he diffused his psyche throughout the cosmos;
he confused the self with the not-self at almost every point.* As

culture advanced philosophy grew and matured. Little by little
the animistic philosophy was outgrown and the naturalistic
philosophy developed. But progress in philosophic interpretation

was not uniform in all fields of experience, it was greater in some
sectors than others. The distinction between the self and the not-
self— i.e., explanation of natural phenomena in terms of natural
events rather than in terms of the human ego disguised as gods

and spirits— was made first in the realm of celestial phenomena.
This was followed by the distinction in the field of terrestrial
physical phenomena. Then it was made in the biological field-
in anatomical, physiological, and psychological phenomena, and in
that order. The distinction between the self and the not-self was
achieved in astronomy and physics before it was made in physiol-
ogy and psychology because it was easier of accomplishment in

the former than in the latter. And it was easier because the phe-
nomena of astronomy and physics are more remote and less
significant as determinants of human behavior than are the

processes of physiology and psychology.
Man gradually learned, through ages of observation and
experience, that all things do not affect his life equally. Some
things are immediate and exert a powerful influence upon him;
others are remote and affect his life but little. It is significant to
* "To the Omaha nothing is without life: the rock Hves, so do the cloud,
the tree, the animal. He projects his own consciousness upon all things, and
ascribes to them experiences and characteristics with which he is familiar;
there is to in common between all creatures and all natural
him something
forms, . something he conceives of as akin to his own conscious
. . this
being," Alice C. Fletcher, "Wakonda," in Handbook of American Indians,
Part 2, (Bulletin 30, Bureau of American Ethnology, Washington, 1910).
THE EXPANSION OF THE SCOPE OF SCIENCE dJ
note that systematic observation of the stars was begun under the
behef that they exert a powerful influence upon man's daily life.
Vestiges of this belief are still preserved in the names of the days
of the week: Sun's day, Saturn's day, etc. And enough of this
ancient belief still flourishes to make astrology a profitable busi-
"^
ness enterprise even today.
But as mankind accumulated experience and compared one
thing with another, he discovered that stars exert less influence
upon his life than such terrestrial phenomena as those of climate,
topography, flora and fauna. At the same time, systematic observa-

tion of planets and stars revealed regularities and an order that
fostered description in terms of natural law rather than divine ca-
price. Thus astronomy was lost to animism, won for naturalism.**

As observation was continued and experience accumulated, it
was discovered that, intimate as man is with his habitat, and in-
fluential as it is upon his life, there is yet another class of

determinants of behavior even more immediate and significant:
the human body. The man, the ox, the snake, and the bird all
dwell in the same environmental setting, but they behave very

differently. The deer is swift, the squirrel climbs trees, the bird
flies, because they have different kinds of bodily structure. An
appreciation of this fact was the dawn of the science of anatomy.
Anatomy developed before physiology, not because the structure
of the body is "simpler" than its functioning, but because it is
easier to distinguish between one's self (one's ^go) and one's

arms and legs than between one's self and one' s glandular
processes. The body, unsophisticated man feels, is but a shell, the
house in which the true self dwells. The ego and the body, he
* According to Timt Magazine for March 25, 1946, p. 23, there were
25,000 practicing astrologers in the United States at that time; the five leading
astrological periodicals had a combined circulation of nearly one million; and
one of the leading astrological manuals sold at least 1,000,000 copies of its
1945 issue for $1 per copy.
** See Henri Poincare's fine essay on astronomy, the mother of science, in
T\it Value oi Science, Ch. VI.
feels, are two different things.* The self that he regards in "self-
respect" is in no way affected by the amputation of a limb. One

may lose both legs, his teeth, and even his eyes, but his "self"
remains untouched and unscathed.** But when glands flow hot in

anger or in love, naive man does not distinguish them from his
ego; he identifies the process with himself.
Similarly, the science of physiology matures before psychology:
it is easier to distinguish between the self and the not-self when
dealing with physiological processes than with mental phenomena.
We observe that a hungry man behaves one way, a well-filled
man another. The effects of work and rest are obvious. Disposition
is influenced by digestion. Profound changes in behavior can be

effected by drugs and liquor. But, unsophisticated man feels,
there is a point beyond which outside forces cannot go, boundaries

which they cannot cross. Deep within him, naive man believes,
is a citadel that is impregnable, a sanctuary inviolable. Here he

lives— his real self, his essential character, his very soul. The
"human spirit" or Will is free, he thinks, subject to no laws
natural or physical. He sees himself as subject only; he is unable
to regard the self as an object, as an event in the world of nature.
The distinction between self and not-self at this point lies beyond
his grasp and comprehension.
It was a great day for science when man became able to look
upon mental processes as so many events in a world of nature,
when, to use William James' apt phrase, minds could be studied
"as objects, in a world of other objects." The distinction between
subject and object was made. But the fight for naturalism has not
* It is not merely "unsophisticated man" who is sure that "mind" and
"body" arc two different things. Descartes, certainly one of the greatest minds
of modern times, maintains that "it is certain that I, [that is, "my mind, by
which I am what I am"], is entirely and truly distinct from my body, and
may exist without it," Meditations, No. VI.
** ". and although the whole mind seems to be united to the whole
. .
body, yet, when a foot, an arm, or any other part is cut off, I am conscious
that nothing has been taken from my mind," idem.
been wholly won yet. Mental life is still called "the human spirit"
in many circles, and the soul and mind still walk hand in hand
in psychologies, sociologies, and anthropologies even today.

Thus we find the reason for the order in which the sciences
have made their appearance and the extent to which they have
matured to consist, not in varying degrees of universality or com-
plexity, but in the varying ability of mankind to distinguish be-
tween the self and the not-self in various sectors of experience.
This distinction is made most easily when one deals with phe-
nomena which play an insignificant role as determinants of human
behavior. Conversely, it is difficult to distinguish between the
self and the not-self where phenomena are intimate and powerful
determinants. The human race has discovered which are the
powerful determinants and which the insignificant through
experience; there was no a priori way of knowing.
The heavenly bodies, being more remote and less significant as
determinants of human behavior than the winds, rain, frost, and

terrain, the science of astronomy appears earlier and matures
faster than terrestrial physics, geology and geography. Anatomical
determinants being more remote and less influential than physio-
logical processes, the science of anatomy precedes physiology.
Physiology comes before psychology for the same reason. We
may conclude our argument by formulating the following law of
development: Science emerges first and matures fastest in fields
where the determinants of human behavior are weakest and most

remote; conversely, science appears latest and matures slowest in
those portions of our experience where the most intimate and
powerful determinants of our behavior are found.
Auguste Comte recognizes this law when he observes:

It is worthy of remark most general and
in this place that the
simple phenomena are the furthest removed from Man's
ordinary sphere, and must [it would be better to say "can,"
L.A.W.] thereby be studied in a calmer and more rational frame
of mind than those in which he is more nearly implicated; and
this constitutes a new ground for the corresponding sciences
being developed more rapidly (p. 44).
In explaining the "hierarchy of the sciences," however, Comte

speaks of this"new ground" merely incidentally and in passing,
while the argument based upon "the universal and the simple as
opposed to the special and complex" is emphasized again and

again. But in other portions of Positive Philosophy, Comte takes
pains to point out repeatedly that the obstacles which oppose the
growth of social science are the theological and metaphysical
philosophies which must be driven from the field of social phe-
nomena before a genuine social science can be achieved. Although
we reject Comte's own explanation of the order of filiation of the
sciences, we could, and indeed have, applied his theory of
the three stages in the development of philosophy to the solution
of this problem. What we have done, in effect, is to show that
the "theological" (supernaturalistic) philosophy has been dis-
lodged and driven first, and to the greatest extent, from inter-
pretations of physical phenomena, next from biological studies,
and last and to the least extent from explanations of human

behavior. And, with the rejection of the theological philosophy
and the decline of the metaphysical, there has been a growth and
spread, pari passu, of the naturalistic, scientific philosophy. Thus,
what we observe is a trend in philosophy from the theological
through the metaphysical to the positivistic— from the super-
naturalistic to the naturalistic, or scientific— sweeping across the
field of experience from the physical through the biological to

the social. Comte had all of the materials for this explanation of
his hierarchy, and indeed, it is implicit in the Positive Philosophy.
But so concerned is he with another rationalization that the true
solution is all but obscured entirely.
We may illustrate the development and the sequence of the
sciences in the accompanying diagram. In the center of the circle
is man, surrounded by events which influence his behavior in
varying degrees, some intimate, some remote. From this point

of view, the advance of science has been more in the nature of
expansion of scope than of growth or development. The cosmos
hes everywhere about man. Science, a particular way of dealing
PHYSICS
CHElMlSTRy
^tÂTOMy
pVAYSlOLOGy
^syCHOLOGy
eôClOLOCy
physical PHYSICAL
science; /SCIENCES
.BIOLOGICAL SCIENCES
with experience, appeared first in interpretations of a particular
portion of our field of experience, namely, in astronomy, where

phenomena are most remote and insignificant as determinants of
human behavior. From there its techniques have spread and ex-
tended to other segments of experience. As science advances and
expands, the anthropomorphic philosophy of animism recedes and
contracts; as the concepts of natural law and determinism gain

ground, the philosophy of free will retreats. The logical con-
clusion is, of course, to have the whole field of human experience
embraced by the philosophy of science rather than that of
animism. It is interesting, in this connection, to recall the words
of the eminent Polish sociologist, Ludwig Gumplowicz, written
many years ago:
Modern natural science has successfully demonstrated that even

the 'human mind' is subject to physical laws . . . But in the
domain of social phenomena unchangeable natural laws have

not been completely demonstrated. Between 'mental' phe-
nomena subject to the laws of matter and the social world
strode the conception of human freedom to distract and
confuse. It seemed to order and control social relations accord-
ing to its own choice. In the domain of mental phenomena . . .
monistic natural science has in part demonstrated the un-

conditioned sway of natural laws . . . Dualism [i.e., law vs. free
will], driven from this domain, has retired to the domain oi

social phenomena, whence it must he dislodged,^ (emphasis
ours).
We find the same view expressed by the great French social
scientist, Emile Durkheim, in The Rules of Sociological Method:

Since the law of causality has been verified in the other realms
of nature,and since it has progressively extended its authority
from the physicochemical world to the biological, and from the
latter to the psychological, we are justified in claiming that it is
equally true of the social world; and it is possible to add today

that the researches undertaken on the basis of this postulate
tend to confirm it There was a time when sentiments
(p. 141).
relating to the things of the physical world opposed with equal
energy the establishment of the physical sciences, because they,
too, had a religious or moral character. We believe, therefore,
that this prejudice, pursued from one science to the next, will
finally disappear also from its last retreat, sociology, leaving a
free field for the true scientific endeavor (p. 34).
According to Comte, Spencer, and others since their day,

sociology is the last link in the logical chain of science, the final
stage of its development. In terms of our theory, this would

mean that when astronomical, geological, physical, chemical,
anatomical, physiological, and psychological determinants of hu-
man behavior had been dealt with there would remain but one
more class of determinants: the sociological. But are we willing to
accept this conclusion? Is this classification adequate and final?
We do not believe it is. On the contrary, we find it inadequate

and immature. There is still another class of determinants of
human behavior that lie outside and beyond the scope of psychol-
ogy and, for the most part, sociology. These are the traditional
customs, institutions, tools, philosophies, languages, etc., which
we call, collectively, culture. Cultural phenomena are super-, or
supra-, psychological determinants of human behavior. They are
super-psychological in the sense that it is beyond the scope of
psychology to account for them. Psychology cannot explain, e.g.,
why one people has clans (behaves "clanwise") while another

does not; why one people eats with knives and forks, another with
chopsticks; why a people prohibits marriage between parallel
cousins but requires marriage between cross cousins; why a tribe
practices polyandry, observes the mother-in-law taboo, forms
plurals by affixation, uses money, etc. Culture as culture can be
explained only in terms of culture. But let us return to the history
of science and observe its expansion beyond the horizons of
individual psychology.
For a long time, and until recent decades, psychology was

individual psychology. The anatomical and physiological psychol-
ogists had, of necessity, to take the individual as their province.
The same was true of the introspectionists and associationists. In
the early years, the subject matter of psychology was "mind,"

and the mind was something that "went on" in the individual
organism. It was to be studied in terms of anatomical structure

and physiological processes, and by direct observation through

intros^DCction. In any event, psychology was the study of mind,
and the mind was an individualistic phenomenon.

But as the scientific study of man's behavior advanced, it came
to be recognized that there are important determinants of
behavior lying outside and beyond the individual which, how-

ever, profoundly influence his conduct. With the appreciation of
this fact, science undertook to grapple with these super-individual

determinants and to bring them within the scope of scientific
interpretation.
Professional psychologists were, however, slow to appreciate the
significance of super-individual determinants of human behavior.
Consequently science organized its forces under another banner,

so to speak, to undertake this necessary task. This new movement
was Sociology.* Sociology came into being as an organized attempt
of science to deal with super-individual determinants of behavior.

These determinants were social in nature. Consequently, sociol-
ogy became the science of society. Early sociologists distinguished

their science from psychology on the ground that the latter was
limited to the individual whereas theirs was devoted to the group.
As F. H. Giddings put it:
. . . psychology [is] the study of the . . . individual mind . . .

;
sociology . . . the investigation of the more special and complex

phenomena of minds in association with one another . . .
Psychology is the science of the association of ideas. Sociology

is the science of the association of minds.^
Psychology bestirred itself meanwhile and gradually extended its
scope to include super-individual determinants. William James

displayed a fine appreciation of social factors in behavior in the
* "Precisely because the currents of thought ran too exclusively to analysis

and explanations terms of the single human being, Sociology arose as a
in
discipline for the study of the collective life of man. In the early years it was
considered as properly beginning at the point where Psychologj^ left off,"
E. E. Eubank, The Concepts of Sociology, (1932), p. 90.
chapter "The Consciousness of Self" in his Principles of Psychoh
ogy (1890). In 1904, at the Congress of Arts and Sciences at St.
Louis, James McKeen Cattell stated that he was "not convinced
that psychology should be limited to the study of consciousness
as such." And at the same Congress, J. M. Baldwin predicted that
"the psychology of the future will be social to the core." In 1908,
William McDougall published his Social Psychology. This was the
first work bearing this title written by a psychologist. It so hap-
pened that E. A. Ross's Social Psychology, the first work bearing

this title by a sociologist, was published in the same year.^
Although psychology was able to expand its horizons sufficiently

to take cognizance of group factors in behavior, it still remained
anchored to the individual as the object of its studies. Thus G. F.
Stout and C. A. Mace, in their article "Psychology" in the
Encyclopaedia Britannica (14th ed.), declare that psychology is
the "science of individual experience." And other psychologists

even maintain that social psychology is after all a study of the
individual. Thus F. H. Allport defines social psychology as "the

science which studies the behavior of the individual" in so far as
his behavior is related to that of other individuals. "Psychology in
all its branches," he argues, "is a science of the individual."
Similarly, Professor Margaret Floy Washburn declares that "all
psychology deals with individuals." Social psychology, she says,
is "that branch of psychology which deals with the mind as it is
affected by and manifested in relations with other minds." To

R. H. Gault, social psychology is but "an aspect of the psychol-
ogy of the individual." Thus psychology was able to reach out and
at least take cognizance of social factors in behavior. But it was so
firmly anchored to the individual as its object of study that it
was unable to free itself and envisage a psychological system com-

posed of many individuals instead of only one, a social organism
as well as a biological one. This field was left therefore pretty
much to the sociologists.*
Sociology embarked upon its career with high hopes and
enthusiasm. Psychology had long devoted itself to the individual
aspect of human behavior. Now sociology was to deal with the
group aspect. Give sociology time to mature, many thought, and

the science of human behavior would be complete, for with the
individual and collective aspects of behavior taken care of, what
else was there? To many sociologists of the late 1890's and early
1900's it appeared, as it had to Comte many decades earlier, that
at last the "hierarchy" of the sciences was complete, that sociology

was to be the crown or capstone of the great edifice that was
science. But these hopes and aspirations have not been realized.
Sociology has not become the head of an impressive hierarchy of
sciences. On the contrary, many scholars, both within sociology

and outside, raise the question. Is sociology' a science at all? What-
ever accomplishments sociology does have to its credit, it cer-
tainly has failed to fulfill the hopes and expectations of Comte

and subsequent generations of sociologists. The reasons, we
believe, are as follows:
Beyond the horizon of individual psychology lie not only super-

individual psychological determinants of behavior, but super-
psychological determinants as well. Sociology devoted itself to the
interpretation of super-individual (i.e., social) psychological deter-
minants of behavior, and in so doing became social psychology.
But, with few and relatively insignificant exceptions, it failed to
distinguish and to recognize super-psychological (i.e., cultural)

determinants, and thus failed to complete the science of human
behavior by becoming a science of culture (i.e., culturology). In
short, sociology merely rounded out the science of psychology by
making it the study of the collective aspect of behavior as well as
of the individual aspect. But it failed to create or become a science
of culture and thus left the science of human behavior incom-
plete. Another science beyond the horizon of sociology still re-
mained to be realized, namely the science of culture (culturology).

Before proceeding further let us see precisely what this class of
super-psychological (cultural) determinants of behavior consists

of, and what the nature and scope of a science of culture would
be.
We may illustrate with the following example: a number of
Navaho Indians were spending the night in a large house near
their reservation when a party of other Navahos approached.
Word of their approach was passed through the house whereupon

a number of men quickly left by the back door and windows:
their mothers-in-law were in the approaching group and they
must not meet them face to face. How is their behavior to be
explained?
Clearly there is a psychological reason for their behavior, and
there are both individual and social aspects to their response.
Each individual was influenced by his own organism and the
experiences which it had undergone. And each individual was in-
fluenced by his fellow Navahos. The psychologist can properly
deal with both aspects, the individual and the social, of this phe-
nomenon. He can inquire into their feelings, ideas, and so on, and
throw much light upon the matter. But there is a point beyond
which the psychologist cannot go: He cannot explain why the
Navahos observe the mother-in-law taboo whereas their close
neighbors, the Hopi, do not. No amount of psychologizing will
explain why one tribe has this custom while another does not.
The psychologist does not always realize this. Sometimes he de-
clares that the institution exists because the people think and
feel and act in a certain way; that the institution is merely the
crystallization of certain psychological processes. He fails to realize
that it is the other way around: the people feel, think and act the
way they do because they possess— or, more accurately, are
possessed by— a certain custom. Manifestly, the psychologist can-
not explain why the Indian organism in the Navaho tribe behaves
in such a way as to produce the mother-in-law taboo while the
Indian organism in the Hopi tribe does not behave in that
manner.
If, therefore, psychology cannot explain why one tribe has a

certaincustom while another people does not, what science can?
The answer is, the Science of Culture. A custom or institution is
the product of the action and interaction of other customs and
institutions. The mother-in-law taboo would have to be explained
in terms of other customs— those of marriage, residence, sexual
division of labor, mode of subsistence, and so on. Customs and in-
stitutions—culture traits in general— constitute a distinct class of
phenomena. As such, it may be treated as a closed system. Culture
is a thing sui generis; culture as culture can be explained only in

terms of culture.* Let us illustrate with a few other examples.
Psychology cannot explain why the language of one people is
agglutinative while that of another is inflective. This linguistic dif-
ference must be explained in terms of language, not in terms of

mental processes or emotional states. Likewise, the psychologist
cannot explain why a people practices polygyny rather than
polyandry or monogamy; why it resorts to legal trial rather than
to ordeals or covert black magic in the case of personal injury;
or why it fights over money and debts instead of practicing com-
munism.
Thus we see that over and above the individual and social
psychological factor in human behavior, there is another factor

which is not psychological at all. It is super-psychological or cul-
tural. In addition to the individual organic component in human
behavior and over and above the social factor which comes from
the interaction of individuals, there is the influence of the tradi-
tional customs, institutions, tools, philosophies, etc. These
things,** these culture traits, have an existence prior to the birth
of any person living. They exist outside the human organism; they
* "Culture is a thing sui generis which can be explained only in terms of

itself," (Lowie, 1917), p. 66.
** Dnrkheim calls "social facts" (i.e., culture traits) things (choses). "The
proposition which states that social facts are to be treated as things," he says,
lies"at the very basis of our method," (1938 p. xliii).
act upon him from the outside as meteorologic forces do.* Culture
can be transferred without migration, from one people to
freely,
another. The culture of any people at any given time is the

product of antecedent cultural forces, and consequently is to be
explained only in cultural terms. The English language of New
England in 1949 is to be explained in terms of antecedent linguis-
tic processes and events, just as the automobile, paper currency,

courts of law, Mormonism, relativity, and jazz music are to be ex-
plained in terms of their respective cultural antecedents.
We see, then, that in addition to the psychological factor, indi-
vidual and human behavior there is an important supra-
social, in
psychological factor. The importance of this factor has only re-

cently come to be recognized and appreciated. Everything that we
do as human beings, individually and collectively, is profoundly
influenced by our culture. Our food habits, marital customs, ideas
of right and wrong, canons of beauty, mortuary practices, our
philosophies and religions, in short, the whole gamut of our lives,
is culturally determined. And, far from explaining our culture in
terms of the way we think, feel and act, we can explain much of
our thought, feelings and behavior in terms of our culture.
This is not to say that there is no further function for psychol-
ogy in the modern science of human behavior. It will be noted
above that we have said that "much," not "all," of our behavior
can be explained culturally. There is still a place for psychology,
of course. But its scope is not as extensive as was formerly sup-
posed. The day of facile psychological explanations of customs and
institutions is done. In the future, culture will have to be ex-
plained culturologically. But within any given cultural situation
the operation of the psychological factors will still have to be ob-
served and interpreted. For example, given Navaho culture, how
* "Collective tendencies [i.e., culture traits] have an existence of their own;
they are forces as real as cosmic forces they also act upon the individual
. . .
from the outside .," translated from Durkheim, Le Suicide, p. 348.

. .
/
will Indian organisms behave? In short, we can hold the cultural
factor constant while we study the variable psychological factor.

Returning again to the history of science, we note that sociology
was the new form taken by science in the extension of its scope
to embrace super-individual determinants of behavior. Sociology
became, for the most part, social psychology, and socml psychology
is of course psychology, just as ripe plums are
plums, or honest
men, men. But in going beyond the scope of individual deter-
minants, sociology encountered super-psychological (cultural)
determinants as well as super-individual psychological factors. But

instead of dealing with cultural determinants upon their own
level, i.e., culturologically, sociology brought them down to the
socio-psychological level and attempted to interpret them in terms
of "social process," or "interaction." Sociologists failed for the
most part to realize that there is no such thing as social inter-
action among human beings as human beings (i.e., as organisms

behaving in terms of symbols) that is not culturally determined.
To say that social interaction produces matrilineal clans here,
patrilineal clans there does not make sense. To say that one kind
of process of interaction produces matrilineal, another kind of
process patrilineal, clans is to put the cart before the horse. It is
the type of clan, the culture trait, that determines the form of
social interaction; matrilineal clans will produce one type of inter-
action, patrilineal clans another. And clans, as culture traits,
cannot be accounted for in terms of individual psychological

processes— hopes, desires, fears, etc.— or in terms of an abstract
process of social interaction but in terms of other culture traits,
such as customary division of labor between the sexes, which in

turn is closely related to the mode of subsistence and the circum-
stances and means of defense against enemies; such as rules of
marriage, place of residence of the married couple, and so on.
And so it is with social interaction everywhere in human society.
Whether it be in the family, clan or lineage, household or neigh-
borhood, guild, lodge, church, market place or what not, the
concrete processes of interaction that actually obtain in any given

case have been determined, i.e., given form and content, by the
culture that possesses the people, the culture that existed before
they were born and into which they were introduced at birth,
and which has given form and content to their behavior since that
time. The attempt of sociologists to explain culture in terms of
"social process" or "interaction" failed as of course it must. A
sociological interpretation of culture does not and cannot give a
scientific account of the origin and function of customs and in-
stitutions; it merely conceals their supra-psychological, supra-
sociological nature. Thus we see that when science created sociol-
ogy in its march of expansion, it rounded out the science of
psychology, but failed to achieve a science of culture. Let us
examine more fully the preceding propositions in turn.
The behavior of every living organism presents two aspects:

inner and outer.* There are processes and relationships which take
place vdthin the organism; these we may call intra-organismal.
Then there are reactions and relationships between the organism
and the external world; these may be designated extra-organismal.
We may define physiology as the scientific observation and inter-
pretation of intra-organismal processes and relationships; psychol-
ogy, as the study of the extra-organismal aspect of behavior.** Now
extra-organismal behavior presents two aspects, individual and
collective, and consequently can be studied from these two stand-
points. In other words, we can have individual psychology and
social psychology. But both are, of course, psychology— the scien-
tific observation and interpretation of extra-organismal reactions.
There is no such thing as an individual apart from the group, and
* "All relations or actions between one part of ... [a material system] and
another are called Internal relations or actions. Those between the whole or
any part of the system, and bodies not included in the system, are called
External relations or actions," Clerk Maxwell, (1892), p. 11-12.
** Herbert Spencer, too, distinguished physiology from psychology in terms
of "internal relations" and "external relations," "The Classification of the
Sciences," Table III.
no collectivity indqjcndent of individuals. Individual and society

are but two poles of the same phenomenon: extra-organismal re-
actions of biological organisms.

When sociology took form as a distinct discipline it vâs dedi-
cated, as we have seen, to the study of the collective aspect of

behavior. It thus became social psychology. Because the psychol-
ogy of that day was individualistic in character and outlook, the
infant sociology took pains to distinguish itself from that science.
Professor F. W. Blackmar, as chairman of the session on Soci-
ology at the St. Louis Congress of Arts and Sciences, protested
against having sociology classified with the "mental sciences" on
the program for the meeting. Notwithstanding all this, numerous
sociologists have testified that the subject matter of sociology is
"mental phenomena" and that sociology is, for the most part,
social psychology. Thus Lester Ward speaks of "that collective

psychology which constitutes so nearly the whole of sociology."
Giddings declares that "society [is to be regarded] as a mode of
mental activity . . . social life ... is a phenomenon of the mind
. . . common mental activity . .
." Accordingly, he regards soci-
ology as "a psychological science." Hobhouse says that "funda-
mentally society is a psychological structure." American soci-
ologists came to recognize that "social life is essentially psychical,"

according to Gottfried Salomon. At the St. Louis Congress of
Arts and Sciences, C. A. Ellwood, speaking as chairman of the
section on social psychology, refers to this science as "this most
important part of sociology." Albion W. Small once defined soci-
ology as "the science of the social process," but he also states that
the interpretation of the social process is "social psychology."
Thus, sociology and social psychology appear to be one and the
same. To Giddings "societal psychology is substantially the same
thing as sociology." And quite recently L. L. Bernard has de-
"
clared that "modern sociology becomes largely social psychology,"
Thus sociology turns out to be social psychology, and social
psychology is psychology, according to the testimony of sociolo-
gists as well as by our own definitions, E. A, Ross, the first

sociologist to write a book entitled Social Psychology, defined
social psychology as a subdivision of "general psychology." And
more recently R. M. Maclver observes that "social psychology is
a branch of psychology." We note therefore that in so far as

sociology is the study of social interaction, social process, etc., it
is merely a psychological science. But what of the study of super-

psychological determinants of behavior? Where does sociology
"
stand with reference to interpretation of cultural phenomena?
Sociology was a quarter of a century old, if not more, before
the concept of culture entered into its thinking to any appreciable
"extent. By degrees, however, the concept of culture— or, at least,
the term— has become more common, and even popular. But, with
few and relatively insignificant exceptions, sociologists have not
been able to rise to a culturological point of view; they have
not been able to envisage a science of culture as distinct from a
science of society.
To most sociologists culture is merely behavior, a particular
kind of behavior, perhaps, but the reactions and interactions of
human organisms, nevertheless. Thus Kimball Young says that
"culture consists of . . . To Read Bain,
learned behavior patterns."
"culture is all behavior mediated by social symbols ... all culture
patterns are resident in the organisms of persons." Ogburn and
Nimkoff say that culture is "behavior transmitted by learning."
Ellwood defines culture as "behavior patterns socially acquired and
socially transmitted by means of symbols." ^
There is also a tendency among sociologists to regard culture

as merely a by-product of social interaction. Thus, E. R. Groves
states that "cultureis a product of human association." Kimball
Young thinks of culture as "a precipitate of man's social life." *

To many sociologists, "cultural" has become merely another
word for "social," Robert S. Lynd, for example, speaks of "the
individual in our culture," "leaders of the culture," etc. As Jessie
Bernard shrewdly observed many years ago, " 'culture' bids well
to supersede 'society' and 'cultural/ 'social/ in the sociologist's

^
vocabulary."
The inability of sociologists to conceive of culture as a supra-
psychological order, distinct from the process of "social inter-

action/' is well exemplified by the eminent German sociologist,
Georg Simmel. When one considers, he says, "the development

and character of language, morals, church, law, political and social
organization," the conception that they constitute "a structure of
independent reality, which leads its life after peculiar laws and
by virtue of peculiar forces, independent of all its individual com-
ponents" seems "inevitable." Simmel is here face to face with
culture. Its independence of individuals is so plain that it compels
recognition by itself. That culture has an existence of its own
which is determined by its own laws, is also so plain as to make
the conception "inevitable." Yet, so mired in individualistic
psychology is Simmel, and so blinded by an obsolete metaphysics,

that he cannot accept the conclusion to which his observations
and reasoning "inevitably" lead him. "It is certain," he stubbornly
maintains, "that in the last analysis only individuals exist." Even
society exists only "in mental attitudes or psychological occur-
rences within the minds of individuals." And culture, apart from
material things, consists of "spiritual structures . . . [which] have
their existence only in personal minds. Every attempt to think of
them outside of persons is a mysticism . ,
/' ^<>
The conception of a science of culture held by many American

sociologists is expressed by Dorothy P. Gary in her essay "The
Developing Study of Culture:" "A science of culture will be built
up only when the analysis of culture is approached from the
standpoint that culture itself is a social process growing out of
and consisting of collective human behavior." " In other words,
a science of culture will be realized only when it becomes a science
of social process, of collective behavior, rather than a science of
culture. Th. Abel considers the question of a science of culture
in his essay, "Is a Cultural Sociology Possible?" and comes to the
conclusion that it is not. To Abel, sociology is the study of

"inter-human behavior" of which culture is but an aspect.
There have been, to be sure, sociologists who have a fine ap-
preciation of the role of culture in human behavior. Professor C.
A. Ellwood, for example, declares that "it is impossible to under-

stand human society without understanding human culture; for
the social behavior of man ... is dominated by the culture of his
group." But he, too, thinks of culture as human (organic)

behavior rather than as a class of supra-psychologic, superorganic,
phenomena. To Ellwood, "all culture is a product of the human

mind [which means that] back of all historical interpretation,
therefore, must be the method of psychological analysis . . . the

development of culture is essentially a learning process," William
F. Ogburn took a culturological point of view, to a certain extent
at least, in his Social Change. But, as we have just seen, he and
his collaborator, Nimkoff, think of culture as human behavior.
Malcolm M. Willey is another sociologist who has done much
to bring his science to an appreciation of culture. He has gone
so far as to declare that "the study of culture —the processes of
its origin and its growth, its spread and its perpetuation— con-
stitutes the study of sociology." But in an earlier article written by
Willey and Melville J.
Herskovits (an anthropologist), we are
told that "it must not be assumed, of course, that culture is a
metaphysical entity which operates of itself. It is, rather, a generic
term that covers an amazing number of types of behavior." ^^
Thus we see that sociologists think of culture as behavior, as
social process or interaction, as a factor in human behavior, or as
a by-product of human behavior. But they seldom, if ever, rise
to the level of viewing culture as a distinct and separate class of
supra-psychological, supra-social phenomena; as a process sui

generis with its own laws. In short, they cannot rise above a science
of society and envisage a science of culture. This is not, however,
surprising. Being sociologists, they are by definition and tradition
devoted to the study of society, of social interaction. It is not
$6 THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
surprising, therefore, to find that when they are confronted with
culture they translate it into the only language they know: the
idiom of There is not a single sociologist that

social interaction.
we know (Durkheim excepted) who has a clear conception of

of
what a science of culture would be and who has devoted himself
to the advancement of such a science.
A few sociologists have, however, been sufficiently exposed to
the culturological point of view to be disturbed by it. Professor
R. M. Maclver is concerned with the "disturbing effect" which

"the impact of anthropology" has had upon sociology: the "cul-
tural approach," he says, "leaves sociology without a focus." Pro-
fessor Robert S. Lynd issues a clear warning against the error of
"viewing culture as a self-contained force, operating by inner
laws of its own." He lists "four distinct advantages" which may be
gained from treating culture as human behavior instead of as
culture ("basically impersonal things"). Culture, he argues, does
not "enamel its fingernails, or vote, or believe in capitalism, but

people do." L. L. Bernard, too, argues against a science of culture,
denying that culture is a thing suf generis. He likewise thinks of
culture as "the impact of an intelligent organism . . . upon its
environment," in other words, as the reactions of the human

organism. ^^
Thus, among sociologists we find a recognition of cultural phe-
nomena and an appreciation of the role of culture in human
behavior. But we find virtually no conception of a science of
culture among them, no appreciation of the fact that cultural
phenomena constitute a separate and distinct order; that cultural
elements act and react upon each other according to laws of their
own; that culture as such can be explained only in terms of cul-
ture; that culture not only can be studied apart from the psycho-
logical reactions of human organisms, apart from "social inter-
action," but that it must be so studied; in fine, that a special
science is required to study and interpret this special class of
phenomena, and that this science is not a science of psychology.
individual or social, or a science of society or "social interaction,"
but a supra-psychological science of culture: culturology.
With the creation of Sociology the boundaries of science were

extended to embrace super-individual determinants of behavior.
But, being but a science of group behavior, of collective psycho-
logical determinants, Sociology was unable to grasp and interpret
super-psychological determinants. Science was, therefore, obliged
once again to advance its frontiers by creating a new science. This
time it was culturology.
It was the anthropologists who, as Professor A. L. Kroeber has
observed, "discovered culture," ^* and it has been within the
province of anthropology that the science of culture has had most
of its growth. The eminent British anthropologist, Edward
Burnett Tylor, was the first person, so far as we know, to formulate
in an explicit and self-conscious manner, the point of view, the
purpose, principles and scope, of a science of culture. He was the
first, too, so far as we know, to use the phrase "science of cul-
ture:" it was the title of Chapter I of Primitive Culture (1871).
We do not mean to assert that Tylor was the first to take a cul-
turological point of view or to produce a culturological work;
there were, of course, others before Tylor who did this to a greater
or lesser extent. But so far as we are aware, Tylor was the first to
define and describe the new science.
To begin with, Tylor gave us what has probably been the most
satisfactory definition of culture that we have ever had until re^
cently. "Culture," he says in the opening words of Primitive Cul-

ture, "is that complex whole which includes knowledge, belief, art,
morals, law, custom, and any other capabilities and habits ac-
quired by man as a member of society." Secondly, Tylor makes it
clear that this new science will take as its object of study, not
human behavior, nor social process or interaction, but culture
traits themselves as a separate and distinct class of phenomena.
The study "not of tribes and nations, but the condition of knowl-
S8 THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
edge, religion, art, custom, and the like among them" is the task
he sets for his science. He proposes first to classify culture traits
into categories such as weapons, myths, rites, social customs, etc.,

and then to "make out their distribution in geography and history
and the relations which exist among them." It is the relations
between culture traits, relations historic, geographic, and func-
tional, that Tylor is concerned with, not relations between human
beings (i.e., "social interaction")."
The next noteworthy attempt to establish a science of culture

was that of Emile Durkheim.* In a great deal of his work, but
The Rules oi Sociological Method— above all in the
especially in
Preface to the second edition of this work— Durkheim endeavored

to formulate the premises and principles of culturology. His
phraseology was unfortunate, however, since it rather effectively
concealed his true thought.** In the first place he calls his science
"sociology" rather than a "science of culture" as Tylor did, and he
lacks the terminology to distinguish between the social and the
cultural. He designates the class of traditional super-psychologic
symbolic phenomena which we call "culture" by such terms as
"collective consciousness," which has not only obscured his
thought but has brought upon him the charge of mysticism. But
to one who can reach his thought and meaning through the
facade of inappropriate terminology, it will be quite apparent that
Durkheim is talking about culture rather than "society" or "social
interaction," and that he is trying to establish a science of culture.
* Having previously stated that the founding of the science of culture was
primarily the work of anthropology the question arises. Was not Durkheim a
sociologist? It is Durkheim called his science "sociology."
of course a fact that
But it is nature and content was very different from the
also true that its
works of most sociologists. As Bernard has put it, "the Durkheim school gen-
erally has been closer to anthrop>ology than to sociology," (article "Social
Psychology," Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, p. 154).
** See the opening words of Durkheim 's Preface to the second edition of
The Rules for his own statement about how he was misunderstood by his
colleagues.
Durkheim is speaking of culture when he says:
. . . collective ways of acting or thinking have a reality outside

the individuals who, at every moment of time, conform to it.
These ways of thinking and acting exist in their own right.

Collective representations are the result of an immense co-
operation, which stretches out not only into space but into time
as well; to make them, a multitude of minds have associated,
united and combined their ideas and sentiments; for them, long
generations have accumulated their experience and knowledge.^*
Durkheim leaves no doubt that he is concerned with what

anthropologists such as Tylor, Kroeber and Lowie have called
culture even though he uses the term "society." "It is not true,"
he says, composed of individuals only; it also in-
"that society is
cludes material objects which play an essential role in the com-

mon life," (emphasis ours). Among these material objects he lists
"houses, buildings of all kinds which, once constructed, become

autonomous realities, independent of individuals . . . lines of com-
munication and transportation, . . . instruments and machines
used in industry . .
." ^^
That Durkheim is interested in the behavior of culture traits

rather than the behavior of human organisms ("social inter-
action") is made clear by the following:
We need to by comparison of mythical themes,

investigate,
popular legends, traditions, and languages, the manner in which
social representations [i.e., culture traits] adhere to and repel
one another, how they fuse or separate from one another.^®
Since culture is to be studied with reference to the ways in
which traits act and react upon one another— "adhere to and
repel one another"— it follows that culture is to be explained in
terms of culture:
Society [i.e., culture] is a reality sui generis; it has its own pecul-
iar characteristics . . . The determining cause of a social fact
[culture trait] should be sought among the social facts [culture

traits] preceding it . . . We must seek the explanation of social

life [culture] in the nature of society [culture] itself.^^
A few sociologists have been able to see that Durlcheim is talk-
ing about culture traits and their behavior rather than human
organisms and their interactions, but most of his successors have
either tried to reduce his culturology to the social psychology of
interaction or have dismissed it as "mysticism." Despite misunder-
standing, however, Durkheim's influence has been considerable,
and he will eventually come to be recognized as one of the
founders of the science of culture.
In the works of Tylor and Durkheim the science of culture got
off to a good start in the nineteenth century. But progress in this
field has been rather meager in recent decades. A considerable

amount of work of a culturological nature has been produced by
American and European anthropologists. But little advance in the
development of the theory of such a science has been made.
There has, in fact, been considerable opposition to the cultur-
ological point of view, and numerous signs point to regression
from the level attained by Tylor and Durkheim.

Professor A. L. Kroeber has undertaken to formulate the philos-
ophy of a science of culture on several occasions, notably in the
following essays: "The Superorganic," "The Possibility of a Social
Psychology," "On the Principle of Order in Civilization as Exem-

plified by Changes in Fashion," "Sub-Human Cultural Begin-
nings," "So-Called Social Science," and, finally in his recent huge
work. Configurations oi Culture Growth. Like Comte, Kroeber
is concerned with the "hierarchy of the sciences." He distinguishes
cultural phenomena from psychological phenomena. "Civiliza-
tion," he says, "is not mental action but a body or stream of

mental exercise." He distinguishes the psychological from the cul-
tural in the instance of Darwin's formulation of the theory of

natural selection: the "reactions in Darwin's nervous system at the
moment when the thought of natural selection flashed upon him,"
THE EXPANSION OF THE SCOPE OF SCIENCE '^l
are contrasted with "the relation of doctrines such as that of

natural selection to other concepts and social [cultural] phe-
nomena." In short, Kroeber envisages a science which would con-
cern itself, not with psychological events, but with the actions and
reactions of superorganic (cultural) phenomena.^" In speaking of
the reaction of one concept on another, Kroeber is thinking as
Durkheim was when he spoke of the way in which "social repre-
sentations [culture traits] adhere to and repel one another, how
they fuse or separate from one another."
Culture, as a class of supra-psychic— or superorganic, to use
Kroeber's term— phenomena constitutes a distinct order of reality,
in Kroeber's conception. "The superorganic or super-psychic . . .
that we call civilization [culture] appears to have an existence, an

order, and a causality as objective and as determinable as those of
the sub-psychic or inorganic," he says. He also thinks of culture
as a "closed system of phenomena," which means that "the first

explanation of cultural phenomena must be in cultural terms," ^^
Professor Kroeber is not able to hold consistently to the culture-
logical point of view, however. He appears to think that
culturological explanations can be only historical; "Anthropology
belongs in the group of the historical sciences," he says. General-
izations dealing with non-temporal aspects of cultural phenomena
would, he reasons, belong to psychology, as is indicated by the
title of one of his essays, "The Possibility of a Social Psychology."
He is not quite able to conceive of scientific laws of culture itself.
Instead, he speaks of laws which underlie culture, and these are

^-
"the laws of psychology."
Kroeber has pointed out in "The Possibility of a Social Psychol-
ogy" "the fatal defect" of the term "sociology": its failure to
distinguish the cultural from the social. But he does little to

remedy this shortcoming, since in the same essay where the defect
of "sociology" is exposed, he suggests that the science of cul-
ture be called "cultural mechanics," "social psychology," and even
^'sociology." If only he could have crystallized his thought in a
new term: "culturology"! In a later essay, he does use the phrase

"science of culture," however. And he displays a keen under-
standing of the direction that science is when he observes:

taking
"It does look as if the future science would be more concerned

with culture than with society."
"
Professor Robert H. Lowie gives us a clear expression of the
culturological point of view in his various writings. To him, culture

constitutes a distinct class of supra-psychological phenomena
which requires a special science for its interpretation. "During the
last hundred years," he writes, "it has become increasingly clear
that culture . . . represents ... a distinct domain. We have [in
culture] a thing sui generis that demands for its investigation a

distinct science." This distinct science is to be a "science of cul-
ture," as he calls it in a recent essay. The science of culture is to
be distinguished sharply from a science of mental phenomena:
"We cannot reduce cultural to psychological phenomena . . .
Culture . . . can be explained only in terms of itself." Like Durk-

heim and Kroeber, Lowie sees that culture traits as such act and
react upon each other: "culture thus appears as a closed system."
It is therefore the business of the ethnologist [culturologist] to
show how one cultural element is determined by, or influences,
other culture traits. He shows, for example, how a type of kin-
ship terminology is determined by rules of marriage and descent.^*
Clark Wissler, likewise an anthropologist, takes the culturologi-
cal point of view in much of his work. He regards the "culture
concept [as] one of the most recent and important achievements
in anthropological research." He distinguishes psychology, the
r scientific explanation of the way people behave, from anthro-
pology, the study of the way culture traits, or cultures, behave.
In fact, he advocates the study of "culture as independent of
human beings." Like Tylor, Wissler states that the task of the
anthropologist is to "describe and classify these inventions [cul-
ture traits], to study their distribution over the earth, and above
all the gross outlines of their history." Wissler is interested in the
evolution of culture, the history of specific traits and complexes,

and in relationships obtaining between traits. "All cultures," he
maintains, "follow out their careers according to discoverable
laws," and it is the anthropologist's business to discover and to
formulate these laws.^'
Wissler does not, however, fully appreciate the extent to which
the culturological point of view can be applied. Instead of trying
to explain such traits as the couvade and incest prohibitions in
terms of the interaction of other culture traits, he turns them over
to the psychologist.^® He would thus restrict the science of cul-
ture to an unwarranted and unfortunate degree, and deprive it of
much opportunity for achievement. But this blind spot does not
lessen the merit of his culturological work in other areas of inter-
pretation.
Wissler's insight and understanding concerning the expansion
of the scope of science and of the direction which this expansion
is taking are shown in the following passage:
Thus, was an easy step from the realization of the individual

it
to the conception of society Such a consciousness of our-

. . .
selves functioning as a group is coincident with the rise of

sociology and whereas a century or more ago men were
. . .
thinking in terms of the individual, they came during the

last half century to see themselves in society. It is then a curious
fact that for a long time man was so intent upon his individual-
ism, he failed to sense the existence of society, and that to
such a thing as culture was totally blind. But we have seen how
our people are just becoming conscious of the existence of
culture ... So while we have attained social consciousness . . .
into culture consciousness we are just now groping our way.'^

Professor G. P. Murdock has a fine exposition of the culturologi-
cal point of view in his essay, "The Science of Culture." Dr. Bern-
hard J.
Stern also touches upon it in an illuminating manner in
his article, "Concerning the Distinction between the Social and
the Cultural." It would be interesting to note expressions of the
culturological point of view in the works of other men if sufficient
space were at our disposal. But we have cited enough to show that
some progress in the direction of a science of culture has been
made since the days of Tylor and Durkheim.
But the new science has encountered considerable opposition as
well as support. The extension of the point of view of science to
the realm of human institutions has aroused the opposition and
resentment of champions of the older philosophy of free will. As
Durkheim has expressed it:
The same antagonism breaks out each time a new science is

founded ... on more than one point, the natural sciences them-
selves found an obstacle in faith. But it is especially when man
became an object of science that the resistance became fierce.
The believer, indeed, cannot but find repugnant the idea that
man is to be studied as a natural being, analogous to others,
and moral facts as facts of nature. It is well known how these
under the different forms they have taken,
collective sentiments,
have hindered the development of psychology and sociology
[culturology].^^
Opposition to a science of culture is not confined to non-

scientists, however. We have already noted the opposition of cer-
tain sociologists, and there is considerable opposition to culturol-
ogy among anthropologists themselves.
in "The Superorganic" (1917), to
Kroeber's early attempt,
formulate the culturological point of view and to advocate a
science of culture was met with speedy and spirited opposition.
Edward Sapir, in a skillfully argued essay entitled "Do We Need

a Super-Organic?" tried to show that no such concept, and conse-
quently no special science, was needed. Alexander Goldenweiser,.
also in a reply to Kroeber's essay "The Superorganic," likewise
opposed a super-psychological science of culture. "The life of cul-
ture," he argues elsewhere, "belongs to the psychological level.
It is in the minds of men in society . . . The historian, the an-

^*
thropologist, are students of life. Life is psychology."
It seems likely that Franz Boas had Kroeber in mind when he

wrote, "It seems hardly necessary to consider culture a mystic
entity that exists outside the society of and its individual carriers
that moves by its own force." Like Lynd, Boas would insist that
"cultures do not enamel their fingernails but that people do."
Ruth Benedict, too, can see nothing but mysticism in Kroeber's
attempt to formulate a science of culture as a class of phenomena
sui generis. She speaks of those who "have often expressed them-
selves in mystical phraseology . . . like Kroeber they have called
in a force he calls the superorganic to account for the cultural pro-
cess." Being unable to understand or to appreciate a science of
supra-psychological phenomena, Boas and Benedict simply brand

the idea "mystical" and reject it. The inability of Boas to rise above
the level of psychological interpretation and to grasp a culturo-
logical point of view is clearly set forth in a significant passage by
Benedict. "It has never been sufficiently realized," she writes, "how
consistently throughout his life Boas defined the task of ethnology
as the study of 'man's mental life,' 'fundamental psychic attitudes

of cultural groups,' 'man's subjective worlds/ " ^°
Father Wilhelm Schmidt defines ethnology as "a science of the

^^
mind."
The reaction against the culturological point of view in Ameri-
can anthropology in recent years has gone so far as to receive the
following summary expression in the words of David Bidney: "The
tendency to hypostatize culture and to conceive it as a transcen-
dental, super-organic, or super-psychic force . . . the assumption

that culture is a force that may make and develop itself" is one of
the major "cultural fallacies" of our day. It is the "culturalistic
fallacy," to be specific, he tells us.^^ Dr. Bidney fails to ap-
preciate the direction that science has been taking for more than
a century, that it has been moving upward from the individual
psychologic level to the social psychologic, and from there to the
super-psychologic, or culturologic, level. He feels only the impact
of the current reaction against this trend and consequently does no

more than serve as the passive medium of its expression.
Many anthropologists are still unable to rise above the level of a
sociological, or socio-psychological, conception of human behavior.
Thus Radcliffe-Brown ridicules the notion that two cultures can

react upon each other, or that a culture can exert an influence, or
produce an effect, upon an individual human being. Culture, to
Radcliffe-Brown, is merely "an abstraction," and he finds it "fan-
tastic to imagine . . . two abstractions coming into contact and

by an act of generation producing a third abstraction." The idea
that a culture can "act upon an individual" is, to Radcliffe-Brown,
"as absurd as to hold a quadratic equation capable of committing
a murder." In theoretical outlook Radcliffe-Brown is merely a
sociologist; he is incapable of envisaging a science of culture.*
He asks: "Is a science of culture possible? Boas says it is not. I
agree. You cannot have a science of culture." But, he says, a sci-
ence of societies is possible and this is the proper goal of the

social anthropologist.^^
Radcliffe-Brown confuses the issue very effectively by calling cul-

ture an abstraction. Words are culture traits. Why call them ab-
stractions any more than the bark of a dog or the quack of a duck?
The fact that words have a symbolic significance as well as auditory
and physical properties does not make them "abstractions," any

more than the sexual significance of the mating call of frogs makes
this an abstraction. Polygynous households are culture traits. But
why call one husband and three wives an abstraction any more
than one atomic nucleus and three electrons? Why should social
or ceremonial forms be called abstractions any more than cellular
or molecular forms? A wild horse is not an abstraction. Why call
* It is an interesting and noteworthy

fact, however, that although RadcHffe-
Brown has not been able to appreciate the concept of a science of culture
and hence has repudiated and rejected such a concept, he has employed it
effectively in some of his work. His "Social Organization of Australian Tribes"
is a good example of a culturological interpretation of super-psychological
phenomena.
a domesticated horse (a culture trait) one? Culture traits are very

real things:* objects, acts, forms, sentiments and ideas which
can be and are experienced as real things. There is no more reason
for calling them abstractions than anything else in our experience.
As for culture's ability to "act upon an individual," it is remark-
able to find a man who is so often identified with Durlcheim
arguing this question in the negative. It was one of Durkheim's
chief theses that culture traits have an existence prior to and inde-
pendent of the individual human organism, and that these traits
impinge upon man from the outside and profoundly affect his
behavior. And it is, of course, obvious that this is the case. From
birth— and even before— culture traits in the form of ideas, senti-
ments, acts, and material objects act upon the human organism
and cause it to behave in this way and that. And it is not as
"absurd" as Radcliffe-Brown would have us think to "hold a
quadratic equation [i.e., an idea or set of ideas] capable of com-
mitting a murder," A culture trait in the form of an idea may so
stimulate the human organism as to cause it to kill another human
being. This is in fact a very common thing in cases of witchcraft,
the killing of one or both of twins at birth, and many other cul-
tural situations. A culture trait in the form of a sentiment-charged
idea will cause a Japanese general to disembowel himself in atone-
ment for disgrace or failure, or an occidental officer to blow out his
brains with a pistol. It would, of course, be silly to argue that it
was the person, the human organism, that actually does the killing
in the examples just cited. Of course it was the human being. But
—and this is the point at issue in a scientific analysis of behavior-
it was the culture trait, not the human being, that was the determi-
nant of the behavior, and hence was the cause, scientifically speak-
ing, of the homicides. The human organism does not kill witches
or commit hara-kiri because of any inherent property or tendency.
* Recall Durkheim's emphasis upon the prof>osition that social facts arc
things (choses). This proposition was "at the very basis of . . . [his] method,"
(The Rules, p. xliii).
As a matter of fact, self-destruction runs counter to powerful

and deep-seated organic tendencies. But, under the powerful stim-
ulation of cultural traits, acting upon the organism from the out-
side, the human being can be brought to homicide or hara-kiri.
These acts are the organic responses to cultural stimuli, and in

scientific phraseology, it is quite proper to say that the culture
traits are the causes, the killings the results. If different cultural
stimuli are applied, different results will be forthcoming. Thus,

we see that far from being absurd to think of a "quadratic equa-
tion, i.e., a culture trait in the form of an idea-sentiment, commit-
ting a murder," or a suicide, it is realistic and scientifically valid to
think in precisely this way.*

Professor A. Irving Hallowell, too, emphasizes a point of view
which would rule out a supra-psychologic science of culture. After
quoting with approval Sidney's characterization of the culturologi-
cal point of view as a fallacy, he says:
Although anthropologists often speak of the "movements" of

culture or the "meeting" of cultural traits or complexes, this
manner of speaking must be understood as an economical mode
of abstract speech. In a literal sense cultures never have met
nor will ever meet. What is meant is that peoples meet and
that, as a result of the processes of social interaction, accultura-
tion—modifications in the mode
one or both peoples
of life of
—may dynamic centers of this
take place. Individuals are the
process of interaction ... it is hard to see how culture— an
abstract summation of the mode of life of a people— can exert
an influence except as it is a definable constituent of the
* We do not assert that the culturological point of view is nowhere implicit

in Radcliffe-Brown's work. It is. As we have already noted, it permeates his
fine study, "The Social Organization of Australian Tribes." he dis- When
tinguishes "social anthropology" from psychology in "The Methods of Eth-
nology and Social Anthropology," p. 133, he gives expression to the culturo-
logical point of view. What we have claimed here is that Radcliffe-Brown
has explicitly and specifically opposed the theory of a science of culture. This
is demonstrated by his own utterances. The fact that he not infrequently docs
culturology in no way invalidates this charge. Even scientists sometimes fail

to square their behavior with their articulate theory.
activities of human individuals in interaction with each other.

In the last analysis it is individuals who respond to and influence
one another,^* (emphasis ours).
We see here only the social psychologist, with, however, a
marked individualistic bias. Hallowell thinks of culture only as
the reactions of biological organisms. The interaction of culture
traits as such seems utterly unrealistic to him. Hence he resolutely

turns his back upon a science of culture.
Oi course culture traits could do nothing were it not for human
beings; they could not even exist. And who, we might ask, has ever
thought otherwise? Certainly not Tylor, Durkheim, Kroeber,

Lowie, Wissler, or any other culturologist that we know of.But
it is a false realism to argue that culture traits do not react upon
each other immediately and directly. A hoe is a culture trait. It
acts directly upon and influences other culture traits such as divi-
sion of labor between the sexes, customs of residence, food habits,

religious beliefs and ceremonies, and so on. The introduction of
the automobile in modern American culture directly affected many
other culture traits: harness and carriage manufacture, the steel
and rubber industries, road building, urban development, road
houses and tourist camps, consolidated schools, etc. To be sure,
these cultural events could not have taken place had it not been
for human organisms. But is our account of the influence of the
automobile upon other culture traits made any more realistic by
introducing these organisms into it? Not one whit. The develop-
ment of the symphony or non-Euclidean geometry could not have
taken place without the respiratory and digestive processes of com-
posers and mathematicians. But to inject these physiologic proc-
esses into a scientific explanation of these cultural processes would

not add a single thing to our understanding of them. On the con-
trary, it would only confuse because of their irrelevance. Thus we
see that, although culture traits have no existence, and hence can
do nothing without the agency of human beings, we can treat
TOO THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
them scientifically as if they had an independent existence. In fact,
as we have shown, the problem of the direct and immediate influ-

ence of one trait upon another can be solved most effectively by
eliminating the human organism from our consideration entirely.
Far from being unrealistic— or fantastic or absurd, in the words of
Radcliffe-Brown— it is a common procedure in science. The physi-
cist may treat falling bodies as if they fell in a perfect vacuum; or
imagine an airplane passing without friction through the atmos-
phere. But no physicistis so naive as to protest that such things
simply don't occur; it goes without saying that they do not. Every
physicist knows that the most effective— if not the only— way to
arrive at the formulas and propositions necessary to explain physi-
cal phenomena is to substitute ideal situations for real ones.* The
only way, for example, to arrive at a law of falling bodies is to
imagine them falling through a perfect vacuum—a situation that
does not and cannot exist on this earth.

Similarly the culturologist knows full well that culture traits
do not go walking about like disembodied souls interacting with
each other. But he realizes that he can explain cultural phenomena
as cultural phenomena only when he treats them as ii they had a
life of their own, quite apart from the glands, nerves, muscles, etc.,
of human organisms. The remarkable thing about this argument

is not that it is revolutionary, but that it should be necessary to
defend it. It is neither revolutionary nor novel. As a matter of fact,
scholars in many fields have been making culturological studies for
decades. We have had studies of Indo-European and other lan-
guages on a purely linguistic, i.e., non-biological, level. We have
had studies of the evolution of currency, the effect of telescopes
upon theological beliefs; the influence of the industrial revolution
* Physics, says the distinguished physicist, Max Planck, "substitutes a new

world in place of that given to us by the senses. . . The other world is the
.
so-called physical world image; it is merely an intellectual structure. To a

certain extent it is arbitrary. It is a kind of model or idealization created in
order to avoid the inaccuracy inherent in every measurement and to facilitate
exact definition,"The Philosophy oi Fhysics, (New York, 1936), p. 53.
upon political institutions; the development of Greek tragedy, non-

Euclidean geometry, Gothic architecture, and parliamentary gov-
ernment; the relationship between taxi dance halls and prostitu-
tion, delicatessens and the divorce rate; money spent on medical
schools and death rates for contagious diseases, etc., etc. All of
these are culturological problems and their solutions are culturo-
logical. Need one insist that none of these situations could exist
were it not for human organisms? It is obvious of course that they
could not. But it is equally obvious that the introduction of
human organisms into a consideration of these problems is not
only not necessary, it is irrelevant and confusing. It is only the
traditional habit of thinking anthropomorphically which still clings
to "social science" that keeps one from seeing that in the man-
culture system, it is the cultural, rather than the organic, factor
that is the determinant of the events within this system.
We see then that the culturological point of view, procedure and
objective are not new. Actually, scholars in philology, musicology,
philosophy, mathematics, political science, economics, literature,
art, have been making culturological studies for years. Our argu-
ment in support of a science of culture is necessary now only be-
cause the theoretical position taken today by many psychologists,
sociologists and anthropologists opposes thisnew science so
vigorously.
^Tje reaction against the culturological point of view has gone
even farther than has been indicated above. Proceeding from the
view that culture is "an abstraction," some anthropologists have
argued that it is intangible and imperceptible and end up by ques-
tioning the very existence and reality of culture itself. Thus Ralph
Linton observes:
Any investigator of culture is at once confronted with the

problem of its reality. Do cultures actually exist, ? Culture . . .
... is intangible and cannot be directly apprehended even by

individuals who participate in it ... If it [culture] can be said
to exist at all . .
."
Herskovits regards culture as "intangible," but grants to culture

patterns "the reality of any abstraction," ^^ whatever this may
mean. Thus culture is made virtually to disappear. And obviously
if culture does not exist there can be no science of culture.
Vigorous opposition to a science of culture comes from Earnest
Albert Hooton. Whereas anthropologists like Boas, Goldenviêiser,
Sapir and others have essentially a psychological point of view,
Professor Hooton's outlook is on a still lower level: the biological.
To him the study of culture is but a branch of biology. "Since
man's behavior," he argues, "is a function of his organism ... it
is within the province of the physical anthropologist to survey also

the cultural and psychological symptoms of the well-being or ill-
being of the human animal." Just as Lynd deplores the "artificial"

separation of culture from people, so does Hooton bewail the
attempt to disjoint culture from the blood, bone, and muscle of
the human organism. "My only quarrel with the ethnologist and
with the social anthropologist," he says, "is that they willfully
abstract social phenomena and divorce man's activities as a social
animal from man himself. [He deplores] the old way of consider-
ing social institutions completely apart from the human animals
which produce them, as if the former lived, died, propagated and
evolved independently, like parasites upon their human hosts."
Professor Hooton can see what culturologists are trying to do, but
being unable to appreciate anything beyond the horizon of biol-
ogy, he regards their objective as a great mistake. "We have been
misled," he bemoans, "into the imbecilic assumption that culture,
an inanimate thing consisting of humanly manipulated matter and
disembodied ideas, evolves by itself ever onward and upward, and
that all man has to do is to grease the wheels and ride." Hooton
has even gone so far, in his anti-culturological attitude, as to sug-
gest that "it is possibly more profitable for the sociologist and the
social anthropologist to study monkeys [who are, of course, culture-
less, L.A.W.] than savages." Needless to say, Professor Hooton's

unfortunate attitude toward a science of culture in no way de-
tracts from the excellence of his contributions in other fields.^'

Professor C. W. M.
Hart, too, deplores the separation of the
cultural (or the social, for that matter) from the biological.^^
Thus we see that although some progress has been made in the
direction of realizing a science of culture in recent decades, there
is also considerable opposition to it. Some, like Boas, are simply
not able to grasp the concept of a special science devoted to a

distinct and independent class of super-psychological determinants
of behavior. Others, like Lynd and Hooton, see what culturologists

are trying to do, but are convinced that they are on the wrong—
a dangerously wrong— track.
As a matter of fact, anthropology has actually regressed in recent
years from the levels attained by Tylor and Durkheim in the nine-
teenth century. We have, of course, an objective criterion and
measure of advance and regression in the expansion of the scope of
science. We may view the stages of this expansion as a series of
strata, one laid upon another, the older strata on the bottom, the
newer on top. Thus at one time we see the science of the behavior
of man on the anatomical and physiological level. Subsequently
science has advanced to the individual psychological level, then to
the socio-psychological, and finally to the culturological, level.
Thus by referring the point of view and objectives of anthropology

at any given time to this developmental series, we can gauge its
condition of advancement or regression.

Measured by this yardstick, anthropology has regressed consider-
ably, especially since 1930.^® Science attained the culturological
level in anthropology. This is anthropology's distinctive achieve-
ment and mission: to formulate and develop a science of culture.
Tylor and Durkheim formulated such a science. Kroeber, Lowie,
Wissler, and others have carried it forward. But many students
bearing the professional label of "anthropologist" have been un-
able to ascend to the culturological level and to grasp the concept
of a supra-psychological science of cultural phenomena. Being
unable to do this, they have opposed the culturological point of
view. We have already seen how Boas, Sapir, Goldenweiser and

Benedict opposed it. Culture, Goldenweiser argues, "belongs to
the psychological level. It is in the minds of men." Sapir, apart
from linguistics, was primarily a psychologist. get some notion We
of how far the anthropology of today is from the culturological
position of former years from the following statement by one of

our younger anthropologists, Dr. John Gillin:
One of the greatest recent advances [in anthropological theory]

is the realization by anthropologists that culture is a psycho-
logical phenomenon.''"
It is rather ironical that the article in which this observation

appears should have been entitled "Some Unfinished Business of
Cultural Anthropology." The "unfinished business" is, of course,
the development of a science of culture. The realization that cul-
ture is a "psychological phenomenon" is not an advance but a

regression to a lower level in the development of science.
More recently Professor M. J.
Herskovits tells us that "the ulti-
mate reality of culture is psychological." *
Not only has anthropology regressed to the psychological level;
it has tended to go even below the collective psychological level
and come to rest upon the level of individual psychology. "An
analysis of culture," Goldenweiser argues, "if fully carried out,
leads back to the individual mind." To Boas the "working of cul-
ture" meant "the life of the individual as controlled by culture and

the effect of the individual upon culture. The causal conditions of
cultural happenings lie always in the interaction between indi-
vidual and society." "It is always the individual that really thinks
and acts and dreams and revolts," Sapir maintained. Sapir's "ap-
* "Tlie Processes of Cultural Change," p. 163. Why

one should locate the
"ultimate reality" of culture in psychological processes is not clear. If one
reduces culture to the psychological level why not reduce psychological events
to the physiological level, and these to the anatomical and these in turn to
—
the chemical and physical levels if one is concerned with ultimates.
proach to the problem was always through the individual," accord-

ing to Ruth Benedict. Hallowell asserts that "in the last analysis
it is individuals who respond to and influence one another."

Linton takes the position that "culture . . . exists only in the
minds of the individuals who compose a society. It derives all its
qualities from their personalities and the interaction of these
*^
personalities."
In line with this emphasis upon the individual, we note that the
most popular trend in American anthropology today is the study
of personality. "Depth psychology," ink-blot tests, psychiatry, etc.,
are almost de rigueur these days for the up-to-date anthropolo-
gist. Thus we see that much of anthropology today has regressed
to a level even below that of most sociologists and some social
psychologists. And in some of Hooton's work, anthropological

theory has regressed even lower and has reached the biological
level. His interpretation of social disorders in terms of inferior
germ plasm and his advocacy of social reform through biological
purges are expressions of this point of view.*^
In a recent work, Kroeber has once again given expression to the
culturological point of view: "I am convinced that, the phenome-
non being cultural, the explanation must first of all be made in
cultural terms . . . psychological explanations have not got any-

one very far in reducing the phenomena of history to order, and
I shall not fall back on them." *^ But in these days of personality
studies and ink-blot tests, Kroeber stands almost alone. How is
anthropology's regression from culturology to psychology and psy-

chiatry to be explained?
Long ago Tylor remarked upon the repugnance with which
otherwise enlightened persons will regard a science of culture. "To
many educated minds," he wrote, "there seems something pre-
sumptuous and repulsive in the view that the history of mankind
is part and parcel of the history of nature, that our thoughts, wills,
and actions accord with laws as definite as those which govern the
motion of waves, the combination of acids and bases, and the

**
growth of plants and animals."
Durkheim, noted that the old anthropocentric philosophy
too,
of free will, which still dominates our thinking about man and his
behavior, generates vigorous opposition to a science of culture.
He wrote:
Numerous survivals of the anthropocentric bias still remain

and . . . here as elsewhere, they bar the way to science. It dis-
pleases man to renounce the unlimited power over the social
order he has so long attributed to himself; and on the other
hand, it seems to him that, if collective forces really exist, he
is submit to them without being able to
necessarily obliged to
modify them. This makes him inclined to deny their existence.
In vain have repeated experiences taught him that this omnipo-
tence, the illusion of which he complacently entertains, has
always been a cause of weakness in him; that his power over
things really began only when he recognized that they have a
nature of their own, and resigned himself to learning this nature
from them. Rejected by all other sciences, this deplorable prej-
udice stubbornly maintains itself in sociology [culturology].
Nothing is more urgent than to liberate our science from it,
and this is the principal purpose of our efforts.*^
And more recently A. L. Kroeber has observed that a science of

culture will have to win its way against the older philosophy of
human free will:
Our minds instinctively resist the first shock of the recognition

of a thing [cultural determinism] so intimately woven into us
and yet so above and so utterly uncontrollable by our wills.
far
We feel driven to deny its reality, to deny even the validity of
dealing with it as an entity; just as men at large have long and
bitterly resented admitting the existence of purely automatic
forces and system in the realm that underlies and carries and
makes possible the existence of our personalities: the realm of
nature.*®
These quotations do not merely distinguish between "social"

science and "natural" science. Theybetween the
also distinguish
philosophy of determinism and the philosophy of free will that

still permeates much of the thinking of today.* Social science had
won its way to the philosophy of determinism in the anthropology

of the i88o's and '90's: "If law is anywhere it is everywhere/' said
Tylor.
We find that anthropology has regressed at this point, too.
We have exponents of free will in anthropology today, and this
philosophy seems to be growing in strength and adherents. Dr.
Margaret Mead believes that "man should democratically take
control of his own destiny and build himself a world that is fit
to live in." " Much of her book, And Keep Your Powder Dry,
ispermeated with the philosophy of Free Will. Dr. John R.
Swanton closes his essay "Are Wars Inevitable?" with the assur-
ance that "all that is needed [to terminate warfare] is the will to
do so." Ralph Linton espouses the philosophy of free will and
the theory of social change through education in his lecture to
teachers entitled "Potential Contributions of Cultural Anthro-
pology to Teacher Education." "I believe," he says, "that there
are none of our current problems which cannot be solved if people

will put their minds to them and it is the educator's task to make
them willing and able to do this (p. 9) ... If the educator can
establish a particular value system in his pupils he can control
the future of his society, not in detail but in gross. By the feeling
* On this point Alfred North Whitehead makes the following penetrating

observation: "A scientific realism,based on mechanism, is conjoined with an
unwavering belief in the world of men and of the higher animals as being
composed of self-determining organisms. This radical inconsistency at the basis
of modern thought accounts for much that is half-hearted and wavering in
our civilization. It would be going too far to say that it distracts thought. It
enfeebles it, by reason of the inconsistency lurking in the background,"
{Science and the Modern World, p. 94, emphasis ours).
Much of anthropological thought is enfeebled —
not to say crippled today —
by a belief in man as a "self-determining organism" as the following quota-
tions will show.
which he estabhshes toward war, or toward unhmited accumula-

tion of wealth, or toward social justice he can deflect culture
change in desirable or undesirable directions (p. 16) ... A
society that genuinely believes in social justice can get social
justice and the educator can do more than anyone else to estab-
•"
lish thisbchcf (p. 17) . .
Professor Linton makes the control of culture change seem

very simple. Teachers, guided of course by a little coaching from
the cultural anthropologist, will direct the course of social change
as the)' please, "in desirable or undesirable directions," simply by
establishing the proper "value systems" in their pupils and insur-
ing the proper "feeling" toward social problems so that when

they grow up they will be "willing and able to put their minds to
these problems" and by so doing solve them. This view is faintly
reminiscent of what the clergy have been telling us for centuries:
"If we will but purpose in our hearts . .

." Or, as politicians,
columnists, and rhetoricians put it: "If the democracies (peace-
loving nations, the churches, the women, etc., etc.) of the world
would only take a firm stand against war ." To which one . .
might add: "If New England had a sub-tropical climate they

could grow grapefruit," or "if frogs grew fur the world might be
made safe for chinchillas."
But the crassest expression of the doctrine of Free Will that
we have seen recently is to be found in a recent article in the
American Anthropologist: "The Concept of Cultural Crisis."
Here we are told by Dr. David Bidney that "man, under God,*
controls his own cultural destiny and is free to choose and realize
the ends he would achieve," (p. 541). With the re-introduction
* We believe that it is not at all facetious —above all for an anthropologist

— to inquire of Dr. Bidney, "Whose God?" The God of the Christians or
the God of the Jews? Of the Catholics or of the Protestants? The God of
Mary Baker Eddv, Madame Blavatsky, or of Pius IX? Of Gandhi or of
Winston Churchill? Of William Jennings Bryan or of Robert Andrews Milli-
—
kan not to mention the Gods of millions upon millions of Mohammedans,
Hindus, Buddhists and others.
of God into ethnological theory, Bidney sets a new low in the

present trend toward regression.*
We have, however, merely exhibited the opposition to a science
of culture and demonstrated the occurrence of we have
regression;
not explained it. To undertake such an explanation would require
another essay, but we might suggest here that the regression we
are witnessing in social science in general and in cultural anthro-
pology in particular is but one aspect of a reactionary tendency

that pervades Western civilization today. The nineteenth cen-
tury was one of expansion and growth of our social system as well
as our technology; it was an era of progress. With the end of the
period of colonization of backward lands and peoples in Asia and
Africa, and the disappearance of the frontier in America, our
social system reached the limits of its capacity for growth. Mass
unemployment, over-production and glutted markets, relieved
only by periodic World Wars, are the indexes of this condition.
An obsolete social system is striving to maintain itself against
technological imperatives for change. Although there have been
some gains— the destruction of the feudal houses of Romanoff,
Hapsburg and Hohenzollern— the status quo has had, on the
whole, the better of it in the struggle. The powers victorious in
the war just ended are dedicated to the status quo ante bellum,
to the preservation of the old system of capitalism, empire and
imperialism. Our whole life is pervaded, therefore, by reactionary
* Kroeber charitably grants Bidney his God, remarking that he does not
see why he should be concerned with the use of God, by Bidney or Toynbee,
in their interpretations of culture "until it is evident that their attitude affects
the results of their studies" (1948, p. 413). But how could it be otherwise
than to affect their interpretations? And do we not already know what this
effect will be? The use of "God" as an explanatory device is hardly original
with Bidney and Toynbee. Have we not had centuries and centuries of this
kind of interpretation? And has not the development of science been, to a
very great extent, an attempt to outgrow and get away from such sterile and
mystical concepts as "God" as explanatory devices?
It is worth pointing out as a relevant fact in this connection that Bidney
was not trained in anthropology but in philosophy, where, presumably, there
is still a place and a use for "God" as an explanatory concept.
no THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
purposes and ideals and to a great extent dominated by them.

The victors of World War II will probably effect a continuation
of this political and philosophic atmosphere for some time to

come.
It is therefore not surprising to discover reactionary and re-
gressive tendencies in present-day anthropology.* It is both anti-
evolutionist and anti-culturological. The outlook for the immed-

iate future is not bright. But all science is still young and cultur-
ology is the youngest member of the family. Nor has social evolu-
tion reached the end of its rope. Culture is but a million years old
and we have some twenty million years ahead of us— unless, of
course, the techniques of destruction develop to the point of
extermination. The way of life that "we fought to maintain" will
eventually be discarded and forgotten. And with the advance of

cultural and social evolution will go advance in philosophy and
science. A science of culture will come eventually. Meanwhile,
those who know what course the evolution of culture has taken
in the past will know how best to serve the cause of science in
the future.
Summary: Man is an animal, and like all other living beings

he strives to live: to adapt himself to his habitat, to exercise some
control over his environment so that life can be made secure and
his kind perpetuated. Man has the same means of adjustment
and control that other animals have: neuro-sensory-muscular-

glandular, etc. But in addition to these purely animal means, he
has a technique that is peculiarly human: articulate speech. With
language man constructs philosophies in which the whole cosmos
is evaluated and interpreted. In terms of these philosophies, man
* Note carefully that it is certain tendencies in ethnological theory that we

characterize as reactionary and This characterization docs not in any
regressive.
sense assert or imply that the men and women who bear the professional
label "anthropologist" and who are primarily concerned with psychological or
psychiatric studies are themselves reactionary. It is the trend in theory, not
the human personnel, that we are concerned with here.
effects his adjustment to and control over his environment. The

function of philosophy is at bottom a biological one.
The first philosophies of mankind were animistic, supernatural
istic and anthropomorphic. The external world was explained, not
in terms of its own properties but in terms of human psychological
.forces, in terms of spiritual beings with minds like our own.
This primitive type of philosophy, although emotionally satisfying,
was, of course, ineffective practically, as a means of understanding

and controlling the external world.
Gradually, after hundreds of thousands of years, a new type of
philosophy was developed. It interpreted the external world in
terms of its own properties instead of terms of wish and will pro-
jected from the human mind. Free will and caprice gave way to
determinism and natural law. But this transition in point of view
was not effected throughout the whole range of philosophy at
once. On the contrary it began in certain areas of experience and
spread from there to others. It got a foothold first in the study
of the heavens and spread from there to other physical phe-

nomena. Then it invaded the realm of biological phenomena,
conquering first the anatomical, next the physiological, and finally
the psychological levels. From the psychology of the individual,
the new interpretation was extended to the psychology of society.
And always, as the new naturalistic philosophy of science ad-
vanced, it pushed out and displaced the old philosophy of free
will.
The order in which the various realms of nature were invaded

and subdued by the new philosophy was determined by the
following law: Scientific interpretation will appear Erst and grow
fastest in those areas where the determinants of human behavior
are the weakest and least significant. Since the primitive philos-
ophy upon a projection of the human psyche into the
rested
external world, upon a confusion of the self with the not-self,
the new philosophy would begin first and flourish best where the
identification of the self with the external world was weakest.
namely, in relation to the heavenly bodies and other inanimate

objects. Biological phenomena were next brought within the
scope of the new interpretation, and eventually social behavior.
But sociology, the science of society, was not the end of the
road of science as Comte and many others supposed. There was
one more class of determinants of human behavior to be dealt
with, the most intimate and powerful of all: culture. Just as
psychologists found it difficult to envisage a collective psychology
beyond an individualistic one, so have sociologists found it hard
to envisage a science of culture beyond the horizon of "social
interaction." But science cannot and will not stop in its onward
march, in its movement of expansion, until it has fulfilled its
potentialities to the utmost, and this means until it has embraced

and subdued the whole realm of human experience.
The science of culture is the next item of business on the agenda
of science. Many of our "best minds" still talk as if the fate of
civilization lay in the hands of man, to be wrecked or saved as
he chooses of his own free will. Many are still prattling about
how "we" are going to construct the post-war world, nursing, in
Durkheim's phrase, the illusion of omnipotence. There is, as
Tylor, Durkheim, Kroeber and a few others have pointed out,

a powerful and sometimes bitter antagonism to the view that
it is not "we" who control our culture but that our culture con-
trols us. And our culture grows and changes according to its own
laws. As we outgrow our primitive and infantile notion of mastery
and set about to learn the nature of the culture in which we live,
we will have a less flattering conception of ourselves, perhaps,

but a greater capacity for rational and effective living.
And so today, we witness one of the most critical and dramatic

episodes in the long and exciting history of science. Advancing
over the charred bones of hapless astronomers, put to death in
a frantic attempt to stem the tide of the new philosophy, science
has gone on to new conquests. After a bitter battle over Dar-
winism, science has securely held the field of biology. Psychology
THE .EXPANSION OF THE SCOPE OF SCIENCE 113
has at last made it possible to regard "minds" as objects, and

sociology has illuminated the laws of social interaction. It now
remains to discover the principles of a million years of culture
growth and to formulate the laws of this development. When this
has been done, science will have captured the last remaining
stronghold of the old philosophy; it will have reached its final
boundary.
P.S. As these pages were going to press I made a discovery too
important to pass by without mention here, namely, two signifi-
cant essays by a distinguished German chemist and Nobel laureate,

Wilhelm Ostwald (1853-1932), entitled "The System of the Sci-
ences," and "Principles of the Theory of Education," addresses
prepared for the inauguration of Rice Institute of Houston, Texas,
and published in English translation in the Rice Institute Pam-
phlet, Vol. II, No. 3, November, 1915.
In "The System of the Sciences," Ostwald classifies the several
sciences on a logical basis, arranging them in an order determined
by the degree of generality or particularity of their basic concepts.
All sciences are classified into three groups: (1) the sciences of
order— logic and various forms of mathematics; ( 2 ) the energetical
sciences— mechanics, physics, and chemistry; and (3) the bio-
logical sciences which he subdivides into physiology, psychology,
and culturology. The sciences of order are the simplest as well as
the most general in the application of their concepts; the biological

sciences are the most complex as well as the most particular.
The logical arrangement of the sciences represents also their
order of development, according to Ostwald. We "cannot fail,"
he says, "to recognize that an absolutely definite sequence can be

shown in which the various scientific disciplines have appeared
and have developed into their first florescence . . . the simplest
arose and were developed first," and "in proportion as the re-
liability of the human mind in mental operations was developed,

the more complicated and diversified fields of experience were
gradually submitted to science" (pp. 118, 120).

Ostwald's ''hierarchy" of the sciences is thus like those of
Comte and Spencer in all fundamental respects, and his theory
of the sequence of development is much the same as theirs: the

physical sciences were developed before the biological sciences
because they were simpler; the sociological, or culturological, sci-
ences were developed last because they are the most complex.
Like Comte, Ostwald says that "a sure mastery of at least the
fundamental principles of all the sciences ... is therefore a neces-
sary presupposition for the scientific mastery of culturological

problems" (p. 169).
We still prefer our own interpretation of the sequence in which
the various sciences have developed. The simplicity-complexity
factor is not irrelevant, but it is secondary in importance, we

believe, to the varying roles that physical, physiological, psycho-
logical, and cultural phenomena play in the determination of
human behavior. A fellow human being who is attracted by a
smile, repelled by a scowl, is logically complex, i.e., analyzable into
physiological, anatomical, chemical, and physical events. But
experientially we feel the events of human cultural behavior to be
as simple as physical phenomena, to consist of stimulus and re-
sponse, attraction and repulsion.

One wonders what Ostwald's phrase "in proportion as the re-
liability of the human mind in mental operations was developed"
might mean? Does he mean that the native mental ability of man
increased? This can hardly have been appreciable within a period
means that man's
of time as brief as the history of science. If he
techniques of interpretation of experience were improved, might
this not well be that he learned to distinguish the self from the
not-self in a series of sectors of experience?

It is significant to note in Ostwald's essay on pedagogy that the
human mind is not "naturally attracted" first to physical phe-
nomena, then to biological. On the contrary, he finds that "it is

much easier ... to awaken an interest in animals and plants than

in minerals and physical experiments . . , zoology and botany
can be taught with success at an age when systematic physics or
chemistry could not be taught ,"
(pp. 204-05). Ostwald speaks
. .
of this as "a certain antithesis," a "seeming contradiction," and

accounts for itby noting that plants and animals resemble man
more closely than do inanimate phenomena. Thus the anthropo-
morphic, anthropocentric factor insinuates itself into Ostwald's
discussion after all. Man is interested in himself and things like
himself; but, for this very reason, is less able to understand them
than things and events more remote because of the greater difS-
culty of disengaging himself, his ego, from the external world in

the case of things close to, and like, himself.
At the top of "the pyramid of the sciences," Ostwald places—

culturology, the science of civilization or culture, the science that
has as its subject matter "those facts and relationships which have
developed in man, in contradistinction to all other animals, and
which form that which we specifically call human civilization"
(p. 167). This science, he says, "is usually designated by the im-
proper name of scx:io]ogy" (p. 167). And here Ostwald, a chemist,
demonstrates that he has seen clearly what virtually no soci-
ologist has been able to grasp, namely, that it is culture as an

extra-somatic tradition that is significant here— not social process
or interaction; and what many a cultural anthropologist has failed
to realize, namely, that it is a specific kind of behavior— symbolic

—that is significant rather than how many individuals exhibit
this kind of behavior. Let us deal with each of these points in
turn.
To the sociologist the social process, social interaction, is the
be all and end all of human behavior; he cannot escape from
the confines of this concept. He cannot grasp the idea of an
external, extra-somatic class of things called culture that determine
the social process itself as well as the behavior of individual hu-
man beings. He can only translate culture into the coinage and
currency of social process; culture thus becomes a mere aspect or

a by-product of social interaction.
But Ostwald is far shrewder and wiser than this. He sees clearly
that it is not social process but civilization or culture that is the

distinctive characteristic of the human species. The term soci-
olog)' has been used, he says, to designate the science peculiar to

man because of
the fact that man, . . . even in the very early stages of his
development, has unquestionably been a social being, so that,
for much the greater part, specifically human culture has shown
itself to be the culture of groups of people living together
socially and busying themselves in common. This special nature
of human culture, however, is relatively a secondary phe-
nomenon; and it is, moreover, not entirely general, for certain
cultural performances have been, and can in the future be, ac-
complished by a single individual. Thus, socializing mankind is
an important phenomenon in this field; indeed, it is one of the
most important, but not the most chaiacteiistic and universal

one. I proposed, therefore, a long while ago to call the field in
question the science of civilization, or culturology (Kulturol-
ogie) (p. 167).
It is culture, not society, that is the distinctive feature of man.

Therefore, the scientific study of this feature should be called
cuJtnroIogy rather than sociology.
Many cultural anthropologists take the position that an act
limited to a single individual cannot properly be called culture,
but when more than one person is involved it may be so called.
Thus, the number of expressions or manifestations of an event is
regarded as a distinctive feature of culture. Ostwald exposes this
fallacy also. It is not the number of manifestations of an event
that determines its cultural character; it is the quality of the event.
Ostwald says that the event must be peculiar to man "in contra-
distinction to all other animals." This quality is, to use our own
terminology, the symbol. Thus, an event is cultural because it
occurs in a context dependent upon symbolling, not upon how

many human it. As Ostwald observes, "Certain
organisms produce
cultural performances have been, and can in the future be, accom-
plished by a single individual" (p. 167). If there were only a
single atom of copper in the cosmos it would still be copper.
Likewise, if there were only one expression of symbolling, it would
still be cultural.
It is a bit discouraging to discover that a chemist has been able

to see certain things in the sciences of man more clearly a third
of a century ago than many sociologists and anthropologists can

today. But it is gratifying indeed to discover, outside the anthro-
pological tradition of Tylor, Durkheim and others, such a dis-
tinguished and substantial champion of the science of culture,

and one who calls it by its proper name: culturology.
PART II MAN AND CULTURE
Introduction
K uman
different
behavior
elements:
is
a
a compound made up
biological— neuro-sensory-muscular-
of two quite
glandular-etcetera— factor, and a supra-biological, extra-
somatic cultural factor. But, in interpretations of human behavior

these two factors have been fused and confused for decades or
even ages. And they still are. It is still common to regard culture
as a simple and direct expression of "human nature" or to explain

it in terms of psychological mechanisms such as frustration, re-
jection of the father, or the traumatic experiences of bottle feed-

ing in infancy. On the other hand, there is a very general failure
to recognize the operation of cultural determinants of mind. We

try to make clear the fundamental distinction between mind and
culture, between psychology and culturology.
In this connection we examine the role of the Great Man in
human affairs both generally and analytically in "Genius: Its
Causes and Incidence," and specifically and illustratively in

"Ikhnaton."
"The Locus of Mathematical Reality" and "The Definition
and Prohibition of Incest" provide demonstrations of the tech-
nique of culturological interpretation of two major sectors of
human experience, the intellectual and the social.
Finally, "Man's Control over Civilization" critically examines
a conspicuous expression of the primitive, but still popular and
respectable, philosophy of anthropocentrism. The illusion of Free
Will and Omnipotence still hangs like a pall over much of our
attempt to define the relationship between Man and the Culture
Process and to evaluate his role in it.
CHAPTER SIX
CULTUROLOGICAL VS. PSYCHOLOGICAL

INTERPRETATIONS OF HUMAN
BEHAVIOR
"Social facts are not simply the development of psychic facts; the latter
are in large part merely the continuation of the former inside people's
minds. This proposition is extremely important, for the opposite point
of view inclines the sociologist at every instant to take the cause for
the effect and vice versa. For example, if, as often happens, one sees in
the organization of the family the logically necessary expression of
human sentiments inherent in every mind, the true order of facts is
reversed. On the contrary, it is the social organization of the relation-
ships of kinship which has determined the respective sentiments of
parents and children Every time that a social phenomenon is
. . .
directly explained by a psychological phenomenon, we may be sure that

—
the explanation is false." Emile Durkheim.i
±1 uman behavior is not as simple as it seems. It is not a

single homogeneous substance like copper or gold, but a
compound like water or table salt. Human behavior is made
up of two separate and distinct elements, the one biological, the
other cultural. This is not obvious, however, any more than

the fact that water is composed of two distinct elements, oxygen
and hydrogen, is apparent to the observer. On the contrary, hu-
man behavior appears to be a simple, homogeneous stuff, just as
water does. It is only through analysis of one kind or another

that we can discover the true structure and composition of human
behavior or of chemical compounds. And it is only through such
knowledge that we can come to an understanding of either.
121
Human behavior constitutes a class of events and as such is
distinguished from other classes, or kinds, of behavior such as

simian, reptilian, plant, cellular, atomic, molecular, stellar, galactic,
etc. Human behavior is confined to the genus Homo but it is not
co-extensive with man's actions and human behavior
reactions:
and man-animal behavior are not synonymous. As we have already

seen, only that portion of man's behavior which consists of or
depends upon symbolling may properly be called human; the

(^
rest is merely animal behavior.
We have already seen also that the human species has, by the
exercise of the symbol faculty, brought a class of phenomena
into existence that is, in a real sense, supra-biological or extra-
somatic. These are the languages, beliefs, customs, tools, dwell-
ings, works of art, etc., that collectively we call culture. They are
supra-biological in the sense that they are transmitted by the
mechanisms of social heredity; they are extra-somatic in the sense
that they have an existence independent of any individual organ-

ism and act upon it from the outside just as meteorologic forces
do. Every individual of the human species is born into a cultural
environment as well as a natural one. And the culture into which
he is born embraces him and conditions his behavior.
We see then that any given specimen of human behavior is
made up of two distinct factors proceeding from separate and

independent sources. On the one hand is the organism, composed
of bones, muscles, nerves, glands, and sense organs. This organism
is a single coherent unit, a system, with definite properties of its
own. On the other hand is the cultural tradition into which the
organism is born. There is, of course, no necessary relation be-
tween the infant organism and the particular type of culture into
which it is born. It could have been born into one cultural tra-
dition as well as another, into Tibetan as well as American or

Eskimoan culture. But, from the standpoint of subsequent behav-
ior, ever)'thing depends upon the type of culture into which the
baby is introduced by birth. If he is born into one culture he will
CULTUROLOGICAL VS. PSYCHOLOGICAL INTERPRETATIONS 123
think, feel and act in one way; if into another, his behavior will
be correspondingly different. Human behavior is, therefore, al-
ways and everywhere, made up of these two ingredients: the

dynamic organization of nerves, glands, muscles and sense organs
that is man, and the extra-somatic cultural tradition.
Culture has been produced by man and consequently bears a

close relationship to him as a genus or species. As a system cul-
ture is adapted to man rather than to apes, ants, or elephants.

Conversely, if man's organism were not what it is, his culture
would be different. As Clarence Day has shown in his deceptively
profound little book, This Simian World, a civilization built by

super-ants or super-cows would be very different from the culture
of super-simians. There is then a close relationship between man
and culture. But the relationship is general rather than specific.
This or that culture cannot be explained by appealing to man's
structure or nature, however varied we may conceive it. Culture
may be regarded as a thing sui generis, with a life of its own and
its own laws. But we shall return to this later.
Given a certain type of organism, a certain type of behavior
will follow. But in the human species this type is very broad and
contains infinite variation within The relationship between
itself.
man and culture seems close only when we contrast man with
other animals. The picture is quite otherwise when we confine
our observations to the human species. Within this category,
what relationship can we discover between organism and type of
culture? The answer is "None",— none, that is, of a functional
nature; there are only chance, historical associations. There is, for
example, no functional relationship between racial or physical

type and language or dialect. Negroes may speak Bantu, French,
or Chinese. The same will hold true of any other aspect of culture,
whether it be form of family, ethics, music, or economics.
The human species is of course varied, not uniform. There are
tall peoples and short peoples; round heads and long heads; black,
yellow, and white skins; straight, wavy, and kinky hair; thick lips,
—
long noses, blue eyes, "slant" eyes, relatively large livers, and
so on. It mav be assumed that functional variation accompanies
structural variation. Thus it is reasonable to suppose that there
are some innate psychological differences among the various races
of mankind. But one must not be misled by appearances. The
differences among races which are most easily observed are con-
fined to superficial physical features such as color of skin, color
and shape of hair, size of lip, shape of nose, and so on. In basic
features, such as the nervous, glandular, and muscular systems,
blood, bones, and sense organs, they are impressively uniform.
From a biological standpoint, the differences among men appear
to be insignificant indeed when compared with their similarities.
From the standpoint of human behavior, too, all evidence points
to an utter insignificance of biological factors as compared with
culture in any consideration of behavior variations.* As a matter
of fact, it cannot be shown that any variation of human behavior
is due to variation of a biological nature. In other words, in the
whole range and scope of human behavior, differences of custom

or tradition can nowhere be correlated in a functional sense with
differences of physical structure.
In a consideration of the differences of behavior between
peoples, therefore, we may regard man as a constant, culture as
a variable. This is to say that the differences in behavior that
we observe between Chinese and Russians, between Eskimos and

Hottentots, Mongoloid and Caucasoid, savage and civilized man,
are due to their respective cultures rather than to biological
anatomical, physiological, or psychological— differences between
them. The whole matter of interpretation of human behavior is
thus put in quite a different light from the one in which it is fre-
quently viewed. Instead of explaining cultural differences among

peoples by saying that one is energetic, vivacious, Dionysian, and
* We
are speaking here, as elsewhere in this chapter, of human behavior
in the mass, in terms of societies, tribes or nations, not of individual or-
ganisms.
creative, whereas another is phlegmatic, taciturn, unimaginative

and prosaic, we now see that the differences of behavior of various
peoples are due to the differences among the cultural traditions
that stimulate them respectively. Thus we explain the behavior of
peoples in terms of their cultures; but we do not and cannot ex-
plain their cultures in terms of the respective "psychologies" of
the peoples. The specific "psychologies" are psychosomatic ex-
pressions of the cultures, not their causes. The cultures must be
explained in terms of culture; culturologically rather than psycho-
logically.
Psychological explanations are however still prevalent and

popular, among social scientists as well as among laymen. Thus,
in a discussion of exogamy, the English anthropologist, B. Selig-
man, says: "It is obvious that if there is any general law under-
lying all marriage prohibitions it must be founded on human
emotions and reactions." ^ Hitler's "rapid rise to power, the spread
of his ideas to other countries, and the fanatical devotion to him

of thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children in
one of the most progressive and intelligent nations of the world
—all this shows," says Raymond Dexter Havens, Caroline
Donovan Professor of English Literature at Johns Hopkins
University, "how deep is the craving for authority, for certitude,
for intellectual and moral security. And not in Germany alone
but in all of us. Which means that when the war is won in Ger-
many and Japan it must still be carried on in America, and in our
own hearts ." , .
^ David Lilienthal, chairman of the U. S. Atomic
Energy Commission, is quoted by Time Magazine as saying that
"What goes on in people's minds— and in their hearts— is more

important in determining the fateful future than what goes on
in laboratories and production centers" (February 16, 1948, p.
24), And the English ethnologist, the late W. H. R. Rivers, said:
"To me, as to most students of the subject, the final aim of the
study of society is the explanation of social behavior in terms of
*
psychology."
In addition to these general explanations of cultural phe-

nomena in psychological terms, we have numerous psychological
interpretations of specific institutions and of particular socio-
cultural phenomena. Thus, the institution of private property is
often "explained"— and justified— by arguing that it is simply

human nature. There is a natural desire, it is said, to own your
own home, your own fields and herds, and to possess the products
of your own labor. If it were not for private property, the argu-
ment continues, there would be no incentive to effort and con-
sequently no progress.
Plausible as this theory may sound, it is not in accord with
ethnographic fact. There aremany societies in which there is no
private property in the resources of nature at all; on the contrary,
they are free and accessible to all members of the society. Customs
of hospitality, exchange of gifts, ease of borrowing, and so on,
make private property in food, clothing, tools, and ornaments
little more than a fiction. Communism has been the dominant
note in man's economic life for by far the greater part of human
history so far. But this, too, is no more an expression of human
nature than is feudalism or capitalism. Peoples do not have com-
munal or private systems of property because they want them or
because it is human nature to prefer one to the other. In a very
realistic sense they do not "have them" at all; rather, it is the cul-
tures which possess the people who have been born into them.
Attitudes, sentiments, and behavior toward property are deter-
mined by the type of economic system into which one is born.
Similar observations may be made concerning competition,
rivalry, and leadership. The basic principle of the socio-economic
life of many peoples is mutual aid. It is doubtful if primitive
groups could have held their own in difficult situations and with
crude tools, weapons, and techniques if their social life had not
been based upon this principle. The individual hunter was obliged
by custom to share his kill with others. Indeed, in some instances
he received the smallest portion of all. Prestige, social approval.
moral codes provided the incentive. And he in turn was entitled
to a portion of the kill of other hunters. Tlie produce of the field
or herds must likewise be shared.
The leader is often a necessary and an honored person, but not
always. Among our Pueblo Indians, a "leader" is likely to be
regarded as an obnoxious person, and may, in extreme cases, be
done away with on a charge of sorcery. The ideal Pueblo Indian
is not the go-getter, the leader, but a quiet unobtrusive person
who does not provoke community discord. And psychologists who
have sought to subject Pueblo Indian children to competitive
testshave found that their project failed when the children
learned the purpose of the tests. Far from trying to outdo the
others so that they might come home triumphant to admiring
parents, the children carefully refrained from doing their best
lest they humiliate or embarrass their fellows, and in so doing
bring odium upon themselves.
The institution of slavery has often been interpreted as the
outcome of man's inherent tendencies to commit aggressions
upon others— of "man's inhumanity to man." An eminent psy-
chologist, Wm. McDougall, once went so far as to postulate a
high degree of an instinct of submission among African peoples
to account for the prevalence of Negro chattel slavery. We know,
however, that the institution of slavery has not been universal by
any means. As a matter of fact, it did not make its appearance
until relatively recent times— since the beginning of the Neo-
lithic at least; the hundreds of thousands of years of human
history thatwent before had no slavery. And many peoples of
the modern world have had no slaves. Are we to assume that the
instinct of aggression— or of submission— was not sufficiently
developed during the early eras of human history, or among some

of the peoples of recent times, to find overt expression in a traffic
in human chattels?
If the origin of the institution of slavery has been interpreted
psychologically, so has its extinction. A growing consciousness of
human rights, an appreciation of the essential dignity of man

(whatever that is), or the rising spirit of Christianity have all
been invoked to explain the decline of this institution. One

scholar, writing in the Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, has
asserted that "the movement against slavery . . , was largely the
result of the rising spirit of democracy, etc." ^ By the same token,

the institution came into being as a consequence of the rising
spirit of slavery. Obviously, psychological and spiritual interpreta-
tions do not tell us very much actually. Why have aggressive—
or submissive— tendencies resulted in a certain type of social in-
stitution among some peoples but not among others? Why has
the spirit of democracy asserted itself at one time, the spirit of
slavery at another?
A culturological explanation of slavery makes the institution
readily intelligible. Slavery as an institution will exist and endure

only when the master can derive profit and advantage by exploit-
ing the slave. This is possible only when a family group is able to
produce considerably more than it requires for its continued
existence. The efficiency of production is of course determined by
the degree of technological development. Slavery did not exist
during the hundreds of thousands of years before Neolithic times
because culture had not developed sufficiently to make it possible
for a producer to be more than self-supporting. There certainly
would be no point— even if it were possible— in one tribe of
savages enslaving another if the latter required all that they were
able to produce in order to subsist. Consequently, we findno
slavery in early periods of human history, nor, in the modern
world, among peoples on low levels of technological development.
But when in the course of cultural evolution the productivity of
human labor was sufficiently increased by technological progress

so as to make exploitation profitable and advantageous, the in-
stitution of slavery came into being. Correspondingly, when cul-
ture—particularly the technological culture— had reached a certain

point where it could no longer be operated efficiently by a human
chattel, then the institution of slavery became extinct. Slavery

died out, not because someone discovered the essential dignity of
man, or because of a rising spirit of Christianity or Democracy,
but because, as Lewis H. Morgan put it long ago, a freeman is a
better "property-making machine" than a slave.^ Modern indus-
trial technologies could not be operated by ignorant, illiterate
human chattels. Also, the slave owner suffered a handicap which
does not affect the employer of free labor: the slave owner had to
made money out of them
feed and care for his slaves whether he
or not; he had a substantial investment in them and he must
safeguard this investment. The employer of free labor, however,
is under no such obligation to his employees. If his profits
diminish he can lay off some workers; if they cease, he can close
up his establishment entirely without assuming responsibility for
his employees; they can shift for themselves— go hungry, go on
public relief, or resort to begging or to theft. Thus, at a certain
stage of cultural development, slavery comes into being as a con-
sequence of the resources and imperatives of the cultural system.

At a subsequent and higher stage of cultural development, the
institution becomes extinct because it is no longer compatible
with the resources and exigencies of the socio-cultural system.
War is a tremendously impressive expression of human behavior
that is often "explained" psychologically. In addition to the Great
Men who make wars at their own sweet will, we find more
generalized psychological explanations. According to Time Maga-
zine (Aug. 23, 1948), a UN-sponsored International Congress on
Mental Health, attended by "2,000 of the world's foremost psy-
chiatrists and psychologists," gave forth such interpretations of
the cause of war as the following: Wars are caused by a sense of
guilt which causes you to do something violent, which in turn
creates a sense of guilt. Thus the repetition of wars is explained

as well as their origin. Another psychologist attributed wars to
restraint upon sexual impulses which causes frustration which
causes people to become aggressive. Still another thought that
'
people have been made aggressive and violent by corporeal

punishment during childhood.
Professor Gordon W. Allport, a psychologist at Harvard, quotes
with approval a passage from the preamble of the charter of

UNESCO: "Since wars begin in the minds of men it is in the
minds of men that the defences of peace must be constructed."

Monsignor Fulton J.
Sheen expresses the same view in only
slightly different words: "World wars are nothing but projections
of the conflicts waged inside our own souls, for nothing happens
in the world that does not first happen inside a soul." ® "A burst
of military enthusiasm and a line of able rulers enabled Egypt to
assume for several centuries an imperial position," ^ according to

an eminent orientalist, the late James H. Breasted. The common
people were, however, "a. naturally peaceful people," and con-
sequently Egypt was not able to retain her position of pre-
eminence. War has no "rational cause," said Franz Boas; it is due
to a "mental attitude," the "emotional value of an idea." ^° An-
other anthropologist, Ralph Linton, finds that the Plains Indians
did not fight for hunting grounds or other tangible advantages,
but rather because they were "warlike." * To Ruth Benedict
". . . it is a commonplace that men like war . . . Over and over
men have proved that they prefer war with all its suffering." ^^
William James tells us, in "The Moral Equivalent of War," that

"modern man inherits all the innate pugnacity and all the love
of glory of his ancestors . . . Our ancestors have bred pugnacity
* "Superficially it might appear that the roving life of a Plains Indian tribe
and the frequent contacts with other groups which this entailed would be
likely to focus interest on war, but it need not have done so if the Plains
Indians in general had not been warlike. After all, there was enough food
and other natural resources in the Plains to take care of a much larger popu-
lation than the area supported, and these tribes were not driven into war by
economic needs," The Study oi Man, p. 461.
Professor Lowie, too, thinks that the Plains Indians fought "just for fun":
the "Plains Indians fought not for territorial aggrandizement nor for the vic-
tor's spoils, but above all because fighting was a game worth while because
of the social recognition it brought when played according to the rules/'
Primitive Society, p. 3156.
into our bone and marrow, and thousands of years of peace won't
breed it out of us . . . The miUtary instincts and ideals are as
strong as ever." And the layman sums up his estimate of the
future: "You can't do away with war; it's just human nature."
But is man by nature so pugnacious and militant? Compared
with other animal orders, the Carnivores for example, the Pri-
mates are a rather timid lot. The "innate pugnacity" of which

James speaks is often conspicuously lacking in the human species.
Warfare is virtually non-existent among many primitive tribes.
And in many instances where fighting does take place, the con-
testants do not meet each other face to face and slug it out man
to man so that their "military instincts and ideals" can be exer-
cised to the full. Instead, they resort to ambush, killing their

victims before they have a chance to defend themselves. To
slaughter helpless sleeping victims is quite sufficient to feed the
"love of glory" of most peoples. And when free and open conflict
does take place among primitive peoples, their pugnacity is often
more vocal than military— as is usually the case among the lower
primates. Often the fight ends when the first blood is drawn.
And modern nations pugnacity has been "bred so weakly in
in
our bones and marrow" that every nation has to resort to con-
scription. And despite such stinging epithets as "draft dodger,"
the number of men who prefer the degradation of prison to the
glory of war is considerable. Thus it would appear that the lust
for fighting and killing is not over-riding in primates in general
or in man in particular.
But even if it were, it would tell us very little about war,

why it is fought and when, with whom and over what. To
attempt to explain war by appeal to an innate pugnacity would
be like explaining Egyptian, Gothic, and Mayan architecture by
citing the physical properties of stone; or like explaining the indus-
trial revolution by invoking an inventive tendency in the human
mind. A culturological interpretation of war will, however, tell
us something of significance. Wars are fought between societies.

between sociocultural systems, between tribes and nations. It is

the culture of any given situation that determines whether war-
fare shall be engaged in or not, and if so how, with whom and
for what. In some cultural settings, warfare is non-existent; the
mode of life as culturally defined has no place for it. In other

situations there is only occasional skirmishing between tribes.
Where rich at stake, we can expect
hunting or fishing grounds are
militar}^ contests.The same holds true for grazing lands and for
fertile valleys when culture has reached the level of animal hus-
bandr\^ and agriculture. It may sound absurd and superfluous to

say that peoples will not fight over grazing lands, fertile valleys,
coaland iron deposits, foreign markets, oil reserves and uranium
mines until culture has advanced to such levels of development as
domestication of animals, cultivation of plants, steam and internal
combustion engines, world trade, and uranium piles. But if one
listens to those who talk about man's "innate pugnacity" he might
easily get the impression that this was sufficient to account for
ever\'thing.
Warfare is a struggle between social organisms, not individuals.
Its explanation is therefore social or cultural, not psychological.
We could never understand why the United States entered World
War II— or any otherwar— by an inquiry into the psychological
motives of men and women. One man wanted to quit his dis-
tasteful job as bank clerk, another wanted adventure, a third
sought release from an unbearable domestic situation, another
wanted to see what the women of France, Samoa, or China are
like, another wanted to wear a uniform, another fought for God,
for Country, and the New Deal, and so on. Of course, most men
went to war because they were obliged to— or accept the degra-
dation of imprisonment or worse. To picture the multitudes of
docile serfs and peasants of ancient Egypt, pre-Columbian Peru,
China, or Czarist Russia going to war because of an ''innate
pugnacity and a love of glory" (James), or as Benedict says be-
cause "men like war" is grotesque. They were forced to go, driven
to the slaughter hke sheep. And if any were animated by "the
love of glory" it came to them from propagandists, not from their
innermost selves.
Again, supposing we grant merely for the sake of argument an

innate pugnacity to men: Whom will they fight? If a poll had
been taken among Americans in 1939 to discover the objects of
their hostility, it is likely that England would have received more

votes than any other nation with the possible exception of Russia.
Yet we entered the war on the side of these two nations. When
Russia was fighting "gallant little Finland" in 1939-40 our pug-
nacious instincts were leveled squarely at the Kremlin. The non-
aggression pact between Russia and Germany in 1939 aroused our
indignation and anger. But after the Germans invaded Russia in
1941, the orientation of our instincts changed. We then found in
Soviet Russia a stout champion of democracy.
Psychological explanations are not only irrelevant here, they
are pathetic. The psychological orientations were the result of the
intercourse of nations, not the cause. The lust for blood and glory
was at low ebb in the military camps in the United States in
November, 1941. An international event at Pearl Harbor trans-
formed a listless, disgruntled mass of conscripts into a spirited
fighting force. It would make more sense to say that it is war that
breeds the martial spirit than to argue that pugnacious instincts
cause wars.
To be sure, there would be no wars if there were no people-
human organisms with their hungers and fears, hopes and inertia
—to fight them. But to explain warfare in terms of psychology is
illusion. War is a cultural phenomenon, and we can not only ex-
plain it in cultural terms, but we can account for the presence or

absence of the pugnacious "instinct," the love of glory, or the
loathing of slaughter, in cultural terms also. World peace will
come, if it ever does, not because we shall have bred out the
pugnacious instinct, or sublimated it in mass athletic contests,*

but because cultural development, social evolution, will have
reached the ultimate conclusion of the age-old process of merging
smaller social groups into larger ones, eventually forming a single
political organization that will embrace the entire planet and the
whole human race.
I'he phenomenon of race prejudice and inter-racial antagonisms

is frequently regarded and explained as primarily a psychological
phenomenon. Since the phenomenon is manifested in acts and

attitudes of individual human organisms it is frequently taken for
granted that the problem of race prejudice and inter-racial antag-
onisms is psychological from the standpoint of scientific explana-
tion, and psychiatric from the point of view of therapy.
Psychoanalysis has come for\\'ard with interpretations such as
these: The Jew is identified with the law-giving, super-ego form-
ing father, and also wdth the unrepentant parricide. The hated
Jew is not really a person but a myth: he is "castrated" and
feminine and yet exceedingly dangerous and over-sexed, a symbol
at once of the id and of the super-ego. The Negro, according to
one psychoanalytic interpretation, represents the nocturnal, sexual
father, whom the son wishes to castrate— hence the castrative
aspects of lynching. Anti-Negro man-hunts resemble the hunting
of animals in groups, both phenomena being derived from the
banding together of the sons against the primal father.
These observations may or may not adequately characterize the

experience of an individual psyche who is participating in the
sociocultural process of racial antagonisms. But even if they do
realistically describe the individual experience, they do not ex-
plain the social phenomenon at all. It is ail too frequently assumed
that a sociocultural phenomenon has been explained when one
* Even as recently as the summer of 1948, more than one psychologist
solemnly suggested that international athletic contests, such as the Olympic

games then in progress, might serve to prevent wars by working off aggressive
tendencies in a peaceful manner.
has isolated and defined the psychological experiences of an indi-

vidual within that sociocultural context. Thus, it is said, men may
identify the Negro with the father, their rival, and then proceed
to give these inner feelings overt expression in acts and attitudes
of hostility toward the Negro.
What these attempts at psychological interpretations fail to
do, of course, is to explain why it is that the Negro represents
the nocturnal father in some societies but not in others; why
antagonisms are directed primarily toward one minority group
rather than another; why racial antagonisms are lacking altogether
in some situations. The fallacy of psychological interpretations of
sociocultural phenomena consists in the assumption that the sub-
jective psychological experience correlated with the institution

has brought the institution into existence. It is as if one discovered
—or came to believe— that riding in an airplane was the realiza-
tion of sexually motivated dreams of flying; or that flying in air-
planes gave one a sense of power and mastery, and concluded

therefore that the airplane, as an element of culture, had been
explained by citing sexual dreams and a will to power. We do not
deny or minimize the subjective psychological experiences of the
individual at all— although we would like to see some of the
psychoanalytic interpretations supported with a little more veri-
fication. These experiences are of course real. But, we would

argue, they are functions of sociocultural situations; not the causes
of them. Individual psychological experience has been evoked by
the social phenomenon of race antagonism just as the thrill of
power and mastery is evoked by the airplane; it is not the sub-
jective experience that produces the antagonism or the airplane.
There are non-psychoanalytic psychological interpretations of
racial antagonisms, also. The "frustration-aggression" hypothesis
has been called upon to explain inter-racial conflicts. A people
is frustrated and becomes aggressive as a consequence, choosing
perhaps a minority group upon which to vent the aggressive im-
pulse. But here again, the great variety and range of inter-racial
conflicts and antagonisms is not illuminated very much by merely
pronouncing the magic couplet "frustration and aggression."

One of the weakest of psychological explanations of race preju-
dice with which we are acquainted is that given once by the
late Franz Boas. The prejudice, he said, ". . . is founded essen-

tially ... on the tendency of the human mind to merge the
individual in the class to which he belongs, and to ascribe to him
all the characteristics of his class." ^^
Just how the tendency of
the human mind to identify an individual with "the class to which
he belongs" produces racial prejudice and antagonism is not quite
clear although Boas assures us that it "is not difficult to under-
stand" in the light of this tendency of the human mind.
Psychological interpretations of race prejudice and inter-racial
antagonisms are misleading and unsound because these problems
are sociological and cultural rather than psychological. As we
have pointed out, a description of subjective psychological expe-
rience correlated with an institution does not constitute an ex-
planation of the institution. The experience of the ego is a
function of the institution, not its cause. And, the institution
must be explained culturologically.
We do not wish to undertake an exhaustive culturological inter-
pretation of race prejudice at this point. We would suggest, how-

ever, that if investigation and analysis were carried out along the
following lines one would come to a much deeper and more
realistic explanation of this phenomenon than any amount of
psychological or psychoanalytic inquiry can produce: Race preju-

dice and racial antagonisms are likely to appear in sociocultural
situations in which (
i
) one group is competing with another for
the possession of desirable lands (e.g., the American Indian
frontier), for jobs or other economic advantages; (2) where a
minority group endeavors to preserve its own integrity as a socio-
cultural group within a larger population; where it resists the
effort of the larger society to assimilate it in an attempt to achieve
a high degree of integration. Minority groups which attempt thus

to maintain their own integrity, not only on the cultural plane
but also by means of endogamy, are opposing the attempts of the
larger society to achieve integration through assimilation, and are
likely consequently to become the object of hostility and ag-
gression from the larger society— which incidentally tends to
reinforce the efforts of the minority group to maintain its integrity,
and so on in a vicious circle. (3) Hostility toward a foreign power

or toward a minority group within a society is often an effective
means of unifying a nation. In times of national emergency or
crisis, therefore, a nation may attempt to achieve inner unity and
solidarity by fomenting hostility toward a foreign power— an old
trick— or against a minority group within its gates— also an
old trick.
We turn now from culturological problems that have been
commonly attacked with psychological techniques to one that has
seldom been so approached, namely, the question of matrilineal
and patrilineal lineages or clans. Offhand, we cannot cite any
attempts to explain these sociocultural phenomena in psycho-
logical terms, to say, for example, that one people had matrilineal
clans because of identification with the mother imago, whereas
another people were organized into exogamous patrilineal lineages
because of narcissistic impulses or what not. Such psychological
interpretations would however be no more misplaced than those
we have just cited. Why would one people identify itself with the
mother, another with the father? This is precisely the question at
issue; the psychological interpretation merely raises the question,

it does not answer it. The paucity or absence of psychological in-
terpretations of unilateral organization is probably due however to
lack of interest in clans rather than a realization of the irrelevance
of psychological interpretation.
Our argument concerning the relationship of man the organism
to his extra-somatic cultural environment may be summarized
somewhat as follows: The musical behavior of peoples— the
Viennese of 1798, the black folk of Harlem, 1940, the English

before 1066, the Italians at the time of Palestrina, the Nigerians,
, Bantus, Chinese, Pueblo Indians, and Yakuts— varies. How are
'
these variations to be explained? Certainly not in terms of bio-
logical differences. Everything that we know about comparative
anatomy and physiolog}^ will lend no support whatever to a belief
that Chinese music has one form and style because of certain
biological characters of the Chinese whereas the peculiar bio-
logical traits of the Bantus, Indians, or Negroes produce their
respective musical types. On the contrary, our knowledge of neuro-

sensorj^-muscular systems supports the proposition that man may
be considered a biological constant so far as his human (symbolic)
behavior is concerned. We observe that musical styles vary within
a society during the course of time without discovering any cor-

relative biological variation whatever. And of course the musical
style of one people may be adopted by another: Swing Low, Sweet
Chniiot did not originate in Dahomey or Cameroon. Thus we see
that we cannot explain these variations of musical behavior, which
we may represent by Mi, Mo, M3, M4 . . . Mn, in terms of the
human organism, O. Variables cannot be explained in terms of a
constant.
How then can these differences in musical behavior be ac-
counted for? They are to be explained in terms of different musical
traditions or cultures, Ci, C2, C3, C4 . . . On. Let us set forth our
argument in a series of formulas.
OxC^-
Hv
actions of the human organism; and Ci, C2, C3, C4, for types of
musical culture. The musical behavior in any particular instance
is, of course, a compound made up of two distinct elements, the
actions of nerves, glands, muscles, sense organs, etc., of man on

the one hand (O), and the external, extra-somatic cultural tradi-
tion (C) on the other. Since, however, the human organism
appears as a constant factor in all of our equations we may
eliminate it entirely from a consideration of variations of behavior.
Thus we strike out the O and rewrite our equations thus:
Ci >Mi
C, > M3
Cs >M,
C, > M4
As the musical cultural tradition varies, so will the musical

behavior vary. The behavior is simply the response of the organism
to a particular set of cultural stimuli. M is a function of C.
What is true of musical behavior is true also of linguistic
behavior, or monetary, mathematical, architectural, philosophic,
religious— in short, of any kind of human behavior. We come then
to the following formula: human behavior is the response of the
organism man to a class of external, extra-somatic, symbolic stimuli
which we call culture. Variations of human behavior are func-
tions of a cultural variable, not of a biological constant. Human
behavior as we find it amongst the various peoples of the world is
to be explained therefore in terms of their respective cultures

rather than by appeal to "human nature" or psychological
tendencies.
If human behavior is to be explained in terms of culture, how

are we to account for culture?
Culture is an organization of phenomena— acts (patterns of
behavior), objects (tools; things made with tools), ideas (belief.
knowledge), and sentiments (attitudes, "values" ) —that is depend-

ent upon the use of symbols. Culture began when man as an
articulate, symbol-using primate, began. Because of its symbolic
character, which has its most important expression in articulate
speech, culture is easily andreadily transmitted from one human
organism to another. Since its elements are readily transmitted

culture becomes a continuum; it flows down through the ages
from one generation to another and laterally from one people to
another. The culture process is also cumulative; new elements
enter the stream from time to time and swell the total. The cul-
ture process is progressive in the sense that it moves toward
greater control over the forces of nature, toward greater security
of life for man. Culture is, therefore, a symbolic, continuous,
cumulative, and progressive process.

All of this means that culture has, in a very real sense, an
extra-somatic character. Although made possible only by the or-
ganisms of human beings, once in existence and under way it has
a life of its own. Its behavior is determined by its own laws, not
by the laws of human organisms. The culture process is to be

explained in terms of the science of culture, of culturology, not
in terms of psychology. Let us illustrate these propositions with
a simple example.
A symbolic language would, of course, have no existence were
it not for human organisms. But once the linguistic process gets
under way it proceeds along its own lines, in terms of its own
principles and in accordance with its own laws. The linguistic
process is composed of phonetic elements. These interact with

one another forming various kinds of combinations and patterns
— phonetic, syntactic, grammatical, lexical, etc. The language ac-
quires form and structure and uniformities of behavior. In other

words, it develops certain principles upon which it rests and in
terms of which it functions.
Now this language has an extra-somatic, non-biological, non-
psychological character. It had an existence prior to the birth of
any individual speaking it; it comes to each person from the out-
side. It seizes upon the human organism and equips it at birth
with specific hnguistic patterns of behavior. Languages are trans-

mitted from one generation or one people to another just as tools
or ornaments are. The study of language is, therefore, philology,
not biology or psychology. Although human organisms are pre-
requisite to the linguistic process they do not form a part of it
as such, and are therefore irrelevant to the study and interpreta-

tion of it. We find no reference to nerves, glands, and sense
organs in a manual on English grammar; no hopes, fears, desires,
instincts or reflexes in a treatise on the Indo-European languages.

Language may be treated as a closed system, as a process sui
generis. Philology is a subdivision of culturology, not of biology
or psychology.
What is true of language will hold for every other logically
distinguishable portion of the culture process— technological,
social, ideological— and for human culture as a whole. Culture
is a continuum of interacting elements (traits), and this process
of interaction has its own principles and its own laws. To intro-
duce the human organism into a consideration of cultural varia-

tions is therefore not only irrelevant but wrong; it involves a
premise that is false. Culture must be explained in terms of cul-
ture. Thus, paradoxical though may seem, "the proper study

it
of mankind" turns out to be not Man, after all, but Culture.

The most realistic and scientifically adequate interpretation of
culture is one that proceeds as if human beings did not exist.*
This is really not as radical or as novel as it may seem at first
glance. As we have noted in a preceding chapter, scholars have
been making culturological studies for decades, studies in which
institutions, philosophies, or technologies are treated as classes
* "Hence it is both possible and permissible to study the history of a

folkway, or the evolution of culture in general, without reference to indi-
viduals or their organic and ni-ntal characteristics," (Geo. P. Murdock, "The
Science of Culture," p. 206).
of extra-somatic, non-biological phenomena. Thus, in addition
to philological investigations we have studies of the evolution of
currency, geometry, architecture, astronomy, the plow, parlia-
mentary government, the clan, jurisprudence, etc. We have such

studies as the effect of the automobile upon the family, the divorce
rate, mating customs, the small town country schools, the rubber
industry, the blacksmith's trade, street-sweeping, tourist camps,
national parks, etc.; or the influence of telescopes and microscopes
upon religious and medical beliefs, etc. Culturology as a practical
art of interpretation is therefore not new or revolutionary by any
means.
Nor is a formulation of the philosophy of the science of culture
a recent achievement. As we have already seen, it was well ex-
pressed as early as 1871 in the first chapter of E. B. Tylor's

Primitive Culture, significantly entitled, by the way, 'The Science
of Culture." It was made explicit in much of Durkheim's writings,
particularly Les Rdghs de la Methode Sociologique (1895). And
it has been developed in American anthropology by A. L. Kroeber,
R. H. Lowie, Clark Wissler, George P. Murdock, and others.
Despite the respectable age of this point of view and notwith-
standing the fact that it is the basis upon which countless culturo-
logical studies have already been made in philology, economics,
sociology, history, and anthropology, it is still ignored or opposed
in many quarters. As we noted in a previous chapter, many psy-
chologists and sociologists hold to a point of view that either
obscures the science of culture or actually and specifically opposes
it. And, despite the fact that it was, as Kroeber has remarked,^^
the anthropologists who "discovered culture" and recognized it
as a distinct class of phenomena, as a separate order of reality,
there are many anthropologists who have been quite unable to

grasp clearly the conception of a supra-psychological, supra-socio-
logical science of culture and so have opposed it with more or less
vigor.
Opposition to the science of culture expresses itself variously,

iCULTUROLOGICAL VS. PSYCHOLOGICAL INTERPRETATIONS 143
but one theme runs fairly consistently through most if not all of
it. This is the objection that it is not culture but people who do
things. Again to quote Lynd's pointed and apt phrase, "Culture
does not enamel its fingernails, vote, or believe in capitalism but
people do." This observation is no doubt meant to express scien-
tific realism as well as common sense. Anyone can see for himself
that it is human beings that mark ballots and drop them into
a box.
"Realism" of this sort is simply pathetic. As a matter of fact, it
is not realism at all but anthropocentrism, an inability to interpret

a chain of events except in terms of man as the prime mover.
Oi course it is people who enamel their fingernails; of course
culture is not a disembodied soul going its way of its own sweet
will; to he sure, it is people who wind clocks, manufacture auto-
mobiles, build skyscrapers. But the question is not the simple
one of who does what from the layman's point of view. The
question is. How are the events that the layman observes to he
explained from the scientist's point oi view? The layman sees
one people drinking cow's milk, avoiding mothers-in-law, practic-
ing polygyny and inhumation, and forming plurals by affixation.
He notes that another group loathes milk, associates freely with
mothers-in-law, practices monogamy and cremation, and forms
plurals by reduplication. Now the question is not "Who drinks
the milk— the people or the culture?" The culturologist knows
who does the drinking quite as well as his "realistic" opponents.
The question is, "Why does one people prize milk as a nutritious
and tasty beverage while another regards it with loathing?"
To the culturologist the reasoning that says that one people
drinks milk because "they like it," another does not because
"they loathe it," is senseless; it explains nothing at all. Why does
one people like, another loathe, milk? This is what we want to
know. And the psychologist cannot give us the answer. Nor can
he tell us why a people does or does not avoid mothers-in-law,
practice monogamy, inhumation, the couvade, or circumcision;
use chopsticks, forks, the pentatonic scale, hats, or microscopes;

form plurals by affixation— or any of the other thousands of cus-
toms known to ethnography.
The culturologist explains the behavior of a people by point-
ing out that it is merely the response of a particular type of
primate organism to a particular set of stimuli. And he explains
culture along the lines indicated earlier in this chapter. Thus,

while the culturologist is quite willing to admit that it is people
who "enamel their fingernails" or drink milk, he desires to point
out that whether they do or not is determined not by them-

selves but by their culture. Scientific explanation is a quest for
determinants, for cause and effect relationships, for distinctions
between constants and variables, distinctions between dependent

and independent variables. The culturologist is well aware that
culture does not and cannot exist without human beings. Need
it said that there could be no plural forms of nouns, no geome-
be
no dynamos, no pinochle, if there were no human beings?
try,
And certainly there could be no mother-in-law taboos if there

were no women! But, as the culturologist demonstrates, culture
may be treated as if it had a life of its own, quite apart from
human organisms, just as the physicist may treat a falling body
as a there were no atmospheric friction. The behavior of peoples
is explained as their response to their respective cultures. It is
not mystical at all to treat culture as if it were independent of

human beings, as Boas, Benedict and others have claimed, any
more than it is mystical for the physicist to treat falling bodies as
if there were no friction. It is simply the application of the point
of view and the techniques of science, long familiar in physics, to
the realm of culture.
It should not be necessary to point out that the thesis here
set forth is much less a belittling, of
not in any sense a criticism,
psychology. The position of this science is as honorable as it is se-
cure. What we have done is to distinguish between psychological
and culturological interpretations of behavior and^ further, to dem-
onstrate that certain problems are to be solved with culturo-

logical rather than with psychological techniques. Since human
behavior is composed of two kinds of ingredients, the biological, or
psychological, and the extra-somatic cultural, there are two corres-
ponding classes of problems. In the one, we hold the biological
factor constant while we study the cultural variable; in the other
class we hold the cultural factor constant and study the reactions
of human organisms to it. The existence of the institution of trial
by jury, for example, cannot be accounted for psychologically;
the explanation must be culturological. But to understand the
function of this institution in the lives of men we must study
their psychological reactions to it. One and the same set of events
may therefore be referred to either context, the psychological or
the culturological. Psychology and culturology deal therefore with
biological and extra-somatic aspects respectively of one and the
same set of events. Both sciences are essential to a comprehensive
interpretation of human behavior. It is necessary, however, in order
to avoid confusion, to know and respect the proper boundaries
of each.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CULTURAL DETERMINANTS OF MIND
"When I fulfil my obligations as brother, husband, or citizen, when I

execute my contracts, I perform duties which are defined, externally to
myself and my acts, in law and in custom. Even if they conform to my
own sentiments and I feel their reality subjectively, such reality is still
objective, for I did not create them; I merely inherited them through my
education. Similarly, the church-member finds the beliefs and
. . ,
practices of his religious life ready-made at birth; their existence prior to

his own implies their existence outside of himself. Here, then, are
. . .
ways of acting, thinking, and feeling that present the noteworthy prop-
erty of existing outside the individual consciousness.
"These types of conduct or thought are not only external to the in-
dividual but are, moreover, endowed with coercive power, by virtue of
which they impose themselves upon him, independent of his individual
will ."
. . —
Emile Durkheim, The Rules of Sociological Method.
K uman
two separate and
behavior is, as we have just seen, a
distinct kind of elements:

compound
psychosomatic
of
and cultural. On the one hand we have a certain type of

primate organism, man; on the other, a traditional organization of
tools, ideas, beliefs, customs, attitudes, etc., that we call culture.
The behavior of man as a human being— as distinguished from

his non-symbolic, primate behavior— is an expression of the inter-
action of the human organism and the extra-somatic cultural
tradition. Human behavior is, therefore, a function of culture as
well as of a biological organism. In the preceding chapter we
examined the relationship between man and culture at some
length. We endeavored to show that psychological interpretations
of cultures— of institutions, customs, attitudes, etc.— which have
146
CULTURAL DETERMINANTS OF MIND 147
been, and still unsound; that cultures cannot

are, so popular, are
be explained psychologically but only culturologically. In the

present chapter we shall continue our inquiry into the relationship
between man and culture, but this time our focus will be upon the
human organism rather than upon the external cultural tradition.
If we cannot explain cultures psychologically, and, if human be-
havior is a product of culture as well as of nerves, glands, muscles,
sense organs, etc., perhaps some of the phenomena commonly

regarded as psychological are actually culturally determined. If,
on the one hand, there has been a widespread tendency to regard

cultures as psychologically determined, perhaps there has been a
corresponding failure to recognize cultural determinants of mind.
The point of view and habit of thought that sees in a custom or
institution merely the expression of an innate desire, need or
ability, is likely also to think of the "mind" of man as something
innate in his organism, biologically determined. Just as culture is
naively thought to be a simple and direct expression of "human

nature," so is the "human mind" thought to be a simple and
direct expression of the neuro-sensory-glandular-etcetera organiza-
tion of man.
This view is, however, an illusion. Just as scientific analysis
discovers a non-anthropomorphic, culturological determination of
culture, and demonstrates the irrelevance of psychological explana-
tions of cultures, so does it find that many of the elements or
attributes of "the human mind" are not to be explained in terms
of the action of nerves, brains, glands, sense organs, etc., but in

terms of culture. This does not mean that the reactions of the
human organism to cultural elements in the external world are
not "psychological" or "mental"; they are. It simply means that
in the minding of man as a human being there are non-psycho-
somatic, i.e., extra-somatic cultural, determinants. The "human
mind" is the reacting of the human organism to external stimuli;

mind is minding here as elsewhere. But this reacting, this mind-
ing, varies. The Hottentot mind, or minding, is not the same
—
as Eskimo, or English, minding. The "human mind"-hun?an

minding— is obviously a variable. And its variations are functions
of variations of the cultural factor rather than of
the psycho-
somatic factor, which may be regarded as a constant, l^he whole
concept of "the human mind" is thus thrown into a new light
and perspective.
In other animal species, the "mind" is a function of the bodily
structure, of a particular organization of nerves, glands, sense
organs, muscles, etc. Thus the mind of the gorilla differs from that
of the chimpanzee; the mind of a bear differs from that of a
cat or a squirrel. In each case, the minds are functions of their
respective bodily structures, differences of mind are correlated

with differences of bodily structure. In the case of the human
species, however, this is not the case. The mind (minding) of the
Chinese is not like the mind of the Sicilians or the Hopi Indians.
But here the differences of mind are not due to differences of
bodily structure for, from the standpoint of the human behavior

of races or other groups, this may be considered as a constant.
Differences of mind among different ethnic groups of human
beings are due to differences of cultural tradition. Thus we have
a radicaland fundamental difference between the determination
of mental variation among sub-human species and mental varia-
tion within the human species. For the sub-human species the
formula is: Vm = f (Vb)— variations of mind are functions of
variations of bodily structure. For the human species the formula
is: Vn, = f (Vc)— variations of human minding are functions of
the extra-somatic tradition called culture.

In the realm of human behavior we are concerned of course
with organisms: organizations of bones, muscles, glands, nerves,
sense organs, and so on. And these organisms react to external
stimuli, cultural as well as otherwise. The human mind is still
the reacting of the human organism. But we now see that the
specific content of the human mind in any particular expression
speaking here of peoples rather than of individuals— is determined
by the extra-somatic factor of culture rather than by the neuro-

logic, sensory, glandular, muscular, etc., constitution of the human
organism. In other words, the Chinese mind, the French, Zulu,
'or Comanche mind, as a particular organization of human be- j
havior, is explainable in cultural terms, not biological.

In the category "the human mind," therefore, in the minding
of human beings, we discover cultural determinants as well as
psychosomatic factors. And, furthermore, we learn that in an
explanation of differences among types of the human mind, such
as Eskimo, Zulu, or English, it is the cultural determinant that
is significant, not the psychosomatic. A comparative, ethnographic
survey of the human mind leads to a realization that many of its
attributes are not due to an inborn "human nature" at all, as
was formerly supposed, but to differences of external cultural

stimulation.
One of the most popular formulas of interpretation of human
behavior is that of "human nature." People behave as they do,
have the institutions, beliefs, attitudes, games, etc., that surround
them, because human nature." And, incidentally, most
"it is
people— however much they may be willing to admit their ignor-

ance in other respects— usually feel that they "understand human
nature." The human mind and organism are so constituted, ac-
cording to this view, as to make certain kinds of response simply
and directly forthcoming. One has only to know human nature
to understand society and culture and to predict their course of
development. The fallacy or illusion here is, of course, that what

one takes for "human nature" is not natural at all but cultural.
The tendencies, emphases, and content that one sees in the overt
behavior of human beings are often not due to innate biological
determination— though such determinations do of course exist-
but to the stimulation of external cultural elements. Much of
what is commonly called "human nature" is merely culture
thrown against a screen of nerves, glands, sense organs, muscles,
etc. We
have a particularly fine example of this illusion, this mis-
taking of culture for nature, in a passage from Thomas Wolfe's

You Can't Go Home Again:*
For what is man?

First, a unable to support itself on its rubbery legs,
child,
befouled with its excrement, that howls and laughs by turns,

cries for the moon but hushes when it gets its mother's teat;
a sleeper, cater, guzzler, howler, laugher, idiot, and a chewer of

its toe; a little tender thing all blubbered with its spit, a reacher
into fires, a beloved fool.
After that, a boy, hoarse and loud before his companions,
but afraid of the dark; will beat the weaker and avoid the
stronger; worships strength and savagery, loves tales of wai
and murder, and violence done to others; joins gangs and hates
to be alone; makes heroes out of soldiers, sailors, prize fighters,
football players, cowboys, gunmen, and detectives; would
rather die than not out-try and out-dare his companions, wants
to beat them and always to win, shows his muscle and demands
that it be felt, boasts of his victories and will never own defeat
Then the youth: goes after girls, is foul behind their backs
among the drugstore boys, hints at a hundred seductions, but
gets pimples on his face; begins to think about his clothes, be-
comes a fop, greases his hair, smokes cigarettes with a dissipated
air, reads novels, and writes poetry on the sly. He sees the world
now as a pair of legs and breasts; he knows hate, love, and

jealousy; he is cowardly and foolish, he cannot endure to be
alone; he lives in a crowd, thinks with the crowd, is afraid to be
marked off from his fellows by an eccentricity. He joins clubs
and is afraid of ridicule; he is bored and unhappy and wretched
most of the time. Tliere is a great cavity in him, he is dull.
Then the man: he is busy, he is full of plans and reasons, he
has work. He gets children, buys and sells small packets of
everlasting earth, intrigues against his rivals, is exultant when he
cheats them. He wastes his little three score years and ten in
* New York. The Sun Dial Press, pp. 432-37. Quoted by permission of
Harper and Brother*;.
spendthrift and inglorious living; from his cradle to his grave

he scarcely sees the sun or moon or stars; he is unconscious of
the immortal sea and earth; he talks of the future and he wastes
comes. If he is lucky, he saves money. At the end his
it as it
fat purse buys him flunkeys to carry him where his shanks no
longer can; he consumes rich food and golden wine that his
wretched stomach has no hunger for; his weary and lifeless
eyes look out upon the scenery which in
of strange lands for
youth his heart was panting. Then the slow death, prolonged by
costly doctors, and finally the graduate undertakers, the per-
fumed carrion, the suave ushers with palms outspread to left-
wards, the fast motor hearses, and the earth again.
To many, no doubt, Wolfe's characterization of man is both

true and apt. This is what man really is, they feel. Others, perhaps,
would disagree and say, "No, man is not as Wolfe depicts him;
he is this sort of being." Each view may seem plausible; each can
be supported with evidence. And, however much Wolfe's char-
acterization of man may differ from that of another, both may
agree that the method oi interpretation is sound. You place
man before you; you study him, analyze him, and then report
your findings. Plausible and reasonable as this may seem, it is
but an illusion. The Wolfes are not describing Man at all, but
Culture.
This is not quibbling in any way. The distinction is real, pro-
found, and important. What Wolfe describes as Man is merely

the way the human organism responds to a certain set of cultural
stimuli. In another kind of culture the organism would respond
quite differently. His characterization of man would certainly not
be applicable to the Zuni Pueblo Indians nor to the Pygmies of

the Congo, the aborigines of Australia, or the peasant folk of
Mexico. And, as a matter of fact, he all but says that it is not
man's "real nature" that he is describing. Does he not suggest at
least that man is a being who could "see the sun, moon and stars
and be conscious of the immortal sea and earth" were it not for
the culture which holds him in its grip and compels him to waste
his precious life selling real estate, cheating rivals? Wolfe is de-
scribing a culture in terms of its effectsupon the human organism.

But v^hat difference does it make, one might ask, whether
"human nature" or "culture" is the cause so long as man actually
performs the acts and must suffer their consequences? What dif-
ference does it make whether a gangster murders a cashier and
robs a bank because he was born and reared in a certain type
of culture or because he was "by nature" murderous, vicious, and
rapacious? The cashier is dead in either case, the money gone,
and the police are hot on the gangster's trail. True enough; things
are what they are. But it makes all the difference in the world
whether the man did the killing and the robbing because it is
human nature to do so, or whether his behavior was determined

by the type of culture, the kind of social system, he happened to
be living in. All the difference, that is, to the scientist who wishes
to provide an adequate explanation of the behavior. And a great
deal of difference to the layman, too, because of the implications
inherent in the two alternatives: cultures may change— they are
constantly changing in fact; but human nature, biologically de-
fined, is virtually constant— it has undergone no appreciable
change in the last 30,000 years at least.
Wolfe's description of man is a philosophy of behavior, an

explanatory device. It is It may be
based on certain premises.
supported by much evidence, but the premises are wrong for
all that, and much confusion and error flow inevitably from them.
Let us consider a few areas of behavior. Take food habits for
example. Man is one but his tastes vary enormously. A food
loathed by one people may be a delicacy to another. Many Chinese
cannot bear the thought of eating cheese, whereas most Eu-
ropeans are very fond of it, and the choicest cheeses are often
those with an odor of putrefaction or ordure. Neither do the
Chinese like milk— even Grade A. Some tribes will not eat chicken
or eggs. Others will eat eggs but prefer rotten eggs to fresh ones.
The choicest porterhouse steak has no charms for the Hindu,

nor baked ham or pork chops for the Jew. We have an aversion for
worms and insects as food but many peoples eat them as dehcacies.
The Navajos will not eat fish. We will not eat dogs. The eating of
human flesh is regarded with extreme revulsion by some peoples;
to others it is the feast supreme. It would be hard indeed to name
an edible substance that is regarded everywhere as food. The
aversions and loathings likewise vary. What then can we attribute
to "human nature?" Virtually nothing. What a people likes or
loathes is not determined by the innate attractions and repulsions
of the human organism. On the contrary, the preferences and
aversions are produced within the human organism by a culture
acting upon it from the outside. Why cultures vary in this respect
is another matter; we shall turn to it later on.
Is it human nature to kiss a loved one? If it were, then the

practice would be But it is not. There are peoples who
universal.
do not kiss at all. Some rub noses. Others merely sniff the back
of the neck of children. And in some societies a parent or elder
relative will spit in the face of a child; saliva is here regarded as
a magical substance and this act is therefore a sort of blessing.
Among some peoples adult males kiss each other. I once witnessed
greetings between men in one of the isolated valleys of the Cau-
casus mountains. They kissed each other fervently, pushing aside
a thick growth of whiskers to reach the lips. Other peoples re-
gard kissing among adult males as unmanly. Where does human
nature enter this picture? It does not enter at all. The attitude
toward kissing as well as its practice is not determined by innate
desires of the human organism. If this were so, kissing behavior
would be uniform throughout the world as the organism is uni-
form. But this is not the case. Behavior varies because cultures
differ. You will do, or taboo, what your culture calls for.
Human behavior varies widely at other points. Sexual jealousy

is so powerful and so poignant in some societies that to doubt
that it is a simple and direct expression of human nature might
seem almost absurd. It is "just natural" for a lover to be jealous
of a rival. If a man kills the "seducer" of his wife, a jury of his

peers may let him go scot free; it was only natural that he should
do this, they observe. Yet, we find societies, like the Eskimo,
where wives are loaned to guests as a part of hospitality. And Dr.
Margaret Mead reports that the Samoans simply cannot under-
stand jealousy among lovers, and find our sentiments in this
respect incredible or preposterous.

In some groups premarital sexual intercourse is not only per-
mitted to girls but the practice forms an integral part of the
routine of courtship. Out of these intimacies come an acquaint-
ance, a sympathy, and an understanding that make for an endur-
ing marriage. In other groups, brides may be subjected to chastity
tests and killed if they fail to pass them. The unmarried mother
is stigmatized in some societies, taken for granted in others. At-
titude toward homosexuality varies likewise; in some groups it is
a mark of shame and degradation, in others it is recognized and

accepted. Some societies recognize and give status to a third, or
intermediate, sex— the berdache, transvestite— in addition to man

and woman. A man must avoid his mother-in-law assiduously in
some societies; he must not speak to her or allow himself in her
presence. In other tribes, a man must have no social intercourse
with his sister. Some peoples regard polygamy with aversion, even
horror. To marry one's deceased wife's unmarried sister is a crime

in some societies, a sacred obligation in others.* In none of these
*".... in modern England marriage with a deceased wife's sister

. . .
became equivalent to incest and the thought of such marriage was defined as
'psychic incest.' Around the year 1850, when Lord Russell's bill for the
. . .
repeal of the law against such marriages was being debated, countless sermons
were preached and thousands of pamphlets and letters were printed protesting
against repeal:
"'It would be difEcult (says Lccky) to overstate the extravagance of
language employed. One gentleman (Lord Hatherley), who had been
. . .
Lord Chancellor of England, more than once declared that if marriage with a
deceased wife's sister ever became legal "the decadence of England was in-
evitable," and that for his part he would rather see 300,000 Frenchmen
instances can we explain custom or institution in terms of the

innate desires, sentiments, and aversions of the people concerned.
It is not one set of sentiments and desires that produces monog-
amy here, another set polygamy there. It is the other way around;
it is the institution that determines the sentiments and behavior.
If you are born into a polygamous culture you will think, feel
and behave polygamously. If, however, you are born into a Puritan
New England culture you will look upon polygamy with marked
disapproval.
There are still other aspects or expressions of the human mind
that were once thought to be determined by innate psycho-
biological factors but which we now recognize as being largely
determined by culture. Take the Oedipus complex for example.
It was once thought that a boy's hostility toward his father and
his love for his mother were simply expressions of his biological
nature. But, as Malinowski and others have shown, these atti-
tudes vary with type of family organization. In some societies the
husband is not the head of the family, the disciplinarian. It is the

mother's brother who takes this role, and the father is merely
the kindly, indulgent friend and companion. The attitude of boys
toward father and mother are not the same here as in the patri-
archal household known to Freud. Polygynous and polyandrous

households produce other orientations of attitude. In some cul-
tures it is the sister rather than the mother who becomes the
primary object of incestuous desire. The definition of incest, and
consequently one's attitude toward sexual union with cross or
parallel, first or second, cousins, varies with the culture as we
shall see later on.
landed on the British coasts,' " (Wm. I. Thomas, Primitive Behavior, pp.
196-97).
Contrast this with the command, in Deuteronomy (XXV: 5-12) that a
man shall marry his deceased brother's wife. Should he refuse, the woman
shall disgrace him publicly, taking off his sandal "in the presence of the elders
. .and spit in his face." Note, also, that Onan was killed by the Lord for
.
avoiding his duty to his deceased brother's widow (Genesis XXXVIII: 6-n).
One's conscience is often thought to be the most intimate,

personal and private characteristic of one's ego. Here if anywhere
one ought to find something that is wholly one's own, a private
and unique possession. To an ordinary individual the conscience
seems to be a mechanism, an inborn ability, to distinguish between
right and wrong, just as he possesses a mechanism for distinguish-
ing up from down, the vertical from the horizontal. Except, per-
haps, that conscience seems deeper within one, a more intimate
part of one's make-up, than semi-circular canals. After all, these
canals are merely a mechanical device, whereas a conscience is an

integral part of one's self, one's ego. Yet, for all the conviction
that immediate experience carries, we can still be tricked by

illusion. And this is exactly what has happened in the present
instance. Our sense of balance, our distinction between up and
down, is indeed a private faculty; it is built into our psychosomatic
structure and has no origin or significance apart from it. But our
conscience has a sociocultural origin; it is the operation of supra-
individual cultural forces upon the individual organism. Con-
science is merely our experience and our awareness of the opera-
tion of certain sociocultural forces upon us. Right and wrong are
matters of sociocultural genesis; they are originated by social
systems, not by individual biological organisms. Behavior that is
injurious, or thought to be harmful, to the general welfare is
wrong; behavior that promotes the general welfare is good. The

desires inherent in an individual organism are exercised to serve
its own interests. Society, in order to protect itself from the
demands of the individual as well as to serve its own interests,
must influence or control the behavior of its component mem-

bers. It must encourage good behavior and discourage the bad.
It does this by first defining the good and the bad specifically, and
secondly, by identifying each good or had with a powerful emo-

tion, positive or negative, so that the individual is motivated to
perform good deeds and to refrain from committing bad ones. So
effective is this socio-psychologic mechanism that society not only
succeeds in enlisting individuals in the cause of general welfare

but actually causes them to work against their own interests-
even to the point of sacrificing their own lives for others or for
the general welfare. A part of the effectiveness of this social

mechanism consists in the illusion that surrounds it: the individual
is made to feel that it is he who is making the decision and taking
the proper action, and, moreover, that he is perfectly "free" in
making his decisions and in choosing courses of action. Actually,
of course, this still small voice of conscience is but the voice of
the tribe or group speaking to him from within. "What is called
conscience," says Radcliffe-Brown, "is . . . the reflex in the indi-
vidual of the sanctions of the society." ^ The human organism lives
and moves within an ethical magnetic field, so to speak. Certain

social forces, culturally defined, impinge upon the organism and
move it this way and that, toward the good, away from the bad.
The organism experiences these forces though he may mistake
their source. He calls this experience conscience. His behavior is
analogous to a pilotless aircraft controlled by radio. The plane is
directed this way and that by impulses external to it. These im-
pulses are received by a mechanism and are then transmitted to
motors, rudders, etc. This receiving and behavior-controlling mech-
anism is analogous to conscience.
That conscience is a cultural variable rather than a psychoso-
matic constant is made apparent of course by a consideration of
the great variation of definition of rights and wrongs among the
various cultures of the world. What is right in one culture may
be wrong in another. This follows from the fact that an act that
will promote the general welfare in one set of circumstances may
injure it in another. Thus we find great variety of ethical definition
and conduct in the face of a common and uniform human
organism, and must conclude therefore that the determination
of right and wrong is social and cultural rather than individual
and psychological. But the interpretation of conscience, rather
than custom and mores, in terms of social and cultural forces
serves to demonstrate once more that the individual is what his
culture makes him. He is the utensil; the culture supplies the

contents. Conscience is the instrument, the vehicle, of ethical
conduct, not the cause. It is well, here as elsewhere, to distinguish
cart from horse.
The unconscious also is a concept that may be defined culturo-
logically as well as psychologically. Considered from a psycho-
logical point of view, "the unconscious" is the name given to a
class of determinants of behavior inherent in the organism, or at
least, having their locus in the organism as a consequence of the
experiences it has undergone, of which the person is not aware
or whose significance he does not appreciate. But there is also
another class of determinants of human behavior of which the
ordinary individual may be— and usually is— unaware, or at least
has little or no appreciation of their significance. These are extra-
somatic cultural determinants. In a general and broad sense, the

whole realm of culture constitutes "an unconscious" for most
laymen and for many social scientists as well. The concept of
culture and an appreciation of its significance in the life of man
lie beyond the ken of all but the most scientifically sophisticated.
To those who believe that man makes his culture and controls its
course of change, the field of cultural forces and determinants

may be said to constitute an unconscious— an extra-somatic un-
conscious.
The unconscious character of the operation of culture in the
lives of men can be demonstrated in many particular instances
as well as in a general way. A moment ago we distinguished the
unconscious factor in ethical behavior. The determinants of ethical
behavior— why, for example, one should not play cards on Sunday
—lie in the external cultural tradition. The individual, however,
unaware of either the source or the purpose of the taboo, locates
it in his inner self: his conscience is but the screen upon which
the unconscious factors of society and culture project themselves.
Incest is defined and prohibited in order to effect exogamous
unions so that mutual aid may be fostered and, consequently, life

made more secure for the members of society. But of the existence
and significance of these cultural factors all but a few are un-
conscious. To the individual, incest is simply a sin or crime that
is inherently and absolutely wrong.
Or, take the rules of etiquette: A man in a certain society is
not permitted to wear earrings or to use lipstick. The purpose of

these restrictions is to define classes of individuals within society:
a man, woman, priest, etc., is an individual who behaves positively
in a certain manner and who must refrain from certain kinds of
acts. By means of these definitions, prescriptions, and prohibi-
tions, each individual is made to conform to his class and the
classes are thereby kept intact. Thus, order is achieved in society,
order both structurally and functionally. And, to conduct its life
efiFectively a society must have

But the individual seldomorder.
has any appreciation of the source and purpose of these rules;
he is apt to regard them, if he thinks about them at all, as natural
and right, or as capricious and irrational. Another example of the

cultural unconscious.
The church is an organ of social control; it is a mechanism of
integration and regulation. In this respect it has political functions
just as does the State (see p. 242). It operates to preserve the
integrity of society against disintegration from within and against
aggression from without. It is thus an important factor in a
nation's war machine; it mobilizes the citizenry to fight against
foreign foes. It must also strive to harmonize conflicting class
interests at home. This it does frequently by telling the poor and

the oppressed to be patient, to be satisfied with their lot, not to
resort to violence, etc.* In these ways the Church like the State
* "Religion teaches the laboringman and the artisan to carry out honestly
and fairly equitable agreements freely entered into; never to injure the
all
property, nor to outrage the person, of an employer; never to resort to violence

in defending their own cause, nor to engage in riot or disorder ." (Pope . .
Leo XII's Encyclical on Condition of Labor, May 15, 1891, The O&cial
Catholic Year Book Anno Domini, 1928), p. 540.
:
1^ THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
exercises political functions that are essential to the life of the
society. Yet how many members of a congregation or of the

clergy have any awareness of this aspect of the rituals, parapher-
nalia, theolog}^ and dogma that occupy them?

The determinants of our form of the family lie so deep within
our cultural unconscious that even social science has yet no
adequate answer to the question why we prohibit polygamy (see
p. 335). The Chinese, according to Kroeber, were long unaware

that their language had tones. "This apparently simple and fun-
damental discovery," he says, "was not made until two thousand
years after they possessed writing, and a thousand after they had
scholars." - And they might not have made it even then had not
"the learning of Sanskrit for religious purposes . . . made them
phonetically self-conscious." Like the rustic who had been talking
prose all his life without realizing it, the peoples of the Western
world, too, have long been unconscious of much of the structure
and processes of Indo-European languages.

Thus, in addition to the determinants of behavior that lie deep
within the tissues of our own organisms, below the level of aware-
ness, there is another class of determinants of which we are equally
unconscious: forces and factors within the extra-somatic cultural

tradition. The science of culture is endeavoring to discover, define
and explain these unconscious cultural factors as psychoanalysis
has undertaken to explore and make known the intra-organismal

unconscious.* We may illustrate these two realms of the uncon-
scious in the following diagram
* Kroeber has a fine appreciation of the unconscious character of cultural
determinants of human behavior as the section "Unconscious Factors in Lan-

guage and Culture" in his Anthropology (1923) makes clear. But despite
certain examples which he cites and which show quite clearly that the locus
of the unconscious is in the culture process, he locates it "in the mind."
Thus he says: "It is difficult to say where the creative and imitative impulses
of fashion come from; which, inasmuch as the impulses obviously reside some-
where in human minds, means that they spring from the unconscious portions
of the mind" (p. 127).
Human
Behavior
Human behavior is a function of the biological organism on the

one hand, and of the extra-somatic cultural tradition or process,
on the other. The individual is more or less aware of some of the
determinants of his behavior in each categorj^, the cultural and
the biological. But of others he is quite unawâre, or has no ade-
quate appreciation of the role they play as determinants of his
behavior. These are the realms of the unconscious: the biological
and the cultural.
The nature of the relationship between the mind of the indi-

vidual human organism on the one hand and the external cultural
tradition on the other may be illuminated by a critical examination
of a certain thesis widely held in recent and current anthropo-
logical circles in the United States. Briefly stated, this thesis
asserts that man has created culture, that culture is the accumu-
lated product of the creative acts of countless individuals, that the
individual is the fons et oiigo of all cultural elements, and, finally,
that the culture process is to be explained in terms of the indi-
vidual.
Thus Ralph Linton v^Tites: ". . . the individual . . . lies at the
foundation of all social and cultural phenomena. Societies are
organized groups of individuals, and cultures are, in the last
analysis, nothing more than the organized and repetitive responses
of a society's members. For this reason the individual is the logical
starting point for any investigation of the larger configuration" *
162 fHE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
(emphasis ours). "If we had the knowledge and the patience to

analyze a culture retrospectively," says Goldenweiser, "every ele-
ment of it would be found to have had its beginning in the

creative act of an individual mind. There is, of course, no other
source for culture to come from ... An analysis oi culture, if
fully carried out, leads back to the individual mind" * (emphasis

ours), Edward Sapir asserts that the "currency [of "any cultural
element"] in a single community is ... an instance of diffusion
•
that has radiated out, at last analysis, from a single individual."
Ruth Benedict declares that "no civilization has in it any element
which in the last analysis is not the contribution of an individual.
Where else could any trait come from except from the behavior
of a man, woman or a child?" ^ Clark Wissler said that "the in-
ventive process resides in individual organisms; so far as we know,

it is a function of the individual organism." ^ Linton asserts that
"it is the individual who is responsible, in the last analysis, for all
additions to culture"® (emphasis ours). Hallowell finds the con-
ception of cultural influence unrealistic; "In the last analysis,"
he says, "it is individuals who respond to and influence one
another."* Both Goldenweiser and Malinowski place the indi-
vidual "at the beginning and the end" of the sociocultural pro-
cess.^" And, finally, we cite Sapir's categorical dictum: "It is always
the individual that really thinks and acts and dreams and re-
volts." * "
The import of the foregoing is clear. It is the individual who
"is responsible" for culture change; it is the individual who really
does things; every cultural element has its beginning in the creative
act of an individual mind, etc., etc. It would appear from our
quotations that their authors feel that they are expressing a fun-
damental proposition and point of view. Nearly all of them use
the phrase "in the last analysis" in setting forth their position.
Their premises seem to appear to them so simple and so realistic
• Wc recall at this point Georg Simmcl's emphatic assertion: "It is certain

that in the last analysis only individuals exist/' (emphasis wun); see p. 84.
as to be virtually axiomatic: "Every cultural element originates in

themind of an individual— of a man, woman, or child. Where else
couid it come from?" Culture is pictured as a great structure built
by countless individuals, much as a coral reef is produced by
myriads of marine organisms during the course of time. And, as
the coral reef is explained in terms of the activities of marine
organisms, so culture may be explained by citing the "creative acts
of the individual human mind."
This view seems plausible enough: as a matter of fact, it appears
to be Anyone can see for himself that it is
virtually self-evident.
man, human individuals, who chop down trees, build houses, pass
laws, write sonnets, worship gods, etc. But we have become a bit
wary of the self-evident and the obvious: anyone can see for him-
self that it is the sun, not the earth, that moves. But, thanks
to Copernicus, we now know better.
Obvious and self-evident though the proposition that culture
is made by individuals may appear to be, we must reject it as a
means of explaining cultural processes or traditions. As a matter

of fact, we regard it as an expression of the primitive and pre-
scientific philosophy of anthropomorphism. Man has been ex-
plaining the world he lives in by attributing its existence and
nature to the action of some mind, his own or a god's, for ages on
end. William James accounted for machines, instruments, and
institutions by asserting that they "were flashes of genius in an
individual head, of which the outer environment showed no
sign." ^2 To Newton "this most beautiful cosmos could only pro-
ceed from the counsel and dominion of an intelligent and pow-
erful Being." " To Plato, the material world was but the expres-
sion of "ideas in the mind
God." "Let there be light," said
of
Yahweh, "and there was light." In the mythology of ancient
Egypt, everything came from the thinking and willing of the
great artificer deity, Ptah.^* Among our preliterate Keresan Pueblo
Indians, Tsityostinako, or Thought-Woman, brought things to
pass by acts of thought and will.^* And today, in line with this
ancient and primitive philosophic tradition, we are told that cul-
ture has issued from the mind of man— of men, women, and chil-
dren—and therefore if we are to understand culture and explain
its content and course of change, we must do so in terms of the
individual.
It is obvious, of course, that culture has emanated from the
organisms of human beings: without the human species there
would be no culture. We recognize also that a generic relationship
obtains between culture as a whole and the human species in its,
or their, entirety; the general character of culture is an expression

of the biological properties of the human species. But, when it
comes to an explanation of any particular culture— and all the

cultures of the world are particular, specific cultures— or to an
explanation of the process of culture change in general, a con-
sideration of the human organism, either in its collective or indi-
vidual aspects, is irrelevant. The culture process is not explain-

able in terms of races, physical types, or of individual minds. It is
to be explained in terms of culture itself. In short, the culture

process is to be explained culturologically rather than biologically
or psychologically.
Thus we do not account for differences between Chinese and
Swedish culture by appeal to the physical, somatological, and
innate psychological differences between the Chinese and the
Swedish peoples. We know of no differences between cultural
traditions, no specific feature of the culture process, that can be
explained in terms of innate biological properties, physical or
mental. On the other hand, we can explain the human behavior
of Chinese and Swedish peoples as biological organisms in terms
of their respective cultures.
The proposition just enunciated is generally accepted in the
social sciences today. We no longer subscribe to racial explana-
tions of culture. But the thesis that the sociocultural process is
explainable in terms of individuals rests upon the same premise,
namely, that biological factors are relevant to interpretations of
the culture process. Thus, it is admitted that the biological factor

is extraneous to an interpretation of the culture process when
taken in its collective (i.e., racial) many
aspect, but, scholars
contend, it is not only relevant but fundamental when taken in
its individual aspect. We regard this reasoning as unsound; a
single individual organism is as irrelevant to an interpretation of
the culture process as a group of individuals.
It might be well at this point to draw a distinction between
two fundamentally different propositions. The individual him-

self is not irrelevant to the actual culture process. On the contrary,
he is an integral and in one sense a fundamental part of it. Indi-
viduals do indeed enamel their fingernails, vote, and believe in
capitalism as Lynd has observed. But the individual is irrelevant
to an explanation oi the culture process. We cannot explain the
culture trait or process of enameling nails in terms of innate
desire, will, or caprice. We can however explain the behavior of
the individual in terms of the culture that embraces him. The
individual, the average, typical individual of a group, may be re-
garded as a constant so far as human, symbolic behavior is con-
cerned. The typical Crow Indian organism may be regarded as
biologically equivalent to the typical English, Zulu, or Eskimo
organism so far as his capacities and inclinations for human be-
havior are concerned. The alternative to this proposition is ac-
ceptance of a racial determinant of human behavior and culture.

In the process of interaction between the human organism on the
one hand and the extra-somatic cultural tradition on the other,
the cultural factor is the variable, the biological factor the con-
stant; it is the cultural factor that determines the variations in
the resulting behavior. The human behavior of the individual
organism is therefore a function of his culture. The individual
becomes then the locus of the culture process and the vehicle of
its expression. Thus we arrive at a culturological conception of
individuality to add to those of anatomy, physiology, and psy-

chology.
Since the earliest days of human history every member of the
human species has been introduced at birth into a cultural en-
vironment of beliefs, customs, instruments, expressions of art,
etc., as well as a natural habitat of climate, topography, flora and

fauna. This cultural environment is a continuum, a tradition; it
descends lineally from one generation to another, and it may

diffuse from one people to another. Culture is an
laterally
elaborate mechanism whose function is to make life secure and

continuous for groups of human beings. In order to perform these
functions, culture must harness energy in one form or another
and put it to work. Culture is, therefore, a thermodynamic sys-
tem in a mechanical sense. Culture grows in all its aspects-

ideological, sociological, and technological— when and as the
amount of energy harnessed per capita per year is increased, and
as the means of expending this energy are improved. Culture is
thus a dynamic system capable of growth. A cultural tradition
is a stream of interacting cultural elements— of instruments,

beliefs, customs, etc. In this interactive process, each element
impinges upon others and is in turn acted upon by them. The
process is a competitive one; instruments, customs, and beliefs
may become obsolete and be eliminated from the stream: stone

axes give way to metal ones; science replaces myth^nd magic;
tribe and clan become obsolete at a certain stage of social evolu-
tion and the state takes their place. New elements are incor-
porated into the cultural stream from time to time: metals, the
wheel, beliefs consequent upon the use of the microscope, etc.,
enter the cultural tradition at certain stages of its development.

New combinations and syntheses of cultural elements — i.e., in-
ventions and discoveries— are continually being formed in this

interactive process: the invention of the steam engine, the "dis-
covery" of the Periodic System of the elements, the formulation
of the laws of thermodynamics, etc., are new combinations or
syntheses of cultural elements. A cultural tradition is therefore
a dynamic system (powered by natural forces which it harnesses)
—
that behaves and grows in terms of itsown principles and laws.

It may therefore be explained on its own level, in culturological
terms rather than with the concepts of psychology, biology,
chemistry or physics. It may be regarded as a system sui generis.
In relation to the process of culture change and growth the
biological factor of man may be regarded as a constant and hence
irrelevant to an explanation of the culture process. Relative to an
explanation of the difference between the culture of the Swedes
and that of the Chinese or Zulus, the biological factor— such
things as skin, hair, or eye color, stature, innate abilities, etc.
may, as we have noted, be regarded as irrelevant. It is irrelevant
also to an explanation of the differences between the culture of
England in a.d. 1200 and that of a.d. 1900. We see, then, that to
the problem of interpretation of the culture process, the biological
factor of man is irrelevant. The culture process is explainable cul-
turologically, not biologically or psychologically.
Let us now consider the individual in relation to the culture
process. As we have noted, every individual is born into a culture
that existed prior to his birth. This culture seizes upon him at
birth and as he grows and matures equips him with language,
customs, beliefs, instruments, etc. In short, it is culture that pro-
vides him with the form and content of his behavior as a human
being. Thus, Crow Indian behavior is the response of the organ-
ism Homo sapiens to a particular organization of stimuli that we
call "Crow culture." Similarly, American, Eskimo, and Zulu be-
haviors are the responses of the same kind of organism to other

cultural traditions. The individual in each case is merely an or-
ganization of cultural forces and elements that have impinged

upon him from the outside and which find their overt expression
through him. So conceived, the individual is but the expression of
a supra-biological cultural tradition in somatic form.
We turn now to the role of the individual in the process of
culture growth, and specifically to the propositions that, "in the
last analysis," it is the individual who "is responsible for all addi-
tions to culture"; that "every culture element is to be traced back

to the creative act of an individual mind"; that it is always the
individual who really thinks, acts, dreams, and revolts; and that
the individual is "the logical starting point for any investigation
of the larger configurations" such as society and culture.
To be sure culture is dependent upon the human species and

could not exist without it. It is true also that the human species
is composed of discrete physical entities that we call individuals.
But the scholars that we have just quoted are doing more than to
give utterance to these obvious and trite commonplaces. They are
asserting that the individual is a prime mover, a determinant;
that he is the cause, culture the effect; that it is the individual

who "is responsible" for change in the culture process; and that,
therefore, an explanation of "the larger configuration" of cul-
ture must lie in a consideration of the individual. And it is this
proposition that we reject— and reverse: it is the individual who

is explained in terms of his culture, not the other way around.
Let us consider inventions and discoveries, or any significant
advance in the arts, science, or philosophy. To say that they are
the achievements of certain individuals is merely to locate them,
not to explain them. To say that the calculus was invented by
Newton and Leibnitz is to identify these events historically or
biographically but it does not explain them as events in a culture
process. Why did these events take place when and where they
did? We wish to know this too as well as what particular person
made the invention or discovery. Merely to say "the individual" is
no answer to this question. Nor is such a reply improved by limit-

ing the individuals to persons of exceptional native ability. There
were individuals of this category in the Middle Ages and in the
Bronze Age and, in the time of Newton, they were sprinkled
through the populations of Tibet, Bechuanaland, and the Andean
Highlands. Why was not the calculus invented at other times and
in other lands?
An invention, discovery, or other significant cultural advance is
an event in a culture process. It is a new combination or synthesis

of elements in the interactive stream of culture. It is the out-
come of antecedent and concomitant cultural forces and elements.
The Laws of Motion, formulated by Newton, were the synthesis
of cultural elements historically identified with the persons of
Kepler, Brahe, Galileo, and others. The occurrence of their for-
mulation took place where and when it did because the circum-
stances of culture growth and history brought together the
elements requisite to this synthesis at a particular time and place.
We can trace the growth of these elements through time and
place. Thus we explain the occurrence of this significant event
culturologically. And, moreover, we explain the behavior of New-
ton by showing that the formulation of these laws was the
response of his organism to certain cultural stimuli. We know
virtually nothing about his nervous system directly; we make in-
ferences concerning it on the basis of the effect of cultural
stimuli upon him. In short, we know his mentality only through
his culture. But Newton was also much concerned with theology
and Biblical interpretation, which again is explained by the fact

that he was born into a powerful theological "gravitational field"
as well as a scientific one and that he felt the "pull" of the one as
he did the other. In another age or culture, Newton would have
devoted himself to such things as designing fish traps, hepatoscopy,
or the elaboration of a theory of totemism. But when a certain
concatenation of cultural forces and elements occurs at a given
time and place they will become synthesized in the neuro-sensory-
muscular-etc, system of one individual or another.
Nothing demonstrates more clearly the nature of the culture
process and its expression in significant episodes of cultural ad-

vance, and at the same time the irrelevance of the individual to
an explanation of this process, than the phenomena of multiple
and simultaneous, but independent, inventions and discoveries.
Time after time, in the history of science, mathematics and tecb-
nology, an important invention or discovery has been made by

anywhere from two to ten persons simultaneously and inde-
pendently.* To explain phenomena of this sort by invoking

"coincidence," "fortuitous clusterings of genius," etc., as William
James and others have done, empty and sterile. A culturological
is
interpretation, however, readily makes them intelligible: when

growing and converging lines of cultural development reach a
certain point, fusion and synthesis will take place. If culture is
advancing on a wide front, these syntheses will find two or more

independent and approximately simultaneous expressions. The in-
vention or discovery is explained therefore in terms of a growing

and interactive culture process; the individual inventors or dis-
* The following instances of multiple, simultaneous but independent in-

ventions or discoveries are taken from the list compiled by F. Ogburn Wm.
and published in his Social Change, pp. 90-102. Examples could be multiplied
almost indefinitely.
Theory of planetary perturbations: Lagrange, 1808; Laplace, 1808.
Discovery of planet Neptune: Adams, 1845; Leverrier, 1845.
Discovery of sun spots: Galileo, 1611; Fabricus, 1611; Scheiner, 1611; and
Harriott, 1611.
Firstmeasurement of parallax of star: Bessel, 1838; Struve, 1838; Hender-
son, 1838.
Introduction of decimal point: Biirgi, 1592; Pitiscus, 1608-12; Kepler, 1616;
and Napier, 1616-17.
Discovery of oxygen: Scheele, 1774; Priestley, 1774.
The Periodic Law: De Chancourtois, 1864, Newlands, 1864; Lothar Meyer,
1864. Law of Periodicity: L. Meyer, 1869, Mendeleeff, i86g.
Telescope: Lippershey, 1608; Delia Porta, 1558; Digges, 1571; Johannides,
Metius, 1608; Drebbel, Fontana, Janssen, 1608; and Galileo, 1609.
Law of Conservation of Energy: Mayer, 1843; Joule, 1847; Helmholz,
1847; Colding, 1847; and Thomson, 1847.
Telegraph: Henry, 1831; Morse, 1837; Cooke- Wheatstone, 1837; and Stein-
heil,1837.
Cellular basis of both animal and vegetable tissue: claimed by Schwann,
Henle, Turpin, Dumortier, Purkinje, Muller, and Valentin, all at about the
same time: 1839.
Solution of the problem of respiration: by Priestley, Scheele, Lavoisier,
Spallanzani, and Davy, all in 1777.
Sulphuric ether as an anaesthetic: Long, 1842; Robinson, 1846; Listen,
1846; Morton, 1846; and Jackson, 1846.
Self-exciting dynamo: claimed by Hjorth, 1866-67; Varley, 1866-67;
Siemens, 1866-67; Wheatstone, 1866-67; Ladd, 1866; Wilde, 1863-67.
coverers are merely the loci and the vehicles of expression of this
process.
To return now to Sapir's dictum that "it is always the indi-
vidual who really thinks and acts and dreams and revolts." This
statement does not merely distort the picture of human behavior;
it inverts it. If he had said it is always the individual that sleeps
and yawns and hears and breathes, we would offer no objection,
for these activities are functions of individual organisms; there is
no communal or group mechanism of yawning or breathing. But

to say it is the individual who does such things as human think-
ing, feeling and acting is misleading to say the least; it implies a

"^
premise that is unwarranted. An individual can independently
as an organism, yawn, sleep, and breathe.* But no one can think,

act and feel as a human being as an independent, autonomous
organism; he can do so only as a part of a sociocultural system.
A question of technical terminology is involved here. It may be ,
argued that the words think, feel, dream, etc., are properly ap- ^-^q
plicable to neuro-sensory-muscular-etcetera systems only. If this
ruling be accepted, then it is true of course that it is always the
individual organism that thinks, feels, and acts. But it was not to
set forth this tautology that Sapir took such pains and emphasis
of expression. It was his purpose to present the individual as a
prime mover, as an initiator and determinant of a process. And
it is this proposition that we reject.
We may indeed say thatand acting are /

thinking, feeling,
functions of individual biological organisms. There is no com-

munal nervous system, no group brain, of course. But, human
thinking, feeling, and acting cannot be accounted for in terms
* Yawning, breathing, although functions of an individual and auton-

etc.,
omous organism, may be modified, of course, by cultural forces. It is interest-
ing to note that Sapir, who has insisted so vehemently upon the autonomy
of the individual in thinking, feeling and acting, should have taken pains, in
another connection, to point out that breathing may function within and be
modified by a sociocultural process ("The Unconscious Patterning of Behavior
in Society," in The Unconscious, E. S. Dummer, ed.. New York, 1927),
pp. 117-18.
of biological organisms, by saying that the individual does these

things. Spitting, yawning, scratching, etc., are intelligible as func-
tions of individual organisms. But believing in ghosts, dreaming
of the Blessed Virgin, avoiding one's mother-in-law, scalping a
vanquished foe, as events or processes, cannot be made mtelligible
merely by saying that it is the individual who does these things.
In human thinking, feeling, and acting the individual is merely

responding to stimuli, to cultural elements. But we cannot explain
the form and content of the response merely by citing the bio-
logicalorganism that does the responding. Whether a person
believes that a fever has been caused by bacteria or the violation
of a taboo is a matter that is not made intelligible by invoking
the individual organism who ''always does" the believing. The
organism is the same in both cases.
Thus we are left in the position where we have designated
certain psycho-biological processes "thinking," "feeling," or "act-
ing," but where we cannot explain these processes at all merely
by considering them as individual phenomena. "It is always the
individual who thinks, etc.," tells us, therefore, nothing of any
significance. What does the individual think, and why does he
think thus and so? This what we want to know, and the con-
is
ception of the individual as a prime mover, as an initiator or

determinant of the culture process, as one who "is responsible"
for all culture change, etc., will not give us the answer. On the
contrary, it will effectively obscure or conceal it.
The events or processes that we technically designate "think-

ing, feeling, and acting" are, in so far as they are on the human,
symbolic level, functions of sociocultural systems. They are, as
a matter of fact, sociocultural processes. Note that we have said
that these events and processes are functions of sociocultural sys-
tems. We have not said that "thinking," "feeling," and "acting"

are sociocultural processes. An event is what it is— an event. When
we label an event "thinking" we refer it to a neurologic context
and to that kind of context only. But the very same event that is
—

called "thinking" and thus referred to a neurologic context may
also be referred to another context, a sociocultural context. Thus,
believing in witches or bacteria as the cause of an illness is an
event or process that can be referred to a psychologic context or
to a culturologic context; it may be considered as a function of a
nervous system or of a sociocultural system. But, although it is
perfectly true that we can have no belief in witches apart from

a nervous system, we learn virtually nothing about such a belief
as an event, act, or process from a consideration of its neurologic
aspect.
A belief in witches or bacteria as an event or process is to be
explained in sociocultural terms rather than with neurologic con-
cepts. The believing is the response of a human organism to a
cultural stimulus. But what the organism believes is determined
not by itself but by its culture. And the cultural element that
serves as stimulus is not to be explained in terms of individual
neurologic processes but in terms of other cultural elements and
processes. Thus to say that believing in witches or bacteria is
something that an individual does is either an empty tautology

"believing" being by definition an individual biological affair
or it implies a premise that is false, namely, that it is the indi-
vidual who initiates and determines the belief. The individual had
nothing to do with the origin of the belief; it was in the cultural
tradition of his people before he was born. He did not originate

it; it came to him from the outside. A belief in witches is the out-
growth of antecedent ideas and beliefs that we can trace back to
the Old Stone Age. The belief in bacteria also is a synthesis of
cultural elements, of concepts, microscopes, etc. Thus, the specific
act or process of believing that witches or bacteria cause illness

has been determined not by an individual organism at all but by
a sociocultural system. The event is something that the culture
has done to the individual rather than the other way around. If
it be argued that some time, somewhere, there must have been a

single individual who was the first person in history to believe
that illness is caused by bacteria rather than by witches, it must

be pointed out that this event, too, is merely a synthesis of cul-
tural elements that have come to the individual from his cir-
cumambient cultural tradition.
To take this view of the relationship between the individual

and the culture process is not to regard the former, as an organism,
as a purely passive thing. The individual does not receive cultural
material from the outside in a purely passive way, like a cup into
which coffee is poured, nor does it reflect this material like a
perfect mirror does an image. The human organism is a dynamic

system. It not only receives cultural elements from the outside, it
acts upon them. It is by virtue of the action of the neuro-sensory-

glandular-etcetera systemupon cultural elements that they are
made to act and react upon one another, to form new combina-
tions and syntheses. We do not therefore minimize the dynamic
nature of the individual as an active as well as a reactive organ-
ism. We are merely saying that a consideration of the dynamic
character of this organism does not help us to explain the form
and content of its reactions and responses. The organism does the
reacting, of course. But, in human behavior, the specific nature
of its reactions is determined not by the organism but by cul-
tural elements serving as stimuli.

Neither does our point of view regard all individuals as alike.
On the contrary, we recognize that no two individuals are
identical biologically. Since human organisms are the mediums of
expression of the culture process, it follows that variations of cul-
tural expression will be produced by variations of individual
biological structure. But not all variations of expression of the
culture process are due to individual biological variation by any
means. The culture process is itself inherently variable. No two
cultural elements— no two axes or fetiches, no two expressions of
sentiment or attitude— are identically alike either. Some of the
variation of expression of the culture process is due therefore
to variation of cultural stimuli. Furthermore, it is a striking and
significant fact that, within a fairly uniform cultural environment,
the most diverse physical types— thetall and the short, fat and
thin, lazyand energetic, endomorphs and ectomorphs, etc.— react

in a highly uniform manner in such respects as language and
dialect, attitudes, beliefs, food habits, rituals of social intercourse,
and so on. Thus a consideration of individual biological varia-

tion only serves to make clearer and more emphatic the dominance
of the cultural factor in the determination of human behavior.
The conception of the individual as a prime mover, as a First
Cause, as the initiator and determinant of the sociocultural

process, finds free and full expression in one of our theories of
government. The basic premise of democracy as a theory of
government is that the people rule. That is, the citizenry as indi-
viduals want certain things and oppose others; they reflect, weigh
and consider and finally make a decision which they express at
the polls. The men put into office by this process, having received
the mandates of the electorate, set about to do the people's will.
Thus, we have, according to this view, a cause and effect sequence

from lowliest citizen to the highest executive. It is always the
individual who votes, etc., to paraphrase Sapir.
This picture of the political process is a gross distortion as

was the general proposition about the individual always thinking,
acting, and revolting. The theory of democracy as outlined above
is a fiction, an illusion. And, of course, it is based upon the anthro-
pocentric premise that it is man who, like God, says let there
be this or that, and it is done.
A democratic nation is a social organism. Its life is regulated
by a mechanism of integration and control that is the State in
its formal aspects and the "political machine" in its non-institu-
tionalized or at least extra-legal aspect. This mechanism co-
ordinates the various segments and processes of the body politic,
and negotiates relations with other nations. The life of the nation
is thus regulated and controlled by a relatively small segment. The
electorate is permitted to say "yes" or "no" with reference to a

number of candidates whom they have had no hand in choosing,
and of whom, for the most part, they have never heard. The
"choices" of the voters are and can be httle if anything more than
responses to outside cultural stimulation— i.e., campaign propa-
ganda and "news" selected and disseminated by agencies over.
which "the people" have no control. To be sure, it is always the
individual who drops his pasteboard in the ballot box or pulls
the lever on the voting machine. But what can he do but respond
to sociocultural influences that play upon him from the outside?
The picture of free will and choice is an illusion.* Certain regions
always go Democratic or Republican. In other regions, other
political magnetic fields, the sociocultural forces vary and fluctu-
ate, drawing a preponderance of voter iron filings toward one
pole or another, or leaving them evenly divided between currents
of equal intensity. It is "always the individual who votes" because
voting, like thinking, is by definition a function of an individual
organism. But one can come to no adequate understanding of the
political governmental process by a consideration of the indi-
vidual. We can, however, illuminate the behavior of the individual
by interpreting it as an event in a sociocultural process. The.-
voter reacts, responds to cultural stimuli which move him this
way or that; he does not rule. The administration and control of

the nation by the relatively small integrative and regulative
mechanism is facilitated, however, by the popular illusion that the
* Any response of the human organism is the resultant of countless ante-
cedent and concomitant events that we may term "causes." The human
organism is constantly organizing and synthesizing these causative factors on
the one hand, and expressing the resultant behavior overtly on the other.
When causative factors for and against a given course of action are evenly
balanced, we call this "indecision": "I can't make up my mind whether to
play golf or to mow the lawn." When one set of causative factors outweighs
another, we call it "choice" or "decision": I decide to play golf. "Free will
and choice" is merely the way in which we experience tliis preponderance of
one factor or set of factors over another. Not realizing what lies back of this
experiencewe can belieye that it is our own doing and hence call it choice
and Free WilL
people rule. As long as the electorate believes that it does the
governing, i.e., as long as itsmembers are unaware of the genesis
of the social forces that impinge upon them individually from
the outside, just so long will the actual governing mechanism
have a freer hand. And, if misfortune overtakes the nation, the
illusion of democracy lays the blame upon the people, which is
also an advantage to the actual governing mechanism.

To say, however, that this premise of democracy is an
anthropocentric illusion is not to deny significance to the electoral
process by any means. Illusions are as real as anything else and
may be quite as significant. Voting is a process by means of which
certain types of social organisms (nations) conduct their lives.
Nations like individuals are occasionally confronted with the

necessity of choosing between alternatives; shall it follow this
course or that? Voting is means of measuring the factors or
a
forces relevant to the choice between alternative courses of action.
The role of voting in the democratic body politic might be likened
to the determination of a choice in an individual: shall he eat or
sleep or follow some other course of action? A wise choice would
depend upon an assessment of the needs and resources of the
individual. So it is with nations: should a nation do this or that?
A wise choice will depend upon a realistic appraisal of the weight
and force of the various factors involved. The electoral process
can be an attempt to weigh and to measure these factors. Or, an

election may serve merely to measure the effect of the influence
exerted by the government by means of propaganda upon the

citizenry of the nation. In any event, an election is a measuring
device, a yardstick or barometer. A majority vote indicates the
preponderance of one factor, or set of factors, over another in a
given situation. A tie vote indicates an equivalence of magnitude
of these factors. It goes without saying that a nation that can
make these measurements only at fixed times and intervals is
unable to derive full advantage from the electoral process. Itmay

be unable to make a measurement, take a reading, at a time when
one is urgently needed. And on the other hand, it may be re-
quired to go through the cumbersome and expensive ritual of
taking a reading— holding a national election— when none is
needed.
If democracies work under the illusion that the people rule,
the "dictatorship of the proletariat" is probably an even greater
illusion, assuming of course that a considerable number of people
do actually take this formula at its face value. A dictatorship is
a more highly integrated form of government than a democracy

and consequently the political mechanism of integration and
control is a smaller segment of the social organism than is the
corresponding mechanism in a democracy. Hence, "the people"
do even less ruling in a dictatorship than in a democracy. A dicta-
torship without disguise may however be more responsive to

popular will than the de hcto governing mechanism in a democ-
racy, because in the former case, the dictator will obviously be
held responsible for errors or shortcomings of the government;
but if "the people rule" responsibility must rest ultimately upon
them rather than upon the actual governing mechanism. But a
"dictatorship of the proletariat" is a delusion. It, too, declares that
"the people" rule; not all the people, but only a particular class
—a "chosen people." The course of social evolution in recent
years has shown how unrealistic this slogan is. "The dictatorship
of the proletariat" is both a logical and a sociological contradic-
tion of terms.
"It is always the individual who really revolts" (Sapir). But

to explain profound political or social change by pointing to a
Revolutionist is as naive as it is futile. What produced the Revo-
lutionist? One might as well "explain" a shotgun by pointing to
the puff of smoke issuing from its muzzle. If great social con-
vulsions were caused by revolutionists, and if a revolutionist is
a psycho-biological phenomenon, then we ought to find them

distributed uniformly throughout the human species in time and

place like other biological events such as the birth of twins. But
we do not; there are great areas and long periods of time when
no revolutionists appear at all.
In cultures that have attained a high degree of integration and

a stable equilibrium such as those of many primitive peoples, we
find no reformers or revolutionists at all. People are satisfied and
desire only to continue life undisturbed. In cultures which con-
tain disharmonious or conflicting elements, however, we find re-
formers, revolutionists and reactionaries. The human organisms
are the same in both cases. Revolutions are not the product of
an inborn desire for radical change expressed in fiery declamations
from the soap-box. A revolutionist is a human organism that is
held and wielded by certain cultural elements and forces that are
moving in the direction of profound change. Arkwright, Newton,
Darwin, Jefferson, Lobachewsky, Lenin, Watt, were revolution-
ists as well as those nameless men and women who served as the
biological media for such cultural advances as agriculture, metal-
lurgy, writing, and coinage. By the same token, a reactionary is a

person held firmly in the "magnetic field" of cultural elements
about to be vanquished or rendered obsolete in the competitive
interaction of the culture process. And the reformer or "Liberal"

is one who feels the pull of both sets of forces, those striving to
preserve the obsolete, and those struggling to destroy the old
in order to create the new. They deplore the evils of the old sys-
tem and urge reforms. But, held fast by both sets of forces,
they can neither relinquish the past nor give themselves up to
revolutionary advance. They wish to keep the old system but
without its inherent defects. They desire the new but without
the trauma of birth. They lie becalmed midway between the poles
of the magnet. They have neither a positive nor a negative
charge; they are the human neutrons of the culture process.
One might think that in dreaming, if anywhere, one might find
—
an activity that "the individual always really does" in the Sapirean

manner. Here as in thinking, dreaming is a word that labels a
neuro-sensory-glandular-etcetera process; there is no group mechan-
ism that dreams. But what the individual dreams is determined in
part by his culture— and to a greater extent than is commonly
supposed. As the scientific interpretation of dreams matures, more
and more cultural determinants are disclosed: tensions arising
from forms of social organization, the family and kinship groups,

rivalries in quests of recognition and power, etc., all of which are
culturally defined and vary from one cultural system to another.
In some cultures visions become standardized. Among Plains

tribes of North America the vision by means of which a youth
acquired "power" was a stereotype: a spirit would appear to the
youth, address him as "son," tell him that he had heard his pleas
for help, that he was going to adopt and aid him, etc. Then the
spirit would give the youth power to do something— to hunt, kill
enemies in battle, control weather, or heal the sick— instruct him

in a song, show him how to paint his face and how to make and
use a medicine-bundle, impose a taboo upon him, and depart.
Similarly saints and mystics of Europe used to have stereotyped
dreams or visions of Christ or the Blessed Virgin. As Tylor once
remarked, "The South African who believes in a God with a
crooked leg sees him with a crooked leg in dreams and visions."
There is indeed very little individuality inmuch of our dream and
vision experience. Again to quote Tylor: "Want of originality
seems one of the most remarkable features in the visions of
mystics . . . When the devil with horns, hoofs and tail had once
become a fixed image in the popular mind [i.e., in the cultural
tradition], of course men saw him [in visions] in this conventional

shape." ^® It is always the individual that does the dreaming
which merely defines the word in neurologic terms. But it is the
culture that gives the dream much of its form and content as
well as providing the initial stimulus in many instances. The
event or process that we label "dreaming" is, like the events called
"thinking," "feeling," and "acting," a function of a system in
which the individual is but a component part: a sociocultural
system.
'
Thus, the whole concept of the individual, the individual
human organism, is profoundly altered by culturological inter-
pretation. Instead of regarding the individual as a First Cause,
as a prime mover, as the initiator and determinant of the culture
process, as one who creates culture by acts of mind,* as one who
is responsible for all additions to culture, etc., etc., we now see
him as a component part, and a tiny and relatively insignificant
part at that, of a vast sociocultural system that embraces in-
numerable individuals at any one time and extends back into the
remote past as well. We see culture as a vast continuum, a stream
of cultural elements— of language, tools, utensils, beliefs, cus-
toms, and attitudes— that flows down through time. Culture was
of course brought into existence by man—by countless human
individuals— and it could not continue without them. But, we do
not need to consider man at all— as a species, race or individual
—in an explanation of culture change. For purposes of scientific
interpretation, the culture process may be regarded as a thing sui
generis; culture is explainable in terms of culture. In this great
sociocultural system, and from the standpoint of an interpreta-
tion of this system, the individual is (i) a catalytic agent that
makes the interactive culture process possible, and (2) a medium
of expression of the culture process.
* In a recent publication we find a fine example of this: "There is present

in an Indian's mind the idea of a dance . . This idea influences his body
.
so that he behaves in a certain vvav. The result of this behavioral activity is

the pattern of the dance ." (W. W. Taylor, A Study oi Archeology,
. .
Memoir 69, American Anthropological Association, 1948), pp. 101-102. The

view that culture consists
of "ideas in the mind" is still widely held in
American ethnology today.
The cultiirological conception of the individual does not and

cannot deprive psychology of anything that properly belongs to
it. The individual, as a biological organism, is a
dynamic, active
and reactive system and may be studied and interpreted as such.
This is the business of the neuro-anatomist, the physiologist, the

psychologist, etc., not of the student of culture. The fact that
language may be interpreted philologically, or culture treated cul-

turologically, in no way prevents one from interpreting biological
organisms psychologically.
The question at issue is, of course, how is culture to be inter-
preted, psychologically or culturologically? The conception of the

individual as the creator and determinant of the culture process
offers a t}'pe of interpretation that we find unacceptable. It is
anthropomorphic as well as irrelevantly psychologic.

It is not, however, as if we were deploring a Ptolemy before
Copernicus; we are, so to speak, deploring a continuation of the
Ptolemaic tradition generations after Copernicus. The nature of
the articulation of the individual human organism with the cul-
ture process was recognized and pointed out decades ago by
Adolph Bastian when he said that the individual "is nothing, at
best an idiot; only through spoken intercourse in society does he

become conscious of thought, is his nature realized. The thought
of society, social thought, is the primary result and the thought
of the individual is won by later analysis from it."
^'^
And the
Polish sociologist, Gumplowicz, argued that "the great error of
individualistic psychology is the supposition that man thinks . . .
it is not man himself who thinks but his social community . . .
he cannot think ought else than what the influences of his social
environment concentrating upon his brain necessitate." ^* Emile
Durkheim and his co-workers, too, showed clearly how, on the
one hand, culture is an extra-somatic tradition that can be ex-
plained in terms of own interactive elements and processes and
its
how. on the other hand, the individual organism is influenced.

form and content, by the action of the external

his behavior given
culture upon him. And, in more recent times in America, the
work of Wissler, Kroeber, Lowie, and others has continued the
tradition of a culturological interpretation of culture.
But anthropomorphism dies hard. The death is especially slow
and when anthropomorphism is mistaken for the soundest
difficult
realism, as it is by those who actually see people, individual men

and women, voting, enameling their fingernails, building ships,
inventing machines, writing sonnets, composing symphonies, etc.
"Where else," they ask, "could new cultural elements come from
but from the creative act of some individual human mind— from
a man, woman, or child?"
A culturological conception of the individual is also a culturo-

logical interpretation of mind, of human minding. We still retain
the use of the words mind, thinking, feeling, etc., in their tradi-
tional psychological sense: that is, they designate biologic— neuro-

sensory-glandular-etcetera— processes. But we
we can-
realize that
not by any means give a full human
account of these acts of
thinking and feeling in terms of individual organisms. The indi-
vidual does the thinking and feeling— by definition. But, as we
have previously noted, what he thinks and feels is determined not
by himself but by the sociocultural system into which the accident
of birth has placed him. A sociocultural system is a vast network
of relations, of interactions of concept, tools, customs, beliefs, etc.
Thus, a belief in is an organization of beliefs and
witchcraft
attitudes that has grown up in conjunction with activities of
medicine, offense and defense, and subsistence, carried on by
means of certain technologic tools and implements. The beliefs
and attitudes of witchcraft find expression in turn in certain
rituals and paraphernalia. The culture complex called ''witch-
craft" is therefore something that is to be explained culturo-
logically. It is found in some cultures but not in others. When it
from one culture to another. The culture complex

exists, it varies
has to be explained, therefore, in terms of cultural elements and

cultural processes.
An born into a sociocultural system that contains
individual,
the complex called witchcmft, will behave in a certain way; he

will think, feel, and act as his culture directs and prescribes.
He will suspect certain persons of the black art and fear them; he
will take certain precautions to safeguard himself from them; and
he will occupy himself with the detection, punishment or eradica-
tion of witches, all in a manner prescribed by his culture. What
meaning could be attached to the assertion that "it is always the
individual who believes in, fears, and contends with, witches?"
Simply that the individual organism responds to certain cultural
elements as external stimuli. But we are able to give an account
of his believing, fearing, and contending, not by a consideration

of the individual but of the organization of cultural elements, the
cultural system, that determines his believing, fearing, etc. It
would be more realistic to say that his thinking and feeling are
things that the culture does to the individual than to say that
they are things that he does. The individual's thinking, feeling,
and behaving as a human being is merely his participation in a

sociocultural process. His thinking, feeling and overt behavior are
expressions of a system of culture, of a cultural process, through
themedium of his organism.
And so it is with the human mind as a whole. Minding is
merely the individual biologic aspect of a sociocultural process.

The minding in its form and content is determined by the culture.
The individual mind is a function of the cultural system that
embraces it. What it does, what it believes, thinks and feels,
are determined not by the individual but by the circumambient

culture. The individual human mind can be made intelligible
only by a consideration of the culture of which it is but a reflex.
But we cannot explain the culture in terms of the individual mind;

cultural systems can only be explained in cultural terms.
The problem of distinguishing determinants that confronts the
student of human behavior is paralleled by a like problem in
biology: does the determination of a multi-cellular system lie in
the individual cells, or is the behavior of the individual cell a

function of the organism, or system, as a whole? Many biologists
argue that the system is determined by properties inherent in the
individual cell, just as many students of human behavior insist
that society and culture are determined by individuals. Thus, Alex-

ander B. Novicoff quotes L. V. Heilbrun, An Outline oi General
Physiology, pp. 3-4 (Philadelphia, 1943), to the effect that "the
ultimate mechanism responsible for any form of vital activity
lies inherent in an individual cell" (emphasis ours). But Novicoff,
citing the work of Coghill, Lashley, Goldstein and others, argues
that the behavior of the cell is determined by its position within
the system. Thus, "if ectoderm cells which normally form belly
skin were removed from a salamander embryo and transplanted
over the mouth organizer of a frog embryo, they would develop
into salamander structures— of the mouth; they would form teeth
^®
and not belly skin."
Similarly, would not everyone admit that a baby transplanted
during its first year of life from a Swedish family and community
to a Chinese cultural milieu would learn Chinese rather than

Swedish? And would not this baby acquire his other patterns of
behavior, sentiments, and attitudes from the sociocultural system

to which he had been transplanted? What, indeed, could be
plainer than the fact that the individual in his behavior as a hu-
man being, as distinguished from mere primate or animal, is a
*
function of the sociocultural system of which he is a part?
As we have already indicated by quotations from Bastian and
* "Before Clerk Maxwell," Einstein writes, "people conceived of physical

reality ... as material points. After Maxwell they conceived physical
. . .
by continuous ."
reality as represented fields . . (1934, p- 65). Before, or
Gumplowicz, many scholars of a generation or so ago clearly

understood the relationship between the individual human organ-
ism and culture. They realized full well that the individual mind
—the minding of an individual organism— was a function of a
sociocultural system. Some of them, therefore, like Gumplowicz,
expressed this fact by saying that it is not the individual who
thinks, feels, etc., but his society or culture. Others, like Durk-
heim, spoke of a ''collective consciousness." Thus the concept of
a "group mind" emerged and crystallized. This concept was
criticized and rejected by those who could not free themselves
from an anthropocentric point of view, and who could not under-

stand cultural systems and their role as determinants of human
behavior. How, they asked, can society think, feel, etc.; there is
no collective sensorium, no group brain. Thus, a profound insight

and a realistic understanding were defeated by inappropriate
terminology: a psychological term— "group mind"— was used to
designate a culturological process. What those of the "group
mind" school meant, of course, was that "the form and content
of an individual's mind is determined by his culture, that cul-
tures express themselves through the media of individual or-
ganisms." What they said, however, was "it is not the individual
but the group who thinks." This was rejected not only as false
psychologically but as mystical as well.
Another defect of the "group mind" theorists was that they
did not properly locate and define the supra-individual deter-
outside of, the science of culture, we may say, students conceive of human
cultural reality as a series of material points, i.e., individuals. After, or within,
the science of culture, human reality is seen to consist of a network of socio-
cultural relations, with the individual a function of the system as a whole.
Karl Marx saw this clearly over a hundred years ago when he wrote, in the
Sixth Thesis on Feuerbach: "The essence of man is no abstraction inherent
ineach separate individual. In its reality it is the ensemble of social lehtions"
(emphasis ours). As the science of culture grows and extends its influence
among students of human behavior, this view, this understanding, will become
commonplace.
minant of minding. They located it in the group. Group and in-
dividual are of course complementary terms; one can be interpreted

in terms of the other. A group mind could therefore be reduced
to a number of individual minds and, by so doing, the force and
significance of "the group mind" concept would be lost.
The "group mind" school was perfectly sound in its assertion

that it is not the individual who determines the form and content
of his minding. But, lacking the concept of culture, they erred in
Jocating the supra-individual determinant in the group. It is not
the group, but culture that is the determinant. And, unlike group,
culture cannot be explained in terms of individuals. On the
contrary, groups— their structures and processes— are functions of
culture just as individual minds are in their form and content.
Technically it is as wrong today to say that it is culture that
thinks as it was formerly to say that it is the group that thinks.
Thinking is name
the of a neurologic process and none other. But
the advance made in the scientific interpretation of human be-
havior by the "group mind" school was real and important. Their
error was not in going too far but in not going far enough. They
saw clearly the inadequacy of an individual psychological inter-
pretation. But science had not advanced far enough at that time
to elevate them above the sociological level to that of culturology.
Today, thanks to the expansion of the scope of science, we have

the concept of culture. We appreciate the necessity of regarding
culture as an autonomous process for the purpose of scientific
interpretation. We realize that cultural systems can be explained
only in terms of culturological principles and laws. And we under-
stand the relationship between the human organism— either as a
species, race, or individual— and culture. In view of this under-
standing, the old-fashioned psychologistic, anthropomorphic
interpretation of culture as something that is produced by
"creative acts of the individual mind," that it is the individual
who "is always responsible for additions to culture," that "it is
always the individual who really thinks and acts," etc., is definitely
out of place in modern ethnological theory. We

more than suspect
that this emphasis upon individualism has been outgrown in psy-
chology, that social psychology of the present day would regard
this conception of the individual as a creator of culture as being
as unrealistic as we do. Its perpetuation in anthropological circles
today is therefore to be deplored all the more.
If a growing understanding of the relationship between man
and culture means, on the one hand, a decline of the anthro-
pocentric view of man as the creator of culture, it fosters, on the
other hand, an appreciation of the role of culture in the minding
of man. The human mind is no longer merely an individual bio-
logicalphenomenon. Nor is a "group mind" a proper definition
of the situation. It is a question of individual organism on the
one hand and an extra-somatic cultural tradition or system on
the other. Whereas in the case of the lower animals, or in the
non-symbolic, non-human behavior of Homo sapiens, the indi-
vidual biological organism is significant as a determinant of the

individual's behavior, in the case of human behavior, of the hu-
man mind, the organism as such is not significant; it is not
stature, skin color, cephalic index, cortical activity, or glandular
secretion that determines whether a person will speak Chinese,

believe in witches, have an aversion for milk, or regard cows as
sacred. These things are determined by one's culture. An under-
standing of the human mind, therefore, calls for an appreciation
of the role of cultural factors as determinants of thinking, feel-
ing and acting. The mind of the individual— the average, typical,
normal individual— is own culture has made
as its it. To under-
stand the mind one must understand culture as well; human
"mental processes" are but the psychosomatic form of expression
of an extra-somatic culture process. The student of human mind-
ing must therefore be culturologist as well as psychologist. To
be sure, within a single and fairly uniform culture, the cultural
factor may be regarded as approximately a constant. But, even
here, it would be well, first of all, to be aware of this constant,
and, secondly, to realize that it is cultural in nature and genesis,
and that, from the standpoint of the individual organism, it is
just as external and foreign to it as are the elements and

processes of meteorology.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GENIUS: ITS CAUSES AND INCIDENCE
"Geniuses are the indicators of the realization of coherent pattern

growths of cultural value . ." —
A. L. Kroeber, Configurations of Cul-
.
ture Growth.
1 he significance of the genius in history has been discussed

so many times in the last seventy-five years that one should
not go over the vi'ell-trodden ground again without a special
warrant for doing so. The expansion of the scope of science in
general and the recent development of the science of culture
in particular are here cited and offered as our excuse for embark-
ing once again upon this perennial debate.
Briefly stated, the problem is this: are epoch-making social and

historical events to be explained in terms of men of genius, or are
great men explainable in terms of social processes and historical
trends? Or, do both, the great man and his social matrix, com-
bine to produce the event or trend, and if so in what proportions?
Most of those who have wrestled with this problem have
championed either the great man or society as the motive force,
as the cause, the other being regarded as the effect; few have been
willing to give equal, or even approximately equal, weight to each
factor. Let it be said at once that we have no intention of being
"impartial" and of taking the latter course. We are convinced that
the great man is best understood as an effect or manifestation
rather than as a prime mover. And we believe we have a new
technique for demonstrating this, or at least a refinement upon
190
GENIUS: ITS CAUSES AND INCIDENCE 191
techniques employed for this purpose in the past. But before we

introduce our technique, let us turn briefly to the history of this
problem.
It has, of course, long been the fashion to interpret great events
as the work of great men. From the time of the Pharaohs, rulers
have boasted of their deedsand accomplishments, and before
that, no doubt, tribal chieftains made similar claims. Bards and
troubadors once sang of the exploits of heroes, and modern
historians have tended to write in the same vein: History is a
record of the deeds of Great Men, good and bad. When we turn
from the political events of history to great works of art, new
philosophies or religions, significant discoveries in science, and
epoch-making inventions, we find the same type of interpretation:
these advances and achievements are the work of geniuses, of men
like Michelangelo, Kant, Beethoven, Newton, and Edison.
In 1869 a distinguished British man of science, Francis Gal ton,
F.R.S., gave formal and authoritative expression to the Great Man
theory in his Hereditary Genius. Great events and great periods
in history, he argued, are due to men of genius; the greater the
period, the more numerous the men of genius. A man of true
genius will assuredly come to the fore and make himself known
and felt despite any opposition or handicap that social conditions
may place in his way. Galton compares the United States with
England to demonstrate this point. Class distinctions are less
rigid in America, he reasons, and it is therefore easier for one to
overcome the disadvantages of low social status there than in
England. Yet, he says, there are no more men of genius per

million in America than in England; on the contrary, there are
less. Therefore, he concludes, we may assume that if genius is
present it will assert itself and find expression and recognition.^

Galton carried his reasoning still further. Since the correlation
between inborn ability and fame is so close, we can evaluate and
compare by counting the men of genius per thousand or

races
million. Proceeding on this basis, Galton finds that the Athenians

of the time of Pericles were two grades higher than the Enghsh,
who in turn were two grades higher than the African Negro.^
The scientific prestige of Galton and the scholarly character of
his work did much no doubt to confirm many in their belief not
only that civilization has been the work of geniuses but that cer-
tain races aremore richly endowed than others. In short, Galton
provided a simple, scholarly, "scientific"— it was supported with
statistics!— and authoritative theory with which one could explain
the histories of nations and the development of civilization.
One of the first of modern scholars to challenge the Great Man
theory was Herbert Spencer. In The Study of Sociology (1873)
he offered a cogent argument against the interpretation of im-

portant social events by invoking genius or Great Men. Before
the Great Man can make society, he insisted, society must make
him. Not only does Spencer indicate the nature and extent of
society's influence upon every individual, great and small, he
brands the Great Man theory as a form of anthropomorphism
popular alike among savage tribes and civilized societies.^
William James took sharp and and vigorous issue with Spencer
in an address, "Great Men, Great Thoughts and the Environ-
ment," published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1880. Great events
and epochs in history are the of Great Men, he insists. A
work
single important event may be produced by a single, or at most
a few, geniuses. But for a great epoch many are required. "For
a community to get vibrating through and through with active
life," he says, "many geniuses coming together and in rapid suc-
cession are required. This is why great epochs are so rare— why
the sudden bloom of a Greece, an early Rome, a Renaissance, is
such a mystery. Blow must follow blow so fast that no cooling can
occur in the intervals. Then the mass of the nation grows incan-
descent, and may continue to glow by pure inertia long after
the originators of its internal movement have passed away. We
often hear surprise expressed that in these high tides of human
affairs not only the people should be filled with stronger life.
but that individual geniuses should seem so exceptionally abund-

ant. This mystery is just about as deep as the time-honored
conundrum as to why by great towns." *
great rivers flow
James admits that the great man's environment may condition

his behavior or affect the consequences of his behavior, but he
denies emphatically that the social environment can produce him.
"If anything is humanly certain," he insists, "it is that the great
man's society, properly so called, does not make him before he
^
can remake it."
This point of view so adroitly expressed by James is, of course,

widely held today. Every great event is regarded as the work of
one or a few outstanding individuals. The fate of a whole nation
may rest in a single pair of hands. It was a common thing a few
years ago to hear that World War II had been caused by one
person, and since V-E day we have tried and hanged a number
of men for having brought the war about. Nor is this view con-
fined to the man in the street or even to statesmen in high places.
Many scholars and men of science subscribe to it also. Thus a
prominent American anthropologist, Edgar Lee Hewett, has re-
cently attributed almost every great historical epoch, from Xerxes

to Hitler, to the genius, pathologic or otherwise, of a single
individual: all great "irruptions" of history have been "one man
affairs," he Hooton speaks of "men like Hitler and
says. E. A.
Mussolini [who] impose their evil will upon stupid and suggestible
masses." Lawrence K. Frank says that "as long as we are at the
mercy of the warped, distorted personalities who seek power and
prestige ... at whatever cost to others, we are helpless." The
distinguished physicist, Robert A. Millikan, can see no way by
which science can prevent the destruction of civilization by man's
wickedness or folly: "I see no prospect," he says, "of our ever
being able to turn some new type of ray upon a dictator filled
with lust of power and conquest and thus transform him into a
humanitarian." In a different context, Goldenweiser says that
history "abounds in examples of periods of precipitated change
due to the emergence of . . . dominant personalities." Franz

Boas speaks of African "Negro rulers whose genius for organization
has enabled them to establish flourishing empires." Clark Wissler
supposes that "long ago . . . there arose a genius for empire

building which set a pattern" that endured for thousands of years.
And Ralph Linton more conservatively admits that the "indi-
vidual is dominated and shaped by his social environment but he
is not obliterated by it. Under favorable conditions," he says, "he
can even change and mold it." ® A great man could therefore
presumably work great change.
Thus we have two opposing views. On the one hand, great
events or great epochs of history, important advances in philos-
ophy, art, and science, are interpreted as the handiwork of ex-
ceptionally gifted persons. On the other, it is argued that the

genius is conditioned by his social environment if not produced
by it. Both views seem plausible and tenable. Each side is able
to advance reasons and marshall evidence in support of its posi-
tion. If, therefore, we are to extricate ourselves from this circular
argument, we shall have either to rephrase the problem or apply

new and better techniques to its solution. Let us see what can
be done.
Galton and James make the interpretation of history seem
simple and easy: Great events and epochs are the work of men
of genius; if an era is uneventful or mediocre it is because genius
is lacking. Why has Sardinia fallen far below Sicily in greatness
and distinction when "all the material advantages are in favor
of Sardinia?" James asks. His ready answer: "Simply because no
individuals were born there with patriotism and ability enough
to inflame their countrymen with national pride, ambition, and
^
a thirst for independent life."
But if great epochs are caused by geniuses, how are geniuses

to be accounted for? James' answer to this question is hardly
satisfying. He says in effect that we cannot explain their origin
and incidence. "The causes of production of great men," he says.
"lie in a sphere wholly inaccessible to the social philosopher. He

must simply accept geniuses as data, just as Darwin accepts his
spontaneous variations." It is the "invisible and unimaginable
play of forces of growth within the nervous system which, ir-
responsibly to the environment, makes the brain peculiarly apt

to function in a certain way." And, just as an individual genius
appears spontaneously, so do they cluster "fortuitously around a
given epoch making it great" or they are "fortuitously absent
*
from certain places and times."
This theory may seem plausible, especially since it comes from
an eminent scientist and philosopher. But is it much better than
the explanations astrology has to offer? One might say that the
birth of individual geniuses and their clustering about certain
historical epochs are governed by the stars. James' theory is of
course superior to that of astrology both because it is less mystical
and because it The astrologist really offers an
explains less.
explanation though a false one: human events are controlled by

stars. But is James' answer, "chance," really an explanation? Or
is it a device to conceal ignorance and helplessness, a declaration

that there is and can be no better answer? Or is it an assertion
that the phenomena in question are indeed statistical in nature?
The scientist is not likely to be satisfied v^dth "chance" as an
answer to his queries— unless, of course, he can see how he can
deal with it statistically and thus relate chance to scientific law.
James shows no interest in a statistical consideration of these

phenomena; he is content to leave the matter on the basis of
"an invisible and unimaginable play of forces," and upon spon-
taneous and fortuitous events.*
Galton does not rely so squarely upon sheer chance. Genius
tends to be hereditary, he reasons, and therefore when a genius
* A more recent writer resorts to the fortuitous appearance of genius to

explain great historic events. The Reverend H. Harrington, writing in the
Encyclopaedia Britannica ("Roman Catholic Church," 14th ed.), says that the
Protestant revolt was "almost fortuitous. Genius defies all laws, and the great-
est Protestant leader [Luther] had genius."
appears itbecause he has had exceptionally gifted forebears.

is
Certain conditions cause an increase in the number or proportion

of geniuses; others bring about a decrease. If Athens was once
rich in geniuses was because certain conditions brought it about;
it
if she fell from her former high state, that,

too, was due to certain
circumstances. Galton thus does not content himself, as James

does, with the assertion that presence or absence of genius at
certain times and places is purely fortuitous. But his explanation
of the rise and fall of Athens in terms of racial ability is not very
convincing. As the distinguished sociologist, C. H. Cooley, pointed
out long ago in a well reasoned criticism of Galton, "both the
rise and the decline of the race are ascribed to the same cause,
namely immigration. Certainly, then, some reason should be given

for supposing that there was a radical change in the character of
^
the immigration: but no such reason is given."
With regard to the relationship between exceptionally gifted
persons and their environment, we have already noted that Galton
believes that genius, like murder, will out, no matter what
obstacles the environment may oppose. James admits that social
environment may affect a genius, that it may help or hinder him.

But, he insists, the significant factor in this environment is merely
another genius or geniuses! "It is true," he writes, "that great
public fermentations awaken and adopt many geniuses, who in
more torpid times would have had no chance to work. But . . .
there must be an exceptional concourse of genius about a time

to make the fermentation begin at all." If, on the other hand, a
social setting is not hospitable to a particular genius, it is because
"some previous genius of a different strain has warped the com-
munity away from the sphere of his possible effectiveness. After
Voltaire, no Peter the Hermit." Thus, according to James, the
thing that fosters or frustrates a man of genius is not simply an
environment, but another, or other, geniuses. Whether, therefore,
genius finds expression and bears fruit or remains unrecognized
and unknown, the cause is always "genius." We thus have a
ready and easy explanation of history and social movements: the

presence or absence of genius. But, unfortunately, says }ames,
we cannot predict genius; that is a matter of the "invisible and
unimaginable play of forces within the nervous system." The
utmost that sociology can ever predict, he argues, "is that if a
genius of a certain sort show the way, society will be sure to
follow." " Science is not likely to be satisfied with reasoning and
conclusions such as these.
We do not propose to go over the old familiar argument of indi-
vidual vs. society; it is too much conundrum about

like the old
the priority of the egg or the chicken. Indeed, as we have seen,

the Great Man vs. Society debate has been put in precisely this
form, with Spencer contending that before the great man can
must make him, whereas James insists that
affect society, society
the genius must come first. Obviously, some men are distinguished
markedly from others, and their lives and deeds are especially
significant. Obvious also is the influence of society upon excep-
tionally gifted persons. A whole is made up of parts, and parts

comprise a whole. If this were all there is to the Great Man vs.
Society controversy we should have to leave it at that and say

that each factor is a function of the other. But this is not all there
is to this problem. The growth and expansion of science has
brought forth a new science that has a great deal to say on this
point, namely, culturology. Psychology presents the man of genius
and demonstrates his effect upon society. Sociology shows how
society conditions the life of the exceptionally gifted person.
Culturology explains both the great man and society and the
relationship between them.
What is genius? The debate of decades has made it quite clear
that he is not identical with a neuro-sensory-glandular-etc. system
of exceptionally high quality. On the one hand, we do not know
that every outstanding individual possesses an exceptionally fine
neuro-sensory-glandular-etc. system. On the other hand, we do
not know that undistinguished persons have only mediocre or

inferior systems. We are not warranted, therefore, in equating
"genius" with "superior organism": G = O, in which G represents

the person of distinction, while O stands for his biologically
superior organism. Nor may we use the equation O X S = G,
in which O is a superior organism, S, the social environment, and
G the resulting genius, because, as we have seen, it can be argued
both that O is a function of S and that S is a function of O. We
must write our equation thus: O X R = G. Here O will stand
merely for an individual biological organism, not necessarily one

of superior quality, G for genius, and R for a factor which we
have yet to define.
How do we recognize a genius? By his deeds, of course. But how
can we know that he has an exceptionally fine neuro-sensory-
glandular-etc. system? By his deeds, say Galton, James, et al.
But to say this is to admit that his innate biological superiority

is merely an inference based upon observation of his overt be-
havior, and also to insist that the exceptional features of this
behavior cannot be explained in any other way than by attributing
them to superior brains, glands, etc. If one could demonstrate the

biological superiority of the genius by direct examination of his
nerves, glands, senses, etc., or by psychological tests that would

rule out all factors not genetically acquired, instead of postulating
it inferentially, then the case of the champions of genius as prime

movers would receive substantial support. But this has never been
done. This is not to say, of course, that one organism is as good
as another, or that it is impossible to tell a biological silk purse
from a sow's ear. All of the sciences of man will freely grant, if
not insist upon, the biological inequality of individual human

beings. Nor would anyone, I suppose, maintain that one cannot
distinguish an idiot or imbecile from one of superior intelligence
by observations of their behavior— at least in a high percentage
of instances. But this is a far cry from the assertion that if a man
plays a distinguished role in social life he must have superior
germ plasm whereas if he is undistinguished he must have

mediocre or inferior plasm. We are not content to derive our
biology by inference, and, secondly, we can explain distinction iix
other terms than superior nerves and glands.

But to invoke "society" as Spencer and countless others since
1872 have done to account for distinction is not enough. Society
is but an organization of individuals, and so we have one person
affecting another, the ordinary man jostling his brother while the
genius fosters or discourages genius, as James has argued. Society

and individual are simply two aspects, opposite but inseparable
poles, of the same phenomenon; we can "explain" each one in
terms of the other. Thus we go around in circles, chasing our tails,
getting nowhere.
The science of culture liberates us from this dilemma. It provides
us with techniques with which we can explain both society and
individual. The behavior of human beings, both individually
and collectively, is determined by their biological make-up on the
one hand, and by a body of extra-somatic phenomena called
culture, on the other: O X C >B, in which O stands for the
biological factor, C for the extra-somatic, supra-biological factor
of culture, and B, the resultant behavior.*

Individual human beings differ biologically from one another
and differences in their behavior may legitimately be ascribed in
part to their anatomical and physiological differences. Human
beings vary as groups, too; one race, stock, or physical type, may
be distinguished from another. But, so far as we know, none of
the differences of behavior between peoples— races, tribes, nations
—can be attributed to their biological differences. The biological
factor may conceivably contribute something to the variation of
* Both organism and culture —

and consequently the behavior resulting from
the interaction of these two factors —
are of course affected by the natural en-
vironment. But in the problem which confronts us now we are concerned
only with the relationship between man and culture. The environmental factor
may therefore legitimately be considered a constant and as such be omitted
from our consideration.
behavior, but this contribution is so small in comparison with the

influence of the cultural factor that it may be regarded as negli-
gible. In short, the differences of behavior from one people to
another are culturally, not biologically, determined. In a considera-

tion of behavioral differences among peoples therefore we may
regard the biological factor as a constant and hence eliminate it
from our calculations. We may, then, rewrite our formula for the
behavior of any people with reference to the behavior of others
as follows: C
>B, culture produces, or determines, behavior;
the behavior of a people is determined by its culture. Or,
B = f{C): behavior is a function of culture. Variations in be-
havioramong peoples are functions of variations in culture: Vb =
f(Vc). The relationship between the human biological factor in
the mass and the extra-somatic cultural factor is thus made clear.
Where then does society enter this picture?
Why does one people have one form of society whereas another
has a different form? The psychologist cannot account for this
difference because, as we have just seen, the psycho-biological
factor is a constant. "Social process," or "social interaction," the

basic concept of the sociologist, is equally inadequate. Why does
one tvpe of social process take place in one case whereas in another
we find a different type of interaction? This is precisely the ques-
tion at issue; "social process" is an effect, not a cause. What then

is the cause? The answer is, of course, culture.
Culture is, as we have seen repeatedly, a class of extra-somatic,
supra-biological phenomena. They have an existence prior to the
birth of every individual. They are external to him and act upon
him from the outside. They are traditional; they are passed down
from one generation to another, and they may be borrowed, later-
ally, from one's contemporaries and neighbors. Culture consists
of beliefs, customs, institutions, tools, utensils, etc., which lay
hold of the organisms of Homo sapiens at birth and mold and

shape them this way and that. A people has one form of social
organization rather than another because as biological organisms

they react and respond to different sets of cultural elements as

stimuli. But how are we to explain culture? We need not resort
to circular reasoning here. We do not explain culture in terms
of "social process" and "social process" again in terms of culture,
as the sociologist is wont to do. Nor do we explain individual
personality in terms of culture and then turn around and explain
culture in terms of personality, as many social psychologists and
psychologically minded anthropologists do. We explain culture
in terms of culture.
To many, no doubt, this will seem like no explanation at all.
In an earlier day it may have seemed empty to explain the be-

havior of stars and planets in terms of stars and planets instead
of the will and whim of spiritual beings. But the explanation of
events in non-animistic and non-anthropomorphic terms is now
well established in the physical and biological sciences. We still
retain more than a vestige of anthropomorphism in the social

sciences.
To explain culture in terms of culture is merely to say

that cultural elements act upon one another, form
and react
new syntheses, eliminate some elements as obsolete, and so on.
Thus a change in the process of fomiing plurals is a linguistic
phenomenon, not a psychological or sociological one. Matrilineal
organization is a combination of certain cultural elements; patri-
lineal organization, a synthesis of other elements. We discover the

relationship between the manufacture of automobiles and the
use of buggies directly, and so on. In short, culture may be inter-
preted culturologically rather than sociologically or psychologically.

More than that, there are many problems that can be solved only
by culturological techniques, psychological and sociological inter-
pretations being illusory or irrelevant. Let us now return to the

problem of genius.
We shall begin with a statement of premises: i. A genius will

be defined as a person who is regarded as a genius; there is no
point in saying that many a genius is born, lives and dies unrecog-
nized. One may well say that many a person of very superior
native endowment lives and dies without full realization of his
potentialities and without achieving recognition or fame. But for
purposes of our inquiry we will confine ourselves to persons who

have been regarded as geniuses. 2. The distribution of native
ability, from those of very low capacity on the one end of the
curve to the exceptionally gifted on the other, has been uniform

throughout time, at least within the species Homo sapiens. We
have no reason for believing that more or less idiots or persons
of exceptional ability were born per 100,000 in one age than
another. 3. The average and range of native abilities among the
various races of the world are at least approximately the same
for all. Degree of cultural development is, of course, no index of
native ability, and the testimony of comparative anatomy, physi-
ology and psychology will support this proposition. Let us turn
now to some of the specific problems of genius.
Why do geniuses cluster about certain epochs of history instead
of being uniformly distributed through time? James says that it
is "fortuitous," pure chance. But the laws of probability tell us

just the opposite. One cannot tell which woman will give birth
to an exceptionally gifted child or to twins. But the laws of

probability tell us how many pairs of twins we may expect in
every 100,000 births, or per year in a given population, and we
may assume that the number, or proportion, of idiots or babies
of exceptional endowments born will likewise be definite and
constant. It is precisely the factor of chance and probability that
justifies our assumption of a uniform distribution of exceptionally
gifted persons in a large population over a considerable period of
time. How, then, can we explain the fact— for it is a fact— that
geniuses are not distributed uniformly in time and place but do
cluster about certain epochs and regions?
A culturological interpretation makes this quite clear. Culture
does not grow or change at uniform rates; there are periods of
intense activity and periods of stagnation and even retrogression.
A culture may change or progress for a long period
exhibit little
and then suddenly burst forth with vigorous activity and growth.
An invention or discovery such as metallurgy, agriculture, the
domestication of animals, the keystone arch, the alphabet, micro-
scope, steam engine, etc., may inaugurate an era of rapid change
and progress.
But are not inventions the work of genius? The answer is of
course "Yes," by genius you mean "someone who makes a
if
significant discovery or invention." But this is just reasoning in

a circle. Merely because a person makes a great discovery or in-
vention it does not follow that he is possessed of exceptionally
great natural endowment, and much less does it mean that he is
superior to all others who have no great achievement to their

credit. Therefore, to appeal to "genius" to explain the invention
or discovery is an empty redundancy since genius is here defined
in terms of the event, and the appeal to exceptionally great native
endowment is unwarranted or at least misleading.
According to our premises we must assume that there were men
in England in Neolithic times with as much natural ability as
James Watt possessed. Yet no one would claim that such a man
could have invented the steam engine. This is of course but a
recognition of the fact that there is more to an invention or dis-
covery than germ plasm or brain tissue, no matter how excellent
they may be. An invention or discovery is a cultural, i.e., an extra-
somatic, supra-biological, affair as well as a psychological act. An

invention is a new synthesis of cultural elements.* In any cultural
system there is constant interaction among its constituent ele-
ments: culture traits. They
upon one another, chang-
act and react
ing and modifying one another, forming new combinations and
syntheses. Certain traits or elements become obsolete and are
* ''An invention not an accidental mutation of the germ plasm, but a

is
new which the inventor is heir by

synthesis of the accumulated experience to
tradition only," (V. Gordon Childe, Man Makes Himself, p. 19).
eliminated from the stream. New elements are introduced from

the outside from time to time.
Thus, in this interactive process, axes are fitted with handles,
eyes are put into awls and they become needles, clay is first sun-
dried then fired; tempering material is added; the wheel is adapted

to the ceramic art; certain customs become synthesized into the
clan, trial by jur)', primogeniture, or parliamentary government; in

philosophy and science old concepts are synthesized into new
formulations, the work of Galileo, Kepler and Brahe is synthesized
into laws of motion and gravitation in the hands of Newton; coal,
copper, etc., are introduced into the stream of culture. Discoveries

may of course occur by chance, as in the case of the association
of pitchblende and a photographic plate in the laboratory of
Rontgen. But to be significant, the chance must have the proper
soil, a suitable cultural context.
An invention or discovery is a synthesis of already existing cul-
tural elements, or the assimilation of a new element into a
cultural system. The invention of the steamboat is a good example

of the former; the origin of metallurgy, of the latter. The steam
engine was the outcome of an age-old process of cultural accumu-
lation and synthesis. We can trace it back through many lines,
mechanical, metallurgical, and ideological, to the Old Stone Age.

The boat, too, is the outgrowth of an interactive and synthesizing
culture process that we can trace back to antiquity. The invention
of the steamboat was, therefore, simply a merging of these two
streams of cultural development. With regard to the origin of
agriculture, metallurgy, non-Euclidean geometry, the germ theory
of disease, etc., each of these was the organized expression of an
accumulation of cultural experience. Just as the discoveries of
Pasteur would have been impossible in the time of Charlemagne,
so was agriculture impossible in the days of Cro-Magnon. Every
invention and discovery is but a synthesis of the cultural accumu-
lations of the past with the experiences of the present.
Two significant conclusions can now be drawn: (i) No inven-

tion or discovery can take place until the accumulation of culture

has provided the elements— the materials and ideas— necessary
for the synthesis, and, (2) When the requisite materials have
been made available by the process of cultural growth or diffusion,
and given normal conditions of cultural interaction, the invention
or discovery is bound to take place.

The first of these propositions will probably be accepted more
readily than the second. Almost everyone would admit that the
steam engine could not have been invented in the Paleolithic
Age. But many persons, resenting a determinism that they fear
but do not understand, will demand, "How can you prove that
someone elsewould have invented the steam engine, the cotton
gin, etc., if Watt, Whitney, etc., had not done so?" Of course
this cannot be proved, in one sense at least. Neither can one

prove that it summer of 1973, or even
will rain in Detroit in the
that the sun will rise tomorrow. But we can adduce so much
evidence in support of our claim as to make its validity seem
virtually conclusive. Take for example the matter of multiple
inventions and discoveries made simultaneously but independently.
Kroeber discussed the significance of such phenomena in "The
Superorganic" (1917). Five years later Ogburn and Thomas pub-
lished a long list of simultaneous but independent inventions in
an article significantly entitled "Are Inventions Inevitable?" Og-
burn published this list later in Social Change. The evidence is
voluminous and impressive. Time after time, two or more men,

working quite independently, have made the same invention or
discovery. In 1843, the Law of Conservation of Energy was formu-
lated by Mayer. In 1847, it was formulated by four other men,
Joule, Helmholz, Colding, and Thomson, working independ-
ently of one another and, of course, Mayer. The discovery and
recognition of the cellular basis of both animal and plant tissue
was made (or claimed) by no less than seven men (Schwann,
Henle, Turpin, Dumortier, Purkinje, Muller, and Valentin) and
all in the same, or very approximately the same, year: 1839.
Now the question is, Why in each of these instances did a
number of men working independently make a notable scientific
discovery or invention at almost exactly the same time? How are
we to explain the fact that a great generalization like the Law of

Conservation of Energ)- or a great discovery like the cellular basis
of life, which had lain beyond the capabilities of everyone before
this time, suddenly and almost overnight was achieved by not one
individual or two, but by awhole handful?
William James would say that these achievements were the
work of genius and that the appearance of a man of genius is
fortuitous. But if the appearance of a single genius is a chance
occurrence, "the unlikeliness of the concourse of genius about a
time is far greater." Yet we have many such "concourses": any-
where from two to seven or more persons achieving independently
the same important result. This places a heavy burden upon the
theory of probability, a burden that is increased when we think
of the ages of the men at the time of their noteworthy achieve-
ment. Thus, in a single year a number of geniuses of v^dely
varying ages all light their lamps at the same time! Even if we
had no other explanation at all for this phenomenon than
"chance" one wonders why anyone would want to dignify this
feeble gesture by calling it a scientific explanation.
Culturological theory provides a simple explanation of this re-
markable "coincidence." The Law of Conservation of Energy was

simply the synthesis of already existing concepts, each of which,
in turn, was the outgrowth and synthesis of earlier experience. A
synthesis of cultural elements requires two things: the elements in
question and a process of interaction. Cultural interaction is always
going on in any cultural system, although the rate of interaction
may vary. A given synthesis cannot take place until the elements
requisite for it are available, obviously. But, when the elements are
present, the process of cultural interaction is bound to effect the
synthesis. The situation is something like the chain reaction in
Uranium 235. If the mass of metal is belov^^ a certain size a chain

reaction is impossible. But when a certain size— the "critical size"—
is reached, the chain reaction is inevitable. Prior to 1843-47, the
elements requisite to the formulation of the Law of Conservation
of Energy were not available. But, when they became available
the interactive culture process made their synthesis so "inevitable"
that it was achieved not once but five times.*
The phenomena and simultaneous, but inde-

of multiple
pendent, inventions and discoveries thus have an important bear-
ing upon the question of genius and the Great Man. As we have
already noted, we are justified in assuming that the birth of men
of exceptional ability is fairly uniform within a large population
Western Europe for example. To assume that there
like that of
was no one in Europe with sufficient mental ability to formulate

the Law of Conservation of Energy in 1823-27, or in 1833-37,
but that in 1843 one such person appeared only to be followed
by four more in 47, is to put a severe strain upon the laws of
chance. The culturological interpretation, however, makes very
modest assumptions. It assumes that the cultural elements re-
quisite for the synthesis that is the Law of Conservation must be

on hand and available otherwise the synthesis could not be made;
no one however able or intelligent can build without materials.
The culturologist assumes further that these materials did not
suddenly spring into being out of nothing, but that they had
antecedents, that they grew out of previous cultural situations.
This, too, is a reasonable and modest assumption. We know of
no instance in which something has come from nothing, in cul-
tural systems or in those of any other kind; one thing grows out
of another. In short, the culturologist merely assumes the exist-
ence of a culture process, the existence of such things as languages,
beliefs, tools, customs, etc., that constitute an extra-somatic,
metabiological continuum, i.e., they are passed down from one
* ". . there is a good deal of evidence to indicate that the accumulation

.
or giowth of culture reaches a stage where certain inventions if not inevitable

are certainly to a high degree probable ." (Ogbum, Social Change, p. 343).
. .
generation to another by mechanisms of social heredity. The ele-
ments of this process interact upon one another: tool upon tool,
tool upon belief, belief upon custom, custom upon custom, etc.
In this interactive process new combinations of elements are
formed, new syntheses achieved. It goes without saying that a
given synthesis cannot be achieved until the requisite elements
for the synthesis are available: the steam engine could not have
been invented in the Neolithic age. It is not quite so obvious,
perhaps, that when the elements necessary for a given synthesis
are present in a process of interaction that the synthesis will take
place. The lay mind rebels at this notion of a deterministic process
going on of itself, effecting inventions and discoveries automatic-
ally, so to speak, and inevitably. Man still likes to think of himself

as the image of One who could say, "Let there be light and there
was light." Let there be a law of conservation of energy and
there will be such a law. But the formulation of such a law must
be man's doing, he fondly believes, not that of some impersonal

culture process that not only determines its own course and con-
tent but the behavior of man as well.
But the evidence is against such a view, however flattering and

consoling it may be. When the culture process has reached a point
where an invention or discovery becomes possible, that invention
or discovery becomes inevitable. This language may seem in-

temperate and unwarranted, but this is only because we are not
yet accustomed to thinking of the culture process in terms of
natural law; we still think of it as operating to some extent at
least in the realm of human free will. To say that an invention
or discovery becomes inevitable at thesame time that it becomes
possible is merely a way of saying that will happen when it will
it
happen. It is significant to note that we do not recoil from or

object to this point of view when we consider the weather. No
one would argue that "it" could rain if the various factors and
conditions necessary were not present and in conjunction. Neither
would one want to argue that rain could fail to fall if all the
factors necessary for precipitation were present and in conjunction.
Nor would many be inclined to call this fatalism. We simply say
that when certain conditions are present precipitation occurs;
when these factors or conditions are not present precipitation
does not take place.
And so it is with inventions and discoveries: when certain fac-
tors and conditions are present and in conjunction an invention
or discovery takes place; when they are not present, the invention
or discovery does not occur. Let us glance at more of the evidence.
The discovery of sun spots was made independently by at least
four men in a single year: by Galileo, Fabricus, Scheiner, and
Harriott, in 1611, The parallax of a star was first measured by
Bessel, Struve, and Henderson, working independently, in 1838.
Oxygen was discovered independently by Scheele and Priestly in
1774, The invention of the self-exciting dynamo was claimed by
Hjorth, Varley, Siemens, Wheatstone, and Ladd in 1866-67, and
by Wilde between 1863-67. The solution of the problem of respi-
ration was made independently by Priestly, Scheele, Lavoisier,

Spallanzani, and Davy, in a single year: 1777. Invention of the
telescope and the thermometer each is claimed by eight or nine
persons independently and at approximately the same time. ''Even
the south pole, never before trodden by the foot of human beings,
was at last reached twice in one summer" ^^ The great
(Kroeber).
work of Mendel in genetics lay unnoticed for many years. But
when it was eventually re-discovered, it was done not by one man
but by three— deVries, Correns, and Tschermak— and in a single
year, 1900. One could go on indefinitely. When the growing,
interactive culture process reaches a certain point, an invention or
discovery takes place.
The simultaneity of multiple inventions or discoveries is some-
times striking and remarkable. Accusations of plagiarism are not
infrequent; bitter rivalries are waged over priorities. "The right to
the monopoly of the manufacture of the telephone," says Kroeber,

"was long in litigation; the ultimate decision rested on an interval
of hours between the recording of concurrent descriptions by

Alexander Bell and Elisha Gray" ^- (emphasis ours).
"But an invention or discover)^ could not occur without a person
tomake it, and that person must be a genius/' * we are told with
some impatience or exasperation. Of course; an invention or dis-
covery cannot take place without the activity of a human being.
This goes without saying; culture does not and cannot exist with-
out human beings. But, we add nothing to an explanation oi this
culture process by including man in our calculations. Conjugations
of verbs could not take place without human organisms, but do
we need to introduce metabolism and respiration into philological
science? Tractors would not have replaced horses on American
farms unless man had been there to effect the change. But in
a statement of the relationship between tractors and horses, the
human organism may be— and should be— completely disregarded.
But what about genius.^ Granting that inventions and discoveries
are cultural events, does not a great event require a great man?
Could an epoch-making invention or discovery take place without
the action of a person of exceptional natural endowment?
The culturologist, like the biologist, assumes that human or-
ganisms vary both qualitatively and quantitatively. One person's
feet, liver, brain, etc., may be larger or smaller than another's;
one set of glands, nerves, or sense organs may function better,

i.e., more efficiently or effectively, than another. In short, indi-
vidual human beings differ in their natural endowments and
abilities; some are superior to others. Of one thingwe may be
sure: all men are not equal.
Now if superior, mediocre, and inferior minds are exposed
equally and uniformly to the influence of a given cultural tradition,
we must conclude that significant inventions and discoveries will
be made by the superior, rather than by the average or inferior,
* "Origination, when it is more than chance accident, is alwsys the product
of a superior mind," (E. B. Router and C. W.Hart, Introduction to So-

ciology, p. 221, New York, 1933, empliasis ours).
minds. Just as lightning will seek the best conductor, so will the
culture process effect its syntheses in the best brains available.
But the best brains available are not necessarily the best brains
extant in society. A given cultural tradition does not affect all
brains in a given society equally. Illiteracy cuts off a portion of the

population from certain cultural influences. In Newton's day the
vast majority of Englishmen were illiterate; the great and vital
traditions that kindled their flame in Newton lay beyond the

horizon of most men. Had Newton been reared a swineherd
instead of going to Cambridge, the law of gravitation would have
been formulated by someone else.
But does not the fact that the laws of motion and the calculus
were synthesized in Newton's brain prove that he was a genius?
At last we have come to the crucial point: are we to define a
genius psychologically or culturologically?
Is a genius a person of exceptional native endowment? * Or,
is he an individual in whose neuro-sensory-glandular-etc. system
an important synthesis of cultural events has taken place?
To assume that a person who
made a significant achieve-
has
ment has superior native ability we have seen, merely an
is, as
inference. Can we discover outstanding natural endowment apart

from distinguished achievement? Our experience with intelligence
tests gives us little assurance on this score. To be sure, we can
grade persons in terms of intelligence quotients. But many a

person with a high I.Q. lives and dies undistinguished by any
notable achievement. Tests that endeavor to measure native
ability unaffected by social or cultural influences are not likely
to discover men and women who will go down in history as
"geniuses." E. T. Bell tells us in Men of Mathematics that the
great mathematical physicist, Henri Poincare, made such a poor
showing on the Binet tests as to warrant the rating of imbecile.^'
* W. B. Pillsbury and L. A. Pennington define a genius as "a person of

very marked ability ... an I.Q. of 140 or above less than one percent of
. . .
the population ." {Handbook oi General Psychology, p. 327).

. .
2,2 THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
To be manv men in whom great cultural syntheses have

sure,
taken place mav wdl have been organisms of exceptional natural

interaction of cultural
endoN^-ment as well as the neural loci of the
if other factors are
elements. This is of course to be expected:
will take place in a
constant, the significant cultural synthesis
s\-stem of superior qualit>-. But. of course, other factors are
nervous
not constant. \\*e are therefore thrown back
upon the culturo-
logical definition of genius: A person in whose
organism a signifi-
cant s>-nthesis of cultural elements has occurred. He may have

superior brains or he may not. He may have been a person of ver>-
average natural endowment, but with superlative education and

training or exceptional opportunit}-, or both.
A consideration of manv significant inventions and discoveries
does not lead to the conclusion that great abiht>-, native or ac-
quired, is alwavs necessar)-. On the contrar;-, many seem to need
onlv mediocre talents at best. WTiat intelligence was required to

invent the steamboat? Is great intelligence required to put one
and one—a boat and an engine— together? i\n ape can do this.
James Watt is listed as a genius in many a treatise on this subject.
It is even misleading to say that he '"invented" the steam engine.
He merelv added a httle to the achievements of many other men
—Hero (c. 150 b.c), Battista della Porta (i6ci), Edward Somer-
set (1665), Thomas Saver}- (169S), Desgauliers, Papin, Nei^--
comen, Cawles% Smeaton, et al—before him. The cultural process
was merelv carried further in the person of ^\"att as it has been

in the organisms of many others since his day. Does it require
much intelligence to discover satelHtes of Jupiter or sun spots
when you have a telescope? Or bacteria and the cellular basis of
life if vou have a microscope? .\ telescopic or microscopic lens is
a piece of glass that changes the course of light passing through it.
Glass is the product of an age-old culture process going back to the

burning of brick in Eg\-pt and to sun-dried brick and daubing \s-itb
mud before that.

Isotopes —elements hanng the same atomic number, the same

chemical properties, but different atomic weights—were discovered
earlv in the present centun.-. In 1906, Bolb^-ood of Yale isolated
an element, ionium, from pitchblende. It was exactly like thorium
except in atomic weight. Three kinds of l^d, each with an atomic
weight of its y. J. Thomson found two kinds
own, were found,
(weights ) Soddy and Kasimir Fajans (working
of neon. Frederick
independently, be it noted; advanced an h}-pothesis b)- which
these different forms might be explained, Thomson and F. W.
Aston in England and K. T. Bainbridge in the United States
examined the whole series of elements in a search for isotopes.
The%- found that manv elements ha\-e isotopes. The atomic weight
of h- drogen— i.cc — S instead of i.c — indicated the existence of an
isotope of this element but neither .\ston nor Bainbridge c-ould
isolate it v.-ith the mass spectrometer. Harold C. Ure\' thought
that separation might be effected by evaporation of Hquid hydro-
gen. It was assumed that the would e\-aporate more
light isotope
freelv, lea\'ing a concentration of the hea\y form in the residue.

As Professor Selig Hecht teUs the stor%- in his recent book,
Explaim'ng the Atom, "Ure\- interested F. G. Brickweddie at the
Bureau of Standards, who proceeded to make a gallon of hquid
h\drogen. Bricb;\eddie then allowed the hquid to e\-aporate slowly
until all but a gram (Ki of an ounce) of hquid hydrogen was
left, which he shipped to Ure\-." \^'"ith this specimen and the
mass spectrometer, Ure\- and G. M. Murphy isolated the hea^-y
isotope, and "for this exciting discover^-." sa^'S Hecht, '"Urey.- v.-as
a\^-arded the Nobel prize in 1934" "-'
Xovi- we ha\ e no desire to minimize the importance of this dis-

covei}- as a scientific achie\-ement. And we certainly do not Mîsh to
behttle Dr. Urea's nati\-e and inborn abilities. But, we would like
to ask. \\*as intelligence of a high order required for this discovery?
A\~hat precisely did it invohe? No new theory of atomic structure
\^-as advanced; on the contran.-. Ure\" had the heritage of genera-
tions of workeis at his disposal. Ure\- did not discoN-er isotopes;
they had been found experimentally and explained theoretically

bv others. Isotopes of many elements had been isolated and
identified before Urey. Techniques of isolation had been de-
veloped by Thomson, Aston, Bainbridge, and others. He did not
invent the mass spectrometer; it is a descendant of the tube in-
vented by Heinrich Geissler about 1862. He did not provide the
liquid hydrogen or even manage its gradual evaporation. The idea
that a light isotope would diffuse faster than a heavy one was not
original; it had been tried out experimentally by Aston with posi-
tive results. What then did Urey contribute?
Again, let us repeat, we are not minimizing the inborn capa-
cities of Dr. Urey. He may have a superlatively fine organization of
ner\'es, glands, and sense organs. We have, however, implied that
intelligence of a high order was not essential to the isolation of
heavy hydrogen, and we now wish to make this implied conclu-
sion explicit and unequivocal: it could have been achieved by a
very ordinary intelligence. As a matter of fact, we believe that many
a household problem— such as removing a stain from a dress or
opening a recalcitrant jar of pickles— requires as much ingenuity,

though perhaps not as much technical information— which is a
matter of education, not native ability— as that required in the
isolation of heavy hydrogen. Take a person of average intelligence,
give him excellent technical training, put him in a well-equipped
laboratory, and assuming some interest and enthusiasm on his
part, how could he help but make some significant discovery? One
cannot adventure very long with an electron microscope or a
cyclotron without stumbling upon something new. And "stum-
bling upon" very aptly characterizes many significant advances in
science. The reason that superlatively great advances in science are
fevv is not because "genius" is rare but because great syntheses
must be built upon, or grow out of, a multitude of minor ones.
There is another property or aspect of culture that has an im-

portant and significant bearing upon the problem of genius,
namely, pattern. Nowhere is culture a mere aggregation or ag-
glomeration of traits; culture elements are always organized into
systems. Every culture has a certain degree of integration, of unity;
it rests upon a certain basis, and is organized along certain lines
or principles. Thus, a culture may be organized around the hunt-
ing of seal, reindeer breeding, the cultivation of rice, or manu-
facturing and trade. Military activity also may be an important
factor in the organization and life of a culture. Within any given
cultural system a number of sub-systems, which we may call pat-
terns, can be distinguished. Painting, music, mythology, philoso-

phy or science, mechanics, industrial crafts, the medical arts, and I
so on are such patterns. '
A culture pattern in this sense is a cluster of cultural elements,

or traits, organized upon the basis of a certain premise and directed S^
by a certain principle of development. A pattern of painting or /^
bead-work may be based upon geometric forms or it may attempt
to depict natural phenomena realistically. Or, symbolic representa-
tion may be developed in a certain direction. The art of divination
will rest upon a certain basic assumption and will develop in a

certain direction. The mechanical and industrial arts, science, and
philosophy, too, will be organized as patterns and will develop
as such.
Now a pattern, having a given premise, and certain principles of

development, has specific potentialities and also inherent limita-
tions. When these limits have been reached no further develop-
ment is possible. To illustrate with a simple example: You are
trying to draw a circle. When a perfect circle has been achieved '
'^
you can go no further. Realistic representation of natural objects
in painting and sculpture cannot be developed beyond a certain
point; and symbolic representation, too, seems to have its limits.
The art of divination based upon the assumption that the future
can be read in the liver may be developed considerably, as the
little Babylonian clay models, with various sections marked off,
indicate. But hepatoscopy has its limits. The development of

geometry upon the basis of the axioms of Euclid had hmits that
were inherent in the system or pattern. A certain musical pattern
reached culmination or fulfillment apparently in the works of

its
Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven. Gothic art as a pattern was in-

herently limited. Ptolemy carried the development of a certain
t)'pe of astronomic system about as far as was possible. All cul-
tural development takes place within organized forms, or patterns.
Now, asKroeber has pointed out repeatedly in Configurations o£
Culture Growth, when a pattern has reached the limits of its
potentialities no further development is possible. The alternatives
then are slavish repetition of old patterns or the revolutionary

overthrow of the old and the formation of new patterns. In some
instances, such as in ancient Egypt, we find monotonous and end-
less repetition of old forms; or, we see a nation like the United
States adopting architectural styles from ancient Greece or the
Middle Ages. But the history of culture abounds, of course, in
examples of the growth, culmination or fulfillment of patterns
and of their replacement by new patterns. New, non-Euclidean
systems of geometry are constructed. New forms emerge in the
industrial and esthetic arts. New patterns are constructed on new
premises in philosophy and science.
This phenomenon of culture pattern has an important bearing
upon the problem of genius. The development of a pattern is the
labor of countless persons and of many generations or even
centuries. But the pattern finds its culmination, its fulfillment, in
the work of a few men— the Newtons, Darwins, Bachs, Beetho-

vens, Kants, etc. Men working both before and after the time of
fulfillment of the pattern have less, usually much less, chance of
winning distinction. The men whose accident of birth has placed
them somewhere along the slope of the pyramid of the developing
pattern have no chance to win the sort of achievement and fame
given to those whose births place them
Bach or a
at the peak. A
Beethoven born a century or two earlier would have been a mere
contributor to a pattern of development rather than the vehicle
of its culmination. But a pattern of thought, long in the process

of development, will receive its fulfillment in the lives and work
of a few persons.
Men and women who come after the culmination of a culture
pattern also have little chance of winning distinction— except as
wreckers of the old and perhaps as builders of the new. A pattern

of growth in physical theory reached its culmination in the work
of Newton. So finished and complete was this pattern at Newton's
death that it held physicists and astronomers within its forms for
over two hundred years. As Lagrange once remarked, Newton was
not only the greatest genius that ever lived but the most fortunate
as well, "for we cannot find more than once a system of the world
to establish." ^^ To be born in the wake of Newton was to find
one's self with no more worlds to conquer.
It is plain, then, that culture patterns are significant deter-

minants of genius. The culture process is not an even and uniform
flow. There are initial stages of development, periods of steady
growth, peaks of culmination, plateaus of continuity and repeti-

tion, revolutionary upheavals and innovations, disruption, disinte-
gration, and decline. Whether an individual of exceptional natural

endowment achieves the distinction of genius or not depends
therefore very much upon the accidental time of his birth. Should
chance place him somewhere along the slope of a developing
pattern his chances of distinction will be relatively slight. Or, if he
should be born after the culmination has been reached and passed,
his chances for distinguished achievement and fame would also
be meager. But should he chance to be born at the time and place
where streams of culture are converging and fusing into a final
and complete synthesis, then his chances will be relatively great.*
* Even so, there is apt to be room for but one genius only. It was Darwin,
—
not Wallace, who won recognition and fame became the capstone of the
edifice —
even though the latter had worked out the same theory and at the
same time.
2T8 THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE
To become a genius it is necessary to be born at precisely the
right time.
The cultural milieu into which an individual is thrust at birth
also has muchdo with the likelihood of his achieving recogni-

to
tion as a genius. If he is born and reared in a frontier

culture
where life is hard and hazardous, where a keen eye and a quick
where hard drinking and harder fighting
trigger finger are prized,
are manly virtues, and where a square dance to a squeaky fiddle

is the highest form of art, he is not likely to
achieve fame as a
poet, composer, sculptor, philosopher, or scientist. He may possess
superb natural endowment, he may excel all others in tracking a
bear, roping a steer, or in "calling" a dance, but the accolade of

"genius" is not accorded to primacy in these fields. Should, how-
ever, an individual be born into a cultural milieu in which a rich
and vigorous tradition of music, painting, science or philosophy

flourished, he could readily become a genius if of exceptional
natural ability, or a distinguished person if of a little more than

average talent. As Cooley observed, in his critique of Galton, "it is
as difficult for an American brought up in the western part of

our countr}^ [in 1897] ^^ become a good painter as it is for a
Parisian to become a good base-ball player, and for similar rea-
sons." ^® The production and incidence of genius are thus seen to

be functions of the cultural setting. Whether a genius is realized
or not depends upon the soil and climate of the cultural habitat.
We now come to another interesting point: namely, the rela-

tionship between the rate of cultural advance and the factor of
human ability. Here we have, on the one hand, a supra-biological
process: the evolution of culture, a temporal-formal sequence of
extra-somatic events. On the other, we have the neuro-sensory-
muscular-glandular-etc. process. The culture process can, as we
have seen, be studied, analyzed, and explained in terms of itself,
independently of the human organism. This does not mean of

course that man has "nothing to do" with the culture process; in
one sense he has everything to do with it. It is man who brings

culture into existence and makes its continuity possible. But it
does not follow from this that we must reckon with the human
organism in an analysis of culture change. To interpret the culture
process without taking the human organism into account is
merely to regard the biological factor in the man-culture equation

as a constant. But, suppose the biological factor were not constant,
how would its variations affect the culture process? Let us examine
this problem in terms of the magnitude of abilities only, not their
qualitative variations.
Let us consider populations of 100,000,000 persons each. Let us
assume also that ability is distributed normally rather than skewed.
Then if all members of society are stimulated equally by their
culture, the rate of cultural advance, through invention and dis-
covery, will increase if (1) the average ability is increased, or (2)

the range of ability is extended in the direction of superior minds,
other factors remaining constant. In other words, if the biological
factor of mental ability is increased, either by an elevation of the
average or by an extension of the range, the rate of cultural ad-
vance will increase. The acceleration will of course be greater if
both average and range are increased instead of one only. This
means that the probability of an invention or discovery taking
place at a certain time will vary as the average or range of mental
ability of the population varies, other factors remaining constant.
Thus, in a given cultural situation a certain invention or discovery
—a steam engine, the alphabet, the cellular basis of life— would be
more likely to occur in a population with a high average of intel-
ligence than a low one, in a society with a high "ceiling" than in

one with a low one.
We see then that a relationship can be established between the
extra-somatic cultural tradition and the biological factor of mental
ability which we can express thus: C X B = P, in which C stands
for the cultural tradition, B for the biological factor of mental
ability, and P for the probability of a certain invention or dis-
covery taking place. The probability is increased if either C or B

is increased while the other factor
remains constant. But— and
here is a very interesting point, and one not widely appreciated—
in any actual historical situation, the factor of mental ability is
virtually constant for a considerable period of time. The cultural
factor, however, may, and in many cases will, not be a constant.,
In the cumulative, interactive stream of culture, the likelihood of

a given invention or discovery increases day by day. With the
accumulation of and the growth of theory, certain syntheses
facts
are bound to occur. Thus, if the mental ability requisite to a given
invention or discovery is not present at a given time, the growth

and advance of the culture process will bring the possibility of
the neurological synthesis within the range of the capacities of
the population eventually. This means that if men of great ability
are not available, the advancing culture process will in time bring
the possibility of a significant invention or discovery within the
range of men with much less ability. Incidents of this sort have
no doubt occurred many times in the past. We believe we are
warranted, on the basis of our premises and analysis, in making
the assertion that all of the great discoveries or inventions that
have ever occurred could have been achieved vâthout one single
"genius," i.e., without the aid of anyone above the present average
of intelligence. In short, that our civilization could have been
achieved by a race whose maximum intelligence was equivalent
to our average. It would merely have taken longer, that is all,
longer for the cultural process to reach the point where syntheses
become possible to human nervous systems.
Actually, however, we have good reasons for believing that the
factor of mental ability has remained fairly constant throughout
the last hundred thousand years or so. At any rate, we have no
evidence of a significant increase in mental ability during this
time.*
* There is some evidence, however, that would point to a decline in the

level of intelligence in Western Europe during the Christian era. At least.
Further consideration of our formula, C X B = P, will illu-
minate other aspects of culture history also. As Morgan, Kroeber,

Ogburn and others have repeatedly noted, significant inventions
and discoveries were few and far between in the remote past. This
was not due to a lack of persons of high mental ability but to a
meagerness of cultural materials and resources. As the stream of
culture grows through accumulation, assimilation and synthesis,
the rate of cultural advance increases. Thus, inventions and dis-
coveries were much more numerous and frequent in the great

urban, metallurgical and literate cultures of 5,000 to 2,000 b.c.
than in the period 90,000 to 87,000 B.C., and they are much more
frequent today than in any earlier time. Since invention and dis-
covery are functions of cultural milieus as well as of mental ability,

it follows that men of exceptional intelligence were relatively
more important and significant in the days of savagery than of
civilization. Because the cultural resources were more meager, the

difficulty of invention was greater. Thus, paradoxical though it may
appear, the Old Stone Age might be called the Age of Genius, or
Intelligence, rather than the present time because the role of
native ability was relatively more important.* The foundations of
Darwin and Lyell cite the large scale and long continued extermination of
independent minds and courageous spirits by the Holy Inquisition, as evidence
of deterioration.
Speaking of the Inquisition Darwin wrote: "In Spain alone some of the
best —
men those who doubted and questioned, and without doubting there
—
can be no progress were eliminated during three centuries at the rate of a
thousand a year. The evil which the CathoHc Church has thus effected is
incalculable . ."{The Descent of Man, Ch. III). Lyell observes that "the
.
institutions of a country may be so framed that individuals possessing moder-

ate or even inferior abilities may have the best chance of surviving. Thus the
Holy Inquisition may for centuries carefully select from the thinking
. . .
part of the population all men of genius and may doom them by thou-
. . .
sands to destruction, so as effectually to lower the general standard of intelli-

gence," (Principles of Geology, Vol. II, New York, 1883), p. 495.
* The conclusion reached here is exactly opposite to a view widely held
today, not only by laymen but by eminent anthropologists as well. Thus the
late Edward Sapir wrote: "As the social units grow larger and larger, the
probabilities of the occurrence of striking and influential personalities grow
vastly. Hence it is that the determining influence of individuals is more
civilization— the rudiments of meehanics, the ceramic, textile, and

metallurgical arts, the origin of agriculture and the domestication
of animals, the invention of the plow, the wheel, the calendar and
the alphabet, etc., etc.— were laid by anonymous men and women.
As civilization advances inventions and discoveries become easier
to make.*
If inventions and discoveries— in short, cultural advance— are
to be explained in terms of an interactive cultural process, where
easilydemonstrated in the higher than in the lower levels of culture" (1919,

p. 443). This view ignores the epoch-making inventions of remote times and
tends to recognize only the known and named heroes of recent and literate
times.
It is interesting to note, however, that the early American anthropologist,
Lewis H. Morgan, had a more realistic understanding of the developmental
culture process. "Human progress, from first to last," he wrote, "has been in
a ratio not rigorously but essentially geometrical. This is plain on the face
of the facts; and it could not, theoretically, have occurred in any other way.
Everi' item oi absolute knowledge gained became a factor in further acqui-
sitions, until the present complexity of knowledge was attained. Consequently,
while progress was slowest in time in the first period, and most rapid in the
last, the relative amount may have been greatest in the first, when the
achievements of either period are considered in their relations to the sum. It

may be suggested, as not improbable of ultimate recognition, that the progress
of mankind in the period of savagery, in its relations to the sum of human
progress, was greater in degree than it was afterwards in the three sub-periods
of barbarism; and that the progress made in the whole period of barbarism
was, in like manner, greater in degree than it has been since in the entire
period of civilization" (Ancient Society, p. 38). This was written, it should
be noted, about 1875.
* In northeastern South America the Indians cultivated manioc which in
some regions was the staple article of diet. There are two kinds of manioc:
bitter and sweet. The bitterness of the former is due to the presence of
hydrocyanic acid, a deadly poison. In some regions, because of depradations
of ants, only the bitter manioc can be grown. The Indians discovered a way
to remove the poisonous element by leaching the meal ground from the roots.
After the acid has been volatilized, dissolved and expressed, the meal is both
edible and nutritious. How the aborigines discovered that this could be done
and how they perfected this technique is a matter of wonder. Ignorant of
chemistr}', knowing that initially the plant was deadly, and with minds full
of magic, myth, and superstition, one wonders how they ever accomplished
so difficult a feat. Perhaps if we had a complete record of the discovery it
might, and probably would, seem simpler. Even so, we may, I think, regard
it as one of the most difficult, though not of course the greatest, inventions
in history.
trait impinges upon trait, new combina-

effecting modifications,
tions and syntheses, then we ought to find instances of rapid
cultural change and growth in localities or regions where a high
degree of social and cultural interaction takes place. This is just
what we do find. Culture change is more rapid in the center of
culture areas than on the periphery, more rapid in urban than in
rural areas. The rate of culture change is relatively slow in isolated
regions. It is significant to note, both in the New and the Old
Worlds, that the regions of most rapid culture growth were located
on or near narrow land bridges connecting continental land
masses: Mexico, Middle America, and the Andean highlands on
the one hand, and the "Fertile Crescent"— Egypt and Mesopo-
tamia—on the other. Thus we can establish a geographic, or topo-
logical, determinant of innovation in the culture process: the rate
of invention and discovery will tend to be high where the con-
formation of the land and the distribution of its masses foster a
high degree of social and cultural interaction.
A few moments ago we were assuming, for the purpose of our

discussion, that all members of a population were exposed equally
to the same cultural influences. This situation tends to prevail on
low levels of cultural development where stratification of society
into classes does not exist. In advanced and socially stratified

cultures, however, this is not the case. All Egyptians during the
dynastic period were certainly not influenced equally by Egyptian
culture. The majority were serfs, slaves, or laborers on public
works. As such they lived in and were affected by a very different
stratum of culture than the priests and rulers and their close
associates. Similarly in England in the seventeenth century most'
of the people were wholly illiterate and hence cut off from a large
part of the cultural tradition accessible to Newton. And in the
United States today although most of the population are literate,
they are not directly and effectively stimulated by cultural elements

in strata where significant inventions, discoveries and other ad-
varices are made. We may therefore make the following generali-
zations: (i) As culture advances, society becomes increasingly
differentiated and stratified. (2) This means that a progressively
diminishing portion of the population is embraced by the cultural

tradition in which significant inventions and discoveries
take
place. (3) This small professional class contains only a portion of
the exceptionally gifted individuals of society; others are engaged

in non-professional occupations. (4) Consequently, significant
inventions and discoveries are made by a progressively diminish-
ing proportion of the exceptionally gifted individuals. In other

words, as culture advances and society becomes more and more
differentiated structurally and more specialized functionally, the
fewer becomes the relative number of exceptionally gifted persons
in whose systems significant cultural syntheses take place. Here,
as before, we reach the conclusion that as culture advances, the

role of exceptional ability diminishes in significance.
The decrease in relative importance of the biological factor in
the process of invention, discovery, and cultural advance may be
demonstrated in still another quarter. Franklin made a notable
achievement with meager and simple apparatus: a key and a kite.
Nowadavs, colossal and costly equipment— a 200-inch telescope,
a 100-ton cyclotron— is needed for research in many fields. But

who shall use the giant machines of astronomy and physics? Is
the man of exceptional natural endowment more likely to use

them than one with less ability? Not unless he has had the re-
quisite training; brains are not enough. And certainly the average
individual can contribute more today with a cyclotron than a
highly gifted person with only a kite and a key. In relationship to
the kite and key, Franklin was more important than a person
of the same natural endowment would be in relationship to the
telescope at Mt. Palomar or to a giant cyclotron. As the techno
logical factor increases in magnitude the importance oi the bio
logical factor decreases relatively.
The role of the gifted individual in cultural advance is diminish-

ing in importance in still another sector. Research is rapidly
becoming socialized, so to speak, or institutionalized. Of course,
no one ever worked and achieved great things in actual isolation.

Newton had the products of predecessors at his disposal and he
used to exchange ideas with contemporaries, obtain measurements
and other data from them. But today research is becoming more
and more an organized co-operative enterprise. Great laboratories
and research teams are replacing the individual entrepreneur in
science and technology. The development of the atomic bomb-
in which dozens of highly trained idea men and hundreds of
skilled technicians co-operated— is of course a dramatic, but highly
significant, indication of the trend of the times. The Great Man
is becoming less and less significant; the community of scientific
and technological workers more and more so. As the eminent
German Wilhelm Ostwald, observed many years ago,
scientist,
"at present mankind is in a state of development in which progress
depends much less upon the leadership of distinguished indi-

viduals than upon the collective labor of all workers." ^' It is not
the soloist that counts so much today— although public and press
still have and feed an appetite for primadonnas— it is the whole
symphonic orchestra.
We are now in a position to draw some final conclusions:

(i) Although we freely admit that individuals differ in their
natural endowments, we have no reliable way of discovering or

recognizing "geniuses" save through their achievements. We may
be justified in believing that exceptional inborn ability lies back
of the achievement of a Bach or a Newton. But it would be un-
warranted to say that all men of lesser achievement were propor-
tionally inferior in natural ability. On the other hand, we have
good reason to believe that significant syntheses of culture traits
may and do take place in organisms of unexceptional quality.
Therefore, we must conclude that a psychological definition of
"genius" is inferential and misleading. The culturological defini-
tion is realistic: a genius is a human organism in which an im-

portant synthesis of cultural elements has taken place. But the
culturological definition does more than merely correspond with
the facts more closely than does the psychological conception; it
calls attention to the more significant of the two factors involved
in great inventions and discoveries, namely, the biological and the

cultural. The psychological conception of genius can say no more
than that one organism is superior to another, even though it
cannot tell reliably which is which in many instances. But the psy-
chological interpretation cannot tell whether ihe superior organ-

ism will actually achieve great things or die a "mute, inglorious
Milton."The culturological interpretation however tells how,
why and when a genius will appear; it makes clear what the ele-
ments and processes are that produce a genius, and how it all
comes about. It might be noted also that the culturologist knows
quite as much about the neuroanatomy of genius as the psy-
chologist does, namely, virtually nothing.
Conclusion 2. In the operation of the man-culture process, the
factor of innate mental ability may have, and probably has, in-
creased since man acquired the faculty of articulate speech. It
seems at least reasonable to suppose— although hardly a foregone

conclusion— that Homo sapiens has a higher native intelligence
than that possessed by Pithecanthropus eiectus. Thus in the man-
culture equation over a period of a million years, we may assume
some absolute increase in magnitude of the biological factor.
But, during the last hundred, or even the last fifty thousand years,
we have no evidence of an appreciable increase in mental ability.

The great bulk of cultural development however has taken place
during this time. Since a significant invention or discovery is a
function of organism and culture, working together, the role of
the former, and consequently of the exceptionally endowed indi-
vidual, has diminished relative to the cultural factor as culture
has developed and advanced. This is due not only to the increase
in magnitude of the cultural factor, both absolutely and relatively.
but also to the fact that differentiation of social structure, the
formation of classes each with its own function, has cut off an
increasingnumber of organisms of exceptional natural endow-
ment from the possibility of important achievement: the illiterate
peasant cannot invent the calculus no matter how excellent his
cerebral cortex may be.
Conclusion 3. The rate of occurrence of inventions and dis-
coveries at any given time is determined not only by the propor-

tion of exceptionally gifted men and women in the population
but by the number of elements in the cultural continuum and the
velocity of their interaction. But the acceleration in rate of culture
growth noted at various periods in human culture history is to
be explained, not by an increase in the general level of intelligence
or by an increase in the proportion of highly gifted individuals,

but in terms of an increase in the number of culture elements or
an increase in the velocity of their interaction, or both. The greater
the number of traits, or the greater the velocity of their inter-
action, or both, the greater the number of cultural syntheses-
inventions and discoveries— other factors remaining constant.
Much of our discussion thus far has dealt with outstanding

achievement in science, philosophy or the arts where success is
dependent upon cultural materials at hand as well as upon native

ability. But how is it with history and political events? Does not
the Great Man turn the tide one way or another by sheer force
of his personality? Would the history of Europe between 1798
and 1815 have been what it was had it not been for Napoleon?
Did not Julius Caesar change the whole course of European his-
tory? Would not the administration of law in New Orleans have
been different, asks Sapir, had it not been for a certain Corsican?
We readily admit that Caesar, Napoleon and Ghengis Khan
and many others have been significant factors * in the course of
* We say "significant factors in the course of history" rather than use the
common phrase "changed the course of history." The latter phrase is an-
history. But we are not at all willing to accept the inferences that
many people wish to draw from this premise. To grant that a
certain individual has been outstanding in a sequence of his-

torical events is, to many scholars, proof of his genius, his
supreme ability, his force of character, his colossal greatness. His-
tory is made by men, they reason, and great changes can be

brought about only by men of enormous ability. This we do not
grant. An imbecile can affect the course of history as readily and
as profoundly as a genius. A half-wit tampers with a switch, or a
drunken s\\itchman fails to close it; a train is wrecked, a prime

minister on his way to a treaty conference is killed. The course of
history is changed. Had Lenin and his colleagues been killed by
a train wreck en route from Switzerland to Russia
1917 the in
outcome of the Bolshevik revolution might have been profoundly

different. Had Lincoln lived five years longer the Reconstruction
in the South would probably have taken a different course. But

it was the obscure actor, John Wilkes Booth, who "changed the
course" of history.
More than this: it need not be even a half-wit who deflects the
course of history; any accident from any cause can accomplish this.
A rat might infect a Tsar with typhus, a squirrel might short-
circuit a power line, a pig derail a train, or a stroke of lightning
down a plane. Had a certain Corsican girl not chanced to meet a

swarthy swain at a village festival, the genetic combination that
became Napoleon would not have taken place. And a thousand
and one more circumstances of sheer chance occurred between his
cradle and his coronation. One recalls the statement that had
Cleopatra's nose been but a half-inch longer the whole course of
Roman and Eg\q3tian history would have been different. And
thropomorphic in outlook, and it assumes moreover a course of events which

a man can change from the outside —
if he be "great" enough. It docs not
make sense to say that a thundershower "changes the course of the weather."
The thundershower is an integral part of the meteorological process. Neither
does the Great Man "change the course of history" from the outside; he is
an integral part of it.
Darwin tells us in his autobiographic sketch that Captain Fitz-
Roy, who was "an ardent disciple" of the mystic and physiog-
nomist J.
K. Lavater, almost refused to allow Darwin to join the
expedition of the Beagle because he did not like the shape of
Darwin's nose! "He doubted," wrote Darwin, "whether any one
with my nose could possess sufficient energy and determination
for the voyage." Had Fitz-Roy's phrenology prevailed, the whole
course of the history of science would have been different. As the
nursery rhyme about the chain of events set in motion by the loss
of a horseshoe nail makes clear, great consequences may flow from
occurrences otherwise trivial and insignificant. To have affected
the course of history is, therefore, no proof of genius or colossal
ability. The half-wit whose blunder kills Caesar is as significant
historically as Caesar himself. To be sure, the head of a great

government or political movement may be a person of enormous
natural ability; societies and social movements often select superior
instruments to work with. But chance and circumstance often put
a mediocrity in the seat of the mighty, just as chance and accident
may throw him down or destroy him.
The significance of the Great Man in history has been obscured
by a failure to distinguish between history and evolution, or more
precisely, between a temporal process and a temporal-formal
process. As we have pointed out elsewhere,^^ many anthropologists
are quite unable to make this simple distinction. The temporal
process, or "history," is a chronological series of events each of
which is unique. We separate these events, by conceptual analysis,
from their matrix of the totality of events. The temporal-formal,

or evolutionist, process is a series of events in which both time and
form are equally significant: one form grows out of another in
time.
The temporal process is characterized by chance and is there-
fore unpredictable to a high degree: no one, for example, could
have predicted that Booth would kill Lincoln— or whether or not
his pistol would have missed fire when he pulled the trigger. The
temporal-formal process however is determinative: prediction is
possible to a high degree. In the decomposition of a radioactive

substance one stage determines the next and the course and rate
of change can be predicted. In short, we can predict the course of
evolution but not of history.

The significance of the distinction between history and evolu-
tion and its relevance to the Great Man in history is brought out
nicely in the debate between Kroeber and Sapir on the "super-

organic." ^^ Kroeber argues that had Darwin died in infancy the
advance and course of development of biological theory would
have been much the same as it has been. Sapir counters by ask-
ing if the administration of law in New Orleans would have been
the same today had it not been for Napoleon. Both disputants are
wholly justified in their claims. Unfortunately, however, they are
talking about two different things. One is dealing with a deter-

ministic developmental process, the other with the fortuitous
course of history. In the evolutionist process, the individual is, as
Kroeber maintains and as the phenomena of multiple and simul-

taneous but independent discoveries and inventions clearly demon-
strate, relatively insignificant. But, in the succession of chance
occurrences that is history, the individual may be enormously
significant. But it does not follow at all that he is therefore a
"genius" or a person of exceptional ability. The goose who saved

Rome was more significant historically than many an emperor who
ruled it.
We have gone a long way since William James debated the

question of genius with Herbert Spencer, John Fiske, and Grant
Allen, The causes and incidence of genius no longer seem as mys-
terious and unpredictable as they did to James and as they have
to many others since his time. The science of culture, hardly
begun in James' day, has been able to illuminate and render intel-
ligible a whole area of human experience that lies beyond the

horizon of the psychologist. The problem of genius is now fairly

well understood.
There is, as we have pointed out, no point in defining genius
psychologically at least so far as culture history is concerned.
Many a person of exceptional natural ability never achieves dis-
tinction and fame. And, on the other hand, many men of

distinguished achievement have been individuals of no more than
high average or even mediocre native ability. To assume that
significant achievement must mean high native ability is an un-
warranted inference.
Assuming that mental ability is distributed uniformly among
mankind, throughout time, place, and race— and this assumption
is supported by evidence from paleontology, neuroanatomy, and
psychology— we may virtually rule out the biological, or psy-

chological, factor in a consideration of the causes and incidence of
genius, and work with the cultural factor alone. We
would grant
of course that other hctois being constant, the individual of
superior natural endowment is more likely to achieve recognition
as a genius than one of lesser ability. But other factors are not
constant; they are so variable, in fact, that a favorably situated
individual of meager abilitymay have much more chance of be-
coming a "genius" than one of vastly superior native endowment
but in a disadvantageous position culturally. All we can say then
is that in the Jong run, not in any particular instance, the genius is
more likely to be one of superior than of average native ability.

A genius— one who achieves recognition as a genius— is a person
in whom a significant synthesis of cultural elements has taken
place. In other words, he is a function of his culture. If the num-
ber of elements is small, the current slow, and streams isolated,
geniuses will be few and far between. If the cultural tradition is
rich and varied, the current quick and the rate of interaction rapid,
geniuses will be frequent and abundant. Genius occurs readily at
peaks of cultural development, rarely on the slopes or plateaus.
One soil or climate will foster and bring forth genius, another
will not. The "mystety" of why geniuses "seem so exceptionally
abundant" in the "high tides of human affairs" is as James said

"about as deep as the time honored conundrum as to why great
rivers flow by great towns." He is quite right so far as the depth
of the mystery is concerned but, unfortunately, he has put the

cart before the horse— or the towns before the rivers. It is not
the abundance of "geniuses" that produces "the high tides of

human affairs" (i.e., periods of florescence in cultural develop-
ment), but the other way around: it is the great periods of cul-
tural development that find their flower and expression in men of
genius. And the eras of great development are to be explained

culturologically, not psychologically.
And as for attributing "genius" to men who have "changed the

course of history," we have seen that an idiot or a goose can ac-
complish it just as well. It is not high or low levels of ability that
is significant in such contexts; it is being strategically situated in a
moving constellation of events. And the least of things or cir-
cumstances may deflect its course.
To explain culture history psychologically is of course to lean

on mvstcH', to appeal to chance, to invoke "that invisible and un-
imaginable play of forces within the nervous system," to account
for significant events and eras. The "utmost the student of soci-
ology can ever predict," says James, " is that if a genius . . . show
the way, society will be sure to follow." The culturologist, how-
ever, by working upon the supra-psychological, supra-sociological
level of culture, by explaining culture in terms of culture, really
makes it intelligible. And in explaining culture he explains the

causes and incidence of genius as well.
CHAPTER NINE
IKHNATON:
The Great Man vs. The Culture Process
"Lawgivers, statesmen, religious leaders, discoverers, inventors, therefore

only seem to shape civilization. The deep-seated, blind, and intricate
forces that shape culture, also mold the so-called creative leaders of
society as essentially as they mold the mass of humanity. Progress, so
far as it can objectively be considered as such, is something that makes
itself. We —
do not make it." A. L. Kroeber.^
E.very living organism is confronted by a world external to

itself. This external world is in a very real sense alien to the
organism and is often inimical to it. One must come to

terms with one's environment, however, in order to live, to survive.
To adjust to environment is to control it to a degree, at least

from the standpoint of the organism; adjustment is never wholly
passive. Success in adjustment means survival, and survival means
mastery, mastery of organism over external world.
It is but a step from this position to the belief, in the human
species, that the external world and the events that take place there
are but the realization of ideas and emotions projected from the
mind of God or of man. The ideas come first, they are the original
seeds, the prime movers. As they are thrust forth from the mind
they take form as stars and planets, animals and plants, tools and
edifices, rituals and institutions. In the beginning was the Idea.
And the Idea finds expression in the Word, and the Word be-
233
comes not only flesh (John I, 14), but earth and sky and all
creation. Let there be Light and there was light. The external
world is but a projection of the mind of God.

This view of the cosmos and reality is world-wide. In Egypt we
find it expressed in the conception of the god Ptah. In his early
davs Ptah was the patron of architects and craftsmen. But event-
ually he became the supreme mind from which all things were
derived: "The world and all that is in it existed as thought in his
mind; and his thoughts, like his plans for buildings and works of
art, needed but to be expressed in spoken words to take concrete
^
fomi as material realities."
As it is with gods, so it is with men, according to the neuro-

s\Tnbolic tropism of the race called folk-thought. As the gods
create and move their worlds with thought and words, so do men
shape theirs. With incantation and ritual, with verbal formula and
acts, and sometimes merely by the concentration of mind and
will, they can make the rain to fall, change the course of the sun
in the heavens, heal the sick, smite their enemies, cause crops to
grow, regulate their mode of life, and, at last, find their way
safely to the Land of the Dead.
But it is not only the external world, the world of nature, that
falls thus under man's control. His own world, his society, his cul-
ture, and his history are even more subject to his will, for are
they not obviously made by him, and is it not plain that they
are merely the expressions of his thought and wish? So runs the
tropism of folk-thought.
But all men are not equal, even on the level of primitive society.
Some are better shamans than others; they have more "power."
On higher cultural levels we find chiefs and priests; then kings
and emperors, popes and potentates. The god Ptah in the persons
of artists, scientists, lawgivers, rulers, generals, prophets, and in-
ventors spews out new tools and devices, new codes and institu-
tions, new ways of life. Cultural advance is but the work of a
relatively few gifted individuals. And as culture advances, the
IKHNATON 235
exceptional person increases in stature; great cultures can be built

only by Great Men. Like Yahweh who made the light merely by
calling for it, the Great Men make society and history by exer-
cising their inherent genius. Thus the verbal tropism.
II
In Egypt in the fourteenth century before the Christian

era some remarkable events took place. Monotheism came to the
fore and waged war on the old polytheism. All gods were abolished
save one, and he was made Lord of all. Temples were closed,
their priests driven out, their lands and revenues confiscated. A
new capital was built. The government was reorganized. A marked
change in art occurred. The whole regime of Eg}'pt changed its
aspect, and, it has been claimed, the events which took place
then have profoundly affected our lives today. How did all this
come about? What caused this upheaval that shook Eg}^t to its
foundations and extended its influence even to us today? One of

the answers has been: Ikhnaton. This genius, through his vision
and insight, caught a glimpse of a new philosophy and a new way
of life, and through sheer willand determination transformed the
nation at his feet. At least, so we have been told.
Needless to say, not all students of Eg}'ptian history have relied
upon so simple an explanation. There are many, especially in
recent years, who have a live appreciation of the significance of
cultural forces in the historic process. We shall take note of their
work later.
Social science is frequently absolved from its sins of sterility
and impotence by sympathetic friends who point out that the

scientist in the social field does not have laboratories at his com-
mand like the physicist and hence cannot be expected to pro-
duce theories that can withstand the tests these techniques can
administer. But this exoneration is fallacious and misleading. It is
true of course that the social scientist does not have laboratories—
like the physicist. But he does have laboratories in another, and in
a vety real, sense. History and ethnography provide the social
scientist with the equivalent of the laboratories of the physicist.

How does the human organism respond to polyandry, to mothers-
in-law, money, spectroscopes, holy water, governmental regulation
, of prices; how will men live in desert, tundra, or jungle; what will
be the effect of technological advance on social life and philos-
ophy? Answers to these and thousands of similar questions may
be obtained by studies of the infinitely varied circumstances and
conditions under which man has lived on this planet during the
last million years. If the social scientist could set up his experi-
ments as the physicist or rat psychologist does, it would be difficult
to imagine a requirement that has not been met by some tribe,
some culture, at some time and place. The meager yield of social
science is not due to lack of laboratories but rather from not
knowing how to use the resources at its disposal.
Ancient Egypt is an excellent laboratory in which the social
scientist can test many theories. It was quite isolated, being cut
off from its neighbors by deserts, mountains, and the sea. It was
therefore relatively undisturbed by outside influence. We have a
fairlygood record, both archeologic and documentary, of history
and cultural development of Egypt for tens of centuries. The
land was richly endowed— as contrasted, let us say, with Australia
—and so we can observe the growth of culture from a fairly
primitive level to one of the greatest civilizations of the ancient

world. Here we have laid out before us, on a stage of adequate
size and against a background of millenia, a culture process at
work. We can take note of the materials employed, the resources

both natural and cultural. We can follow the changes one by one.
We can trace the development step by step. We can see how one
factor influenced others. We can count and evaluate. In short, we
can do about all that a physical scientist can do in his laboratory
—except repeat the experiment. We have, then, in Egypt a prov-
ing ground in which to test many theories of social science.
We may distinguish two main types of historical interpretations:
IKHNATON 237
the psychological and the culturological. Especially prominent in

the psychological interpretation is the explanation of historic
events in terms of the personalities of outstanding individuals,
but it resorts also to the "temperaments" of peoples or races, and
even to such things as "the spirit of the times." The culturological
type of interpretation explains history in terms of cultural forces
and processes, in terms of the behavior, not of the human psyche,
but of technologies, institutions, and philosophies. Let us then
go to our laboratory and use it to evaluate the theories which
undertake to explain the great philosophic and political events
that took place during the life of Ikhnaton. We shall examine first
the psychological interpretation.
Ill
The great religious and political revolution which gripped

Egypt about 1380 b.c. has been pictured as the work of one man:
Ikhnaton. "Until Ikhnaton," says Breasted, "the history of the
world had been but the irresistible drift of tradition. All men had
been but drops of water in the great current. Ikhnaton was the
first individual in history." And, says Breasted, Ikhnaton accom-
plished this revolution by imposing his own ideas, ideas born in
his own mind, upon the external world: "Consciously and deh'ber-
ately, by intellectual process he gained his position, and then
placed himself squarely in the face of tradition and swept it
aside" ^ (emphasis ours).

But ideas alone were not enough; will power and energy were
required too. Ikhnaton possessed these qualities also, we are told.
"He possessed unlimited personal force of character." He "was

fully convinced that he might entirely recast the world of religion,
thought, art, and life by the invincible purpose he held . . . Every-
thing bears the stamp of his individuality. The men about him
must have been irresistibly swayed by his unbending will . . . The
court officials blindly followed their young king, and to every
word which he spoke they listened attentively." H. R. Hall in-

terprets Egyptian history in terms of the waxing and waning of

intelligence which reached its "acme under the supremely
intelligent" Ikhnaton. "His reign was the earliest age of the rule
of ideas, inespective of the condition and willingness of the

people" (Breasted). The revolution of Ikhnaton "can only be
ascribed to the individual genius of a very exceptional man"
(Gardiner). Alexandre Moret asserts that "Amenophis IV
[Ikhnaton] was the man who turned aside the natural course of
*
events."
To E. A. Wallis Budge, Ikhnaton was "a. religious fanatic, in-
tolerant, arrogantand obstinate, but earnest and sincere." No one,

he says, "but a half-insane man would have been so blind to
facts as to attempt to overthrow Amen and his worship." James
Baikie saw him as a man with a "remorselessly clear mind," but

exceedingly intolerant. "Seeing clearly," he writes, "that the uni-
versality of his god meant monotheism, he saw also that with his
rigid devotion to truth there could be no room for tolerance of
the easy-going old cults of the other gods." In short, the great
upheaval in Egypt was brought about by a man's passion for
truth and his devotion to logic. Geo. Steindorff and K. C. Seele
regard Ikhnaton as "probably the most fascinating personality who
ever sat on the throne of the pharaohs." He had a "mystic?!
temperament" and "an extraordinarily single-minded character.
When once "embarked on a purpose he held to it with tenacity
and carried it through unwaveringly with nothing short of fanati-
cism." }. D. S. Pendlebury who rejects Breasted's view that
Ikhnaton was "the first individual in history," regards him, never-
theless, as an "extraordinary' character," the "first rebel . . . whom
we know, the first man with ideas oi his own . .
." ^ (emphasis
ours).
Ikhnaton revolutionized not only theology but art as well, we
are told. The new era in painting and sculpture that is associated
with his reign was initiated and directed by Ikhnaton himself:
"It is evident that the artists of Ikhnaton's court were taught by
IKHNATON 239
him to make the chisel and the brush tell the story of what they
actually saw." Breasted believes that the remarkable hymn to
Aton "was probably written by the king himself." ^
So remarkable a person does Ikhnaton appear to some observers

that they cannot believe him to be a normal man. "Ikhnaton
pursued his aims with [such] fatuous blindness and feveri<3h
fanaticism" that Breasted feels that "there is something hectic and
abnormal in this extraordinary man, suggesting a mind which
may even have been diseased." Weigall believes that Ikhnaton was
an epileptic, subject to hallucinations.^
There is of course some evidence to support the theory that

Ikhnaton was abnormal. In the art of the day, which is said to
be characterized by naturalism and realism, he is not infrequently
depicted as misshapen and abnormal.
"The King preaches the return to nature, makes the artist work
from the living model, and allows a plaster cast of his face to be
taken (specimens have been found), to make sure that his fea-
tures are correctly reproduced . . . The sculptors faithfully re-
produce the prominent lower jaw and the long, bulging skull, even
when these deformities have been further aggravated by disease." *
In his later years, Ikhnaton is depicted, according to Moret, as

"rounded and effeminate— a hermaphrodite figure, with prominent
'jreasts, wide hips, and thighs too much curved, which makes one
^
suspect a morbid nature, with some pathological flaw."
Some writers have attempted to account for the remarkable and
unusual character of Ikhnaton in terms of race as well as of psy-
chology; they have maintained that he was not a full-blooded

Egyptian. Thus, Weigall reminds us that "it must always be re-
membered that the king had much foreign blood in his veins."
This helped him to stand out amongst the "superstitious
Egyptians [who were] ever lacking in originality." Moret, too,
comments on "the mixture of Aryan blood . . . further com-
plicated by the Syrian descent of Tii" in Ikhnaton's racial back-
ground.^'*
Here, then, we have an explanation of Egyptian history for this
period. A phenomenal person appears on the scene, a man with so
much genius and power of will as to go beyond the boundaries of

the normal, and by himself to transform the religion, social or-
ganization, and the art of a great nation. Here we have a theory
to be tested in our "laboratory."
IV
Before turning to our laboratory proper, namely, the culture
history of Eg^-pt as we know it through archeological research and
documentary studies, let us consider briefly what we know about
the evolution of culture in general and the nature of societies
like that of ancient Egypt in particular.
Man began his career as an anthropoid who was just learning to
talk. He was distinguished from all other animal species by the

faculty of articulate speech. It was this faculty which transformed
the discontinuous, non-accumulative, non-progressive process of
tool-using among the anthropoids into a continuous, cumulative
and progressive process in the human species. Articulate speech
transformed, also, the social organization of this gifted primate,
and by the inauguration of co-operation as a way of life and
security, opened the door to virtually unlimited social evolution.
And, finally, language and speech made it possible for man to ac-
cumulate experience and knowledge in a form that made easy
transmission and maximum use possible.
As we have already seen, it was the ability to use symbols — of
which articulate speech is the most important and characteristic
form of expression— that made the origin and subsequent growth
of culture possible. But symbols did not provide the motive power
for cultural advance. This could only come from energy, energy
in the sense in which the physicist uses this term. All life is a
matter of energy transformations. Organisms enable themselves
to live by capturing free energy from non-living systems and by
incorporating it into their own living systems. Culture is man's
IKHNATON 241
peculiar means of harnessing energy and of putting it to work

'in order to make human hfe secure. Culture grows and develops
as ways of harnessing more energy per capita per year are found
and as the means of making the expenditure of this energy more
effective are improved. Animal husbandry, agriculture, water
power, and the use of fuels in engines, together with countless
inventions and improvements of tools and mechanical devices,
mark the growth of culture as it is carried forward by technological
advance.
The evolution of society is marked by two great stages: primitive
or tribal, and civil or national. The tribe and clan are character-
istics of primitive society (although the clan is by no means uni-
versal); the political state characterizes civil society. Primitive
society is based upon kinship ties; civil society upon property
relationships and territorial distinctions. Primitive society was
relatively homogeneous structurally; civil society, more diversified.*
The transition from primitive to civil society was brought about

by technological advance, specifically, by the development of agri-
culture, supplemented— though not everywhere—by the domesti-

cation of animals. The maturation of the agricultural arts
produced the following chain of sequences: increased food supply,

increase in population, increase in population density and in size
of political groupings, diversion of human labor from food-pro-

ducing to specialized arts and crafts, a new type of exchange and
distribution of goods, money and markets, economic classes, and
so on.
The differentiation of structure, the specialization of function,
of civil society required a special mechanism to co-ordinate the
* See Lewis
H. Morgan, Ancient Society, (New York, 1877), p. 6, for the
classic statement of this thesis. Of this distinction A. R. Radchffe-Brown
writes: "Indeed we may agree with Morgan that the passage from lower
forms of civihzation to higher forms such as our own was essentially a passage
from society based on kinship to the state based on political organization,"
"Some Problems of Bantu Sociology," (Bantu Studies, October, 1922), pp.
40-41.
various segments and classes of society and to integrate them into

a coherent and effective whole.Such an integrative mechanism
was produced. It was the "State-Church/' i.e., a mechanism having
temporal and ecclesiastical aspects.
The function of the state-church is to preserve the integrity of
society against dissolution from within and against destruction

from outside forces. In other words, this integrative mechanism
must co-ordinate the various elements of society— occupational
groups, social strata and classes— and relate them to one another
harmoniously, on the one hand, and on the other, the life of the
society must be made secure against the aggression of its neigh-
bors. This integrative mechanism has a variety of forms. Church
and state, priest and king, may be distinct or they may be one,
structurally. And, of course, there are many degrees of overlapping
or distinction. But everywhere in civil society—whether it be

among the Maya or Inca of the New World, or in Mesopotamia,
India, or China in the Old— we find this fundamental mechanism
of co-ordination, integration, and regulation. And it always
presents these two aspects: temporal and ecclesiastical. Thus we
find it in ancient Egypt.
But one further observation before we turn to the culture his-
tory of Eg}'pt itself: In civil societies where the temporal and
ecclesiastical aspects of the integrative mechanism are structurally
distinct there is always rivalry, a rivalry which not infrequently be-

comes a bitter struggle for power. This is not surprising, of course.
Both church and state are engaged in the same tasks, both have
the same function so far as the social organism is concerned,
namely, integration, co-ordination, regulation. As Franklin D.
Roosevelt once shrewdly observed: "That human agency which
we call government is seeking through social and economic means
the same goal which the churches are seeking through social and
spiritual means." " The basis for rivalry is therefore plain. Each
has its own "vested interest"; each tries to increase its power. The
result is often a bitter struggle. We think offhand of the contest
IKHNATON 243
between Henry VIII of England and the Roman Church, and of
the Church vs. State struggle throughout many centuries of Euro-
pean history. We recall Thomas Jefferson's diatribes against the
priests and churches and the not only to separate church
efforts,
from state in America, but to render the former powerless. We

recall that Pius IX in his so-called Syllabus of Errors "claimed the
complete independence of the Church from state control; up-

held the necessity of a continuance of the temporal power of the
Roman See."
The position of the Roman Church on this issue has been well
set forth by Reverend H. Harrington as follows:
"Christendom is one society, and in that society the spiritual

authority is paramount because of its greater dignity, and the far
greater importance of its work. In any difEculties between spiritual
and temporal rulers the spiritual must be the judges, for without
treason to Christ they may not permit anything earthly however
important to interfere with the work of salvation. If therefore
the rulers of the church, even mistakenly, judge that this work is
hampered by some temporal policy, loyal Christians must abide

by the decision." ^^
There are numerous examples of political action taken by the
church in direct opposition to the state. To mention but a few:
Innocent III annulled the Magna Charta; Innocent X pronounced
the Treaty of Westphalia null and void; Pius IX condemned the
Austrian constitution of 1868; until 1904, Catholics in Italy were
prohibited by the Church from taking part in any parliamentary
election.
In Mexico in recent years we have witnessed a bitter struggle
between church and state. The issue has, of course, been couched
in religious terms. But everyone who understands the situation
knows that it is a question of who is to rule Mexico, the ultra-

montane clerical politicians or the temporal, national political
machine.
Finally, we may note the case of Russia. Under the Czars
church and state worked hand in hand. The church held vast
estates and other properties and received a grant of milhons of

rubles from the state treasury every year. When the Bolsheviks
came to power they at once stripped the church of its pohtical
functions. It is significant to note that not until this vâs done

was there any great outcry against "reh'gious persecution" in
Russia. Under the Czars religious freedom hardly existed. There

were periodic pogroms in which thousands of persons of an alien
faith were done to death. Under the Soviets there was more
religious freedom— freedom for all faiths, freedom to believe and
to worship as one pleased— than there ever had been under the
old regime. Why then the great outcry from the clergy— Catholic,
Protestant, and Jewish alike? The answer is plain: the political
functions of the church had been done away with and their sources
of income virtually shut off.* The Bolsheviki had tried to abolish
the ecclesiastical arm of the integrative mechanism of the new
society. It is interesting to note, however, that the church has
been brought back to Russia in recent years and established once
again as an integrative mechanism. The church today is "the most
powerful unifying thing in Soviet civil life," the Metropolitan
Benjamin, titular head of the Russian Orthodox church in
America, said recently while on his way to Moscow. It is interest-
ing to note that "Godless, anti-religious, Marxist" Russia conforms

to the pattern common to all nationalist states: the integrative
mechanism, the central nervous system, has its spiritual, as well as
its temporal, side.
V
Let us turn now to the culture history of Egypt and trace
the relationship between church and state, priest and king,
through the centuries.
* During a tour of Soviet Russia in 1929, I visited open churches of many

faiths. But, as a member of the clergy once complained to me: can't "We
iivc on Jcopeks!"
I
IKHNATON 245
In the Old Kingdom (2800-2250 b.c.) we find the state, the
Pharaoh, playing the leading role. To quote Breasted:
. , . there arose at the beginning of the nation's history a state
form of which the Pharaoh played the supreme role.
religion, in
In was he alone who worshipped the gods;

theor}', therefore, it
in fact, however, he was of necessity represented in each of the

many temples of the land by a high priest.^^
The various temples and their respective priesthoods were sup-

ported by the produce from their endowments in land and by
contributions from the royal revenues. It was the business of
priests, in addition to their religious and ceremonial duties, to
administer these lands and to collect revenue from them upon
which they lived.
A few centuries later, during the Middle Kingdom, or the

Feudal Age, we find that although the temples had increased
somewhat in size, "the official cult was not materially altered, and
there was still no large class of priests." ^^
But the basis for a rise to power of the priesthoods had long
existed in their possession of lands which were under their control
and whose produce was appropriated by them. In addition to this
they received frequent contributions from the royal treasury. The
temples were, of course, not subject to taxation. They were, there-
fore, in a favorable position to increase their wealth through
accumulation and expansion, and to grow in political power as
their wealth accumulated.

Under the Empire, First Period (beginning with Ahmose I,
who completed the expulsion of the Hyksos about 1546 B.C.), the
priesthoods had grown to considerable power and affluence. Says
Breasted:
As a natural consequence of the great wealth of the temples

under the Empire, the priesthood becomes a profession, no
longer merely an incidental office held by a layman, as in the
Old and Middle Kingdoms. As the priests increase in numbers
they gain more and more political power; while the growing
wealth of the temples demands for its proper administration
a veritable army of temple officials of all sorts, who were un-
kno\\n to the old days of simplicity.^^
Not only were the temples becoming wealthier and the priest-
hoods more powerful, they were becoming unified as well:
Heretofore the priests of the various sanctuaries had never

been united by any official ties, but existed only in individual
and entirely separated communities without interrelation. All
these priestly bodies were now united in a great sacerdotal or-
ganization embracing the whole land. The head of the state
temple at Thebes, the High Priest of Amon, was the supreme
head of this greater body also and his power was thereby in-
creased far beyond that of his older rivals . .
.^^
Thus we find the priesthoods becoming wealthy, powerful, and

organized. They are approaching the time when they will be able
to threaten the supremacy of the Pharaoh himself, as we shall see.
We get some notion of the growing political power of the

priesthoods from an incident that occurred during the feud of the
Thutmosids. During the declining years of Thutmose I, one of his
sons, born to the King by an obscure concubine, Thutmose III,
was put upon the throne "by a highly dramatic coup d'etat" of
the priests of Amon and in the temple of that god. In the
struggles for the throne which followed, between Thutmose III
and his half-brother Thutmose II, and between Thutmose III and
his half-sister wife, Hatshepsut, the priests played an important
part. Originally Icept in the background by Thutmose III,
Hatshepsut was eventually elevated to a position of supremacy by

a group the most powerful member of which was Hapuseneb, who
was both High Priest of Amon and vizier. "He thus united in his
person all the power of the administrative government with that
of the strong priestly party." "
These events took place about a century before the time of
IKHNATON 247
Ikhnaton. During the reign of Amenhotep III, the father of Ikhna-
ton, one of the High Priests of Amon, Ptahmose by name, was
also one of the two grand viziers of the kingdom. Another held
the ofEce of chief treasurer. During this reign also the priests of
Amon acquired some, if not complete control over the gold pro-
duced in the Sudan. In the use of spells used in mortuary rites
(hike), the priests "were provided with a means of acquiring

wealth and influence which they did not fail to utilize to the
^®
utmost."
Thus we observe the growing power of the priesthoods. They
held the most important offices in the realm next to that of the
king himself. To have been chief treasurer of the kingdom must

have placed great power in the hands of the High Priests of Amon,
a power that was augmented by control over the gold supply
from the Sudanese mines. These priests could make and unmake
kings. They had but one more step to take: to seize the throne
for themselves. Breasted believes that Ikhnaton's father "had
evidently made some attempt to shake off the priestly hand that
lay so heavily on the sceptre, for he had succeeded Ptahmose by
a vizier who was not a High Priest of Amon." And Peet feels
that "it is not impossible that the increased power of the priest-
hood . . . was a circumstance which precipitated, if it did not

actually cause, the religious revolution of Ikhnaton." It was upon
this stage that Amenhotep IV was thrust at birth.^^
VI
Amenhotep IV was born about 1409 b.c, the son of
Amenhotep III and his Queen Tiy. Estimates of his age at the
time he ascended the throne as coregent with his father vary
from nine to twenty-four years. For the first years of his reign,
according to those who believe he ascended to the throne as a
child, the affairs of state were managed by his mother. "To all
intents and purposes, Ti ruled Egypt for several years after her
husband's death," according to Wallis Budge, "and the boy king
did for a time at least what his mother told him." Glanville also
believes that "Tiy clearly controlled him to some extent until he
left Thebes." Although Amenhotep III did not die until about
the tenth year of Ikhnaton's reign, he was in bad health during

this period and seems to have had little to do with the govern-
ment. The fact that his name was chiselled out of inscriptions
in the sixth year of Ikhnaton's reign would seem to support this
view.^°
Very early in the reign of Amenhotep IV the worship of a
supreme god, Aton, was inaugurated. Aton was none other than
the old sun-god, Re, in a new role. Other gods were tolerated for
a while, but with the growing resentment of the priesthoods,
particularly that of Amon, Amenhotep IV built a new city-
capital, Akhetaten, for his god, changed his name to Ikhnaton,*
closed the temples of the other gods, dispossessed the priesthoods,
confiscated their lands and revenues, and set to work to establish
his new regime, both religious and political. All this had taken
place by the sixth year of his reign.
Ikhnaton's reign was full of troubles as may well be imagined.
Not only did he have a bitter struggle with powerful priesthoods

on his hands, but by closing the temples he incurred the resent-
ment and opposition of numerous other classes as well, such as
tradesmen, artisans, actors, scribes, and even shepherds and
peasants, who had a vested occupational interest in the old order.
To be sure, the Heretic King had a group of loyal followers,

whom he rewarded handsomely for their loyalty and support.
Occupied as he was vâth a revolution at home, Ikhnaton had little
or no time for affairs abroad. As a consequence, revolts flared up

among Eg\'pt's vassals in Asia, the Hittites in particular becoming
defiant and aggressive. In the twelfth year of his reign, Ikhnaton's
* Amenhotep, "Amon is satisfied" (Peet) gives way to Ikhnaton, "It is

well with the Aten, or Disk" (Pendlebury, Peet), or "He Who is Beneficial
to Aton" (Steindorff and Seele); the old god gives way to the new in this
change of names.
IKHNATON 249
mother, Tiy, who resided in Thebes, visited Akhetaten, at which
time she may have urged action against the revolting vassals and
a moderation of policy at home, perhaps even compromise with
a
the priests of Aton. At any rate, we find Ikhnaton making a feeble
gesture against the rebels abroad and initiating conciliatory meas-
ures at home. Smenkhkara, the "beloved" of Ikhnaton and now
coregent with him, was sent to Thebes to effect a reconciliation
with the priests of Amon.^^ But dissensionnow broke out in the
king's own household. Although Ikhnaton seems to have been
willing to compromise, Nefertiti, his wife, was not. At any rate,
she fell into disgrace, or was estranged from her husband, and
retired with some powerful followers to the north end of the city
where she built a palace for herself. The political structure was
disintegrating at home and abroad,
Ikhnaton died about 1369 b.c. at Akhetaten; Smenkhkara, the
coregent, died at almost the same time in Thebes. Tutankhaten, a
boy of nine, ascended the throne. By now the priestly party was
growing rapidly in strength. The new king soon realized that he
could stay on the throne only if he "came to terms with the sup-
porters of the traditional faith," i.e., the priests. He was obliged
to abandon his capital at Akhetaten and move his court to Thebes.
He was compelled to abandon the heresy of Ikhnaton and to
"acknowledge himself officially as an adherent of . . . Amun,"
Accordingly, he changed his name to Tutankhamun, "Beautiful
in Life is Amun." In a manifesto he tells of his devotion to "his
father Amun" and of his benefactions to his priests. He "made
monuments for all the gods, fashioning their statues of pure
d/am-gold, restoring their sanctuaries . . . providing them with
perpetual endowments, investing them with divine offerings for
the daily service, and supplying their provisions on earth." ^^ The
triumph of the priests was virtually complete.
Tutankhamun reigned but nine years and was followed by Eye,

a member of Ikhnaton's court. He too lasted but a short time.
Egypt was now in a state of anarchy. Even Thebes became a prey
to plundering bands. Thus ended the Eighteenth Dynasty.

Out of this chaos and confusion law and order eventually
emerged organized around a man who had been an important
figure in Egj^^tian government for years. This man was Harmhab.
He had been commander in chief of the army under Ikhnaton

and Tutankhamun, and as deputy of the king he had attained a
position in the empire second only to the king himself. Despite
this fact, however, Harmhab was never converted to the Aton
religion. He did not go to Akhetaten with his king but remained
in Memphis where he had his residence. "He remained loyal to
the old gods especially to the patron divinity of his native city
and to Amun," ^^was thus acceptable to the priests of Amon.
He
With their backing and that of the army which was already under
his control he ascended the throne. The ceremony of installation
was in fact carried out by the priests of Amon themselves.^* Some

wTiters assert that he legalized his new position by marrying the
sister of Nefertiti, but Alexander Scharff says that it "is certain"
that this was not the case, that this assumption was born of an
error of translation.^^ i
Having come into power with priestly backing it is not sur-
prising to see Harmhab busying himself with the restoration begun

by Tutankhamun. As a matter of fact, as soon as his government
was in working order he set about energetically to restore the
temples and their priesthoods to their former condition of wealth
and power:
He restored the temples from the pools of the Delta marshes to

Nubia. He shaped all their images in number more than before,
increasing the beauty in thatwhich he made ... He raised up
their temples; he fashioned a hundred images with all their
bodies correct and with all splendid costly stones. He sought
the precincts of the gods which were in the districts in this
land; he furnished them as they had been since the time of
IKHNATON 251
the first beginning. He established for them daily offerings

every day. All the vessels of their temples were wrought of
and gold. He equipped them with priests and with ritual
silver
and with the choicest of the army. He transferred to
priests
them lands and cattle, supplied with all equipment.^^
Harmhab attempted to obliterate all traces of the era of heresy.
He had the names of Ikhnaton, Tutankhamun, and Eye hacked

from the monuments and his own put in their place. He con-
sidered himself the direct successor to Amenhotep III, as if
Ikhnaton and had

his followers never existed.
At Thebes, Harmhab razed the temple of Aton and used the
materials to enlarge the temple of Amon. Aton's temple at Ak-
hetaten was likewise despoiled to obtain building materials. Ikh-
naton's "tomb was wrecked and its reliefs chiselled out; while the
tombs of his nobles there were violated in the same way. Every
effort was made to annihilate all trace of the reign of such a man;
and when in legal procedure it was necessary to cite documents
or enactments from his reign he was designated as 'that criminal
of Akhetaton'." The prosperity and power of the priesthoods
under Harmhab is well indicated by the words of Neferhotep,
the priest of Amon: \
"How him who knows the gifts:

bountiful are the possessions of
of that god (Amon), the king of gods. Wise is he who knows him,
favoured is he who serves him, there is protection for him who
follows him." ^7 Neferhotep "was at the moment receiving the
richest tokens of the king's favour."
As Breasted observes, the triumph of Amon was now complete.
VII
We may now follow the course of the relationship between

church and state in Egypt for a few more centuries.
The Nineteenth Dynasty began with wars of reconquest in
Asia, followed by campaigns in Israel and against the Libyans.
With the death of Merenptah, son of Ramesses II, the land fell
again into virtual anarchy from which it emerged in 1200 b.c.

under Scthnakt, founder of the Twentieth Dynasty. Sethnakt
came to the throne backed by the priesthoods, "these wealthiest
and most powerful communities in Egypt." Ramesses III, Seth-
nakt's successor, was completely in the grip of the priests. The
temples, says Breasted, "were fast becoming a grave political and
economic menace." But Ramesses could do naught else but pour
the wealth of the royal house into the sacred coffers with the most
lavish liberality.^^
We get a fair notion of the wealth and power of the priest-
hoods of the time of Ramesses III (1198-1167 b.c.) from an

inventory in the Papyrus Harris which covers almost all of the
temples of Egypt:
. they possessed over one hundred and seven thousand slaves;

. .
... in all likelihood one person in every fifty was a slave of

some temple. The temples thus owned two percent of the
population. In lands we find the sacred endovraients amount-
ing to nearly three quarters of a million acres, that is, nearly
one seventh, or over fourteen and a half percent of the cultiv-
able land of the country . . . They owned nearly a half million
head of . . . cattle; their combined fleets numbered eighty
eight vessels, some fifty three workshops and shipyards . . .
while in Syria, Kush and Egypt they owned in all one hundred
and sixty nine towns. When we remember that all this vast
property in a land of less than ten thousand square miles and
some five or six million inhabitants was entirely exempt from
taxation * it will be seen that the economic equilibrium of the
state was endangered.^^
Among the priesthoods, that of the god of Amon stood out

as by far the richest and most powerful of all. Their estates and
re\'enues were second only to those of the king. "The political
* This may be an overstatement; see Edgerton, 1947, p. 157.

IKHNATON 253
power wielded by a community of priests who controlled such

vast wealth/' says Breasted, "was from now on a force which no
Pharaoh could ignore. Without compromising with it and con-
tinually conciliating it, no Pharaoh could have ruled long." ^°
Sometimes the royal treasury stood empty while the temples
were loaded down with wealth. We read of workmen during the
reign of Ramesses III starving as they labored on some public
works until in desperation they gather before the ofEce of their
master demanding their rations of grain. "Thus while the poor in

the employ of the state were starving at the door of an empty
treasury, the store-houses of the gods were groaning with
^^
plenty."
At the coronation of Ramesses IV, a "detailed list of all the
benefactions conferred ... [by Ramesses III] on each and every
large and small temple of the land" was published. "In this
manner the new king contrived to confirm the clergy in their
holdings of property and to gain their influential good will for
his own reign ... As the authority of the state grew weaker
. . . the power and prestige of Amun and his priesthood expanded
proportionately. All important public and private affairs were
regulated and decided either by the priesthood or by an oracle
which operated ... in the imperial temple . .
." As Breasted
puts it, "the state was rapidly moving toward a condition in which
its chief function should be religious and sacerdotal, and the as-
sumption of royal power by the High Priest of Amon but a very
^^
natural and easy transition."
It was not long until this transition did indeed take place. In
the reign of Ramesses XI, a man named Hrihor was appointed
high priest of Amon at Karnak. Next he became viceroy of Nubia
and commander in chief of the army. A little later he assumed the
vizierate of Upper Egypt. He now "had united under his personal
control all the highest spiritual, military, and civil functions of
the state. It was but a single step more to put aside the impotent
Ramesses XI and ascend the throne in his place. By this act of
usurpation (1085 B.C.), the secular state of the pharaonic empire

was ushered to its grave and an ecclesiastical state was erected in its
place, inwhich the chief god of Thebes exercised the authority
^^ The triumph of the
through the medium of his priesthood."
priests was now complete.
VIII
No matter how individualistic Ikhnaton might have been,

no matter how enormous his intellect and indomitable his wdll,
he had his setting in a great nation, in a rich and mature culture,
and we may assume that it affected his life as he is supposed to

have so profoundly changed the world about him. Let us, there-
fore, turn to an examination of the relationship between Ikhnaton

and the culture history of Egypt.
It is plain at the outset that the events which mark the reign
of Ikhnaton are not novel by any means. Far from it; they are
merely part of a process that had been going on for centuries
before Ikhnaton was bom, namely, the philosophic trend toward

monotheism and the age-old rivalry between king and priest.
Tliis culture process receives more emphatic and dramatic ex-

pression during the lifetime of Ikhnaton, no doubt, but there
is nothing original in it whatever.
Religious philosophy in Eg}q3t had been moving in the direction
of monotheism for centuries before Ikhnaton was born. We find

in religious philosophy a reflection of the real world; the theology
of a people will echo a dominant note in their terrestrial mode
of life. A pastoral culture may find its image in a Good Shepherd
and his flock; an era of cathedral building sees God as a Great
Architect; an age of commerce finds Him with a ledger, jotting
down moral debits and credits; emphasis upon the profit system
and the high-pressure salesmanship that is required to make it
function, picture Jesus as a super-salesman; * and, in an age of
* See Bruce Barton, The Man Nobody Knows, wherein Jesus is pictured
as "a joyous, ripping good fellow, the perfect image of a 'go-getter' from the
IKHNATON 255
science, God "is a god of law and order" (Millikan), a Great

Scientist moving about in his cosmic laboratory, his experiments
to perform.*
In ancient Egypt, theological thinking was, as Breasted has
so well said, "brought into close and sensitive relationship with
conditions," ^* In the very early period, there were

political
numerous deities, many of which were local gods, or patrons of
little kingdoms. As the political unification of Egypt progressed,

a few of the greater gods emerged as national deities. As the nation
became more and more integrated under the rule of a powerful
single head, there was a tendency for one god to become supreme.
The ascendancy of Re, the sun-god, became marked during the
Fifth Dynasty and by the rise of the Twelfth Dynasty his su-
premacy was unquestioned. Other priesthoods,
. . . desirous of securing for their own, perhaps purely local

deity, a share of the sun-god's glory, gradually discovered that
their form and name of Re; and some of them
god was but a
went found practical expression
so far that their theologizing
in the god's name. Thus, for example, the priests of Sobk, a
crocodile god, who had no connection with the sun-god in the
beginning, now called him Sobk-Re. In like manner, Amon,
hitherto an obscure local god of Thebes, who had attained some
prominence by the political rise of the city, was from now on a
solar god, and was commonly called by his priest Amon-Re.
There were in this movement the beginnings of a tendency
toward a pantheistic solar monotheism, which we shall yet trace
to its remarkable culmination.^^
The concept of Maat was developed from the designation of

personal qualities, or something practiced by individuals, to some-
Jazztown Rotary Club," (Beard, The Rise of American Civilization, II, one
vol. ed., New York, 1930), p. 729.
* Cf. Living Philosophies (New York, 1931), p. 44. Millikan's god seems
to bear a considerable likeness to a certain American Nobel prize-winner

physicist.
thing of national dimensions— a "spirit and method of a national
guidance and control of human affairs . . . suffused with moral
conviction. Tliere was thus created for the first time a realm of
universal values, and in conceiving the divine ruler of such a realm
^^
the Egyptians were moving on the road towards monotheism."
But the conception of a supreme deity whose rule extended to
the farthest reaches of the earth and embraced all lands and
peoples was impossible so long as Egypt's power remained con-

fined to the Nile valley. In the Pyramid Age the sun-god ruled
only Eg}q3t, and in the hymns of the day we find him standing
guard at her frontiers, "where he builds the gates which restrain
all outsiders from entering his inviolable domain." It is otherwise

after Egypt's conquests abroad and the era of empire. Then the
supreme god of Egypt became the Lord of the Universe. As
Breasted has so succinctly put it: "Monotheism is but imperialism
^''
in religion."
Thus we see that for centuries on end before the reign of
Ikhnaton, religious philosophy in Egypt had been developing in
the direction of monotheism as the political unification and im-
perial expansion of Egypt proceeded. And, as we have already seen,
the rivalry between church and state, between priest and king, was
already old before Amenhotep IV was born.
What then did Ikhnaton originate? The answer must be,
"Virtually nothing." The trend toward monotheism was already
there, and it was not until the latter years of his reign that Ikh-
naton took the last logical step and attempted to abolish all other
gods but Aton. As Breasted says, "this whole monotheistic move-
ment is the culmination of the ancient recognition of a moral
order by the Egyptian thinkers of the Pyramid Age and their
creation of a realm of universal ethical values." Aton, the Disk
god, was of sufficient importance during the reign of Ikhnaton's
father to have a temple erected in his honor at Thebes. Even
"the full name of the new deity, 'Re-Horus-of-the-Horizon who
rejoices in his name of Shu who is the Disk' is to be ascribed not
IKHNATON 257
to Akhenaten but to his father or even to some earlier king."
Indeed, the "most striking fact" pertaining to the various names

of the new deity "is that they embody a distinct attempt at con-
tinuity with the sun worship of past ages." The Hymn to Aton,
which was composed by Ikhnaton himself, according to the belief
of many authors (who, however, may know full well that the
addresses of modern heads of state are frequently written by
others), was remarkable but unoriginal, according to Peet. Two
architects of Amenhotep III, he writes, had already dedicated a
hymn to the sun-god which was "a. very close anticipation of Ikh-
naton's hymn to the disk . . . ; the ideas . . . [expressed in the
latter] are not at all new, nor indeed are the phrases in which these
ideas are embodied." Nor was Ikhnaton the first to erase the names
of his rivals from public monuments; this was done freely in the
feud of the Thutmosids.^^
The struggle with the priesthoods was also acute when Ikhnaton
ascended the throne. We have already seen that the priests of
Amon held powerful offices under his father, Amenhotep III,
threatening the security of the throne. And Breasted says of them:

They were rich and powerful when Ikhnaton ascended the throne.
"They had installed Thutmose III as king, and could they have
supplanted with one of their own tools the young dreamer [Ikh-
naton] who now held the throne they would of course have done
so at the first opportunity." Moret, too, sees the drastic steps
taken by Ikhnaton as an attempt to "break the power of the
priests of Amon lest they should dethrone the kings." ^^
With the throne in danger of being captured by the priests, is
it necessary to assume that it was a new philosophy germinating

in the mind of an adolescent genius that precipitated the move
against the priests and temples— especially when this philosophy
was not new? Would it not be more reasonable to assume that
it was a bold and drastic step taken by the temporal government
in self-defense, in self-preservation? To close the temples and
confiscate their lands and revenues would be a doubly effective

political move: it would strengthen the throne at the same time

that it weakened its rivals. It is significant to note that it was
not a priesthood of the new god Aton who succeeded to the
estates of Anion. Ikhnaton was himself the First Prophet of Aton,

and as such assumed control of the vast wealth of his god. "This
appropriation of the property of the temples," observes Moret,
"shows us what lay beneath the religious revolution, the economic
and political objects of the rupture." '^^
It was probably not the
first time that struggles for terrestrial power were carried on in
terms of celestial ideolog\'; it certainly has not been the last. The
break between Ikhnaton and the priests was therefore but the
culmination of centuries of rivalry and competition between
palace and temple. With the growing power of the priests a
drastic move was necessar\^ if the king was to retain his independ-
ence. For the temporal government it was do or die. The maturing
philosophy of monotheism provided an excellent pretext and a
weapon. But it was merely the means employed; it was not the
cause.
The position taken by some writers on this issue is rather
curious. Thus, as we have already seen, Peet believes that "the
increased power of the priesthood . . . was a circumstance which
precipitated, if it did not actually cause, the religious revolution
of Ikhnaton"*^ (emphasis ours). On the very next page, how-
ever, he says that it is "only an inference" to explain the revolu-
tion as a struggle between
and king. Yet he accepts Ikh-
priests
naton's "peculiar genius"~about which we know absolutely noth-

ing directly— as one of the causes of the revolution! In anothet
essay, also, Peet discounts the political aspect of the revolution
and portrays Ikhnaton as a theologian.'*- He explains the failure of
Ikhnaton's revolution in terms of a conflict of philosophies rather
than as a clash of political forces.*^ But why did the Aton religion
fail? Why could it not win out over older beliefs? This is some-
thing that Pcct's theory does not explain. Wallis Budge says that
Ikhnaton failed "because his religion did not appeal to the tradi-
iKHNATON 259
tion and religious instincts and susceptibilities [whatever they are,
L.A.W.] that already existed among the Egyptians." ** But is not'

this begging the very question at issue? Why did Ikhnaton's
religion fail to appeal to the Egyptians? To say that a theological
revolution failed because the new creed could win no converts
is merely to say that it failed. It is like saying that a fire went out
because it quit burning.
Thus we see that those who interpret the revolution of Iknaton's
reign as a philosophical, or theological, affair account for political
events in terms of rival philosophies, but they do not explain the
philosophies. Our theory does both. It explains the struggle be-
tween Ikhnaton and the priests in terms of the structure of civil
societies and the function of the State-Church as an integrative
and regulative mechanism. And it explains the philosophies as

instruments used by priests and king in this struggle. The philos-
ophy of Ikhnaton failed because the political and economic power
of the priesthoods was greater than that of the Pharaoh's party.
In this connection we may consider the close relationship be-
tween Queen Hatshepsut and Senenmut. Steindorff and Seele
wonder what it was that caused Hatshepsut to heap honors and
favors upon this man. The "manner [in which] he forged the
bonds which brought him in close relations with his royal mistress
... is a closed page of history" *^ they say. We suggest that our
theor)^ may be illuminating here also. Hatshepsut was not only a
usurper, she was a woman and as such should not ascend the
throne of god-men. Senenmut "had in early youth entered service
in the temple of Amun at Karnak and before long had successively
occupied a series of important posts." In short, he was an adroit
and successful priestly politician and a powerful member of the
priestly party. Hatshepsut needed help to seize and hold the
throne. Senenmut brought to her side the aid of a powerful priest-
hood. Hatshepsut richly rewarded him for his support. In the

light of our theory, the relationship between them does not seem
obscure at all but rather obvious.
Priests and Icings serve their own respective interests— as do.es
everv' other class in society. When their interests diverge they fight
each other, as in the case of Ikhnaton or Henry VIII. When,

however, each can serve his own interest by helping the other,
they will co-operate, as in the case of Hatshepsut and Senenmut.
IX
What part did Ikhnaton himself play in the stirring events

of his reign? As we have already seen, numerous authors tell us
that this young genius, virtually single-handed, initiated this rev-
olution and carried it forward by his zeal and his indomitable

will. But what is this but inference? What do we know directly
about Ikhnaton's actions and what may be reasonably inferred

from knoun facts?
In the first place, if we take Elliot Smith's estimate of his age

at the time of his death, based upon an examination of his sup-
posed skeletal remains, Ikhnaton was but a boy of nine, or at

the most thirteen, when he ascended the throne. The "revolution"
would have been well under way, therefore, when he was fifteen
or nineteen. It has seemed so incredible that a youth could have
accomplished all this "despite the precocity of youth in the east,"
that, as Professor Peet has observed, "archaeologists one and all
fought shy of accepting so great an improbability." ^^ They there-

fore put pressure upon Elliot Smith to raise his estimate of Ikh-
naton's age. He did increase it from twenty-six to thirty but "he

was not prepared to go further" at that time. More recently,
however, he has been persuaded that Ikhnaton suffered from
Dystocia, "one of the principal symptoms of which is the failure
of the bones to knit properly . . . ossification ceases to be a test
of age." *^ The archeologists may now have Ikhnaton as old as
they wish!
The view that Ikhnaton must have been more than a boy
during the early years of his reign because tremendously important
events took place at that time is a curious one to take. Must
IKHNATON 261
the life of a great nation stand still, must history mark time, until
boy kings grow up? It is rather generally admitted that Tutank-
hamun was but a boy of nine when he ascended the throne.
Newberry believes that Ay "must have been the dominating
personality in Egypt's political affairs" at this time. Steindorff and
Seele assume that the boy king was "completely under the control
upon
of Eye," and Pendlebury believes that Nefertiti's influence
Tutankhamun must have kept him faithful to the new religion
while she lived. If we can have a boy king, with actual rule by
others, in the case of Tutankhamun, why not with Ikhnaton?
In this connection we may recall that Louis XIII of France
ascended the throne at the age of nine years, Louis XIV at only
five. Peter the Great came to the throne when he was ten;
Charles XII of Sweden, at the ripe old age of fifteen.*®
In speaking of Hatshepsut, Breasted takes it for granted that
a powerful group of nobles and officials supported her and worked

with her as a means of serving their own interests. He points
out that "the fortunes and probably the lives of these men were
identified with the success and the dominance of Hatshepsut; they
therefore took good care that her position should be main-
tained." *^ This sounds reasonable and is in accord with every-
thing we know about ruling cliques everywhere, from Julius
Caesar to Hitler, Stalin, or Franklin Roosevelt. One man may be

the titular head of the government. But without the aid and
support of a powerful group of fellow politicians no one, be he
king, pope, president, or dictator, can stay in office very long.
There is evidence of such a group surrounding young Ikhnaton.
Breasted remarks that, idealist and dreamer though he was, "Ikh-
naton understood enough of the old policy of the Pharaohs to
know he must hold his party by practical rewards." Numerous
that
reliefsshow Ikhnaton rewarding his followers with gold and
honors for their allegiance. Ramose, the Vizier, is shown "loaded
with gifts by the Pharaohs, as though in reward for his allegiance."
One relief shows Ikhnaton, his wife and daughter showering gold
262 THE SCIENCE OF CULT-i/RE
upon Meryra, who had become High Priest of Aton, "on some
occasion when he had been particularly successful in collecting the
." "Abundant are the rewards/'
yearly dues of the temple . .
Meryra cries upon being installed as High Priest, "which the

Aton knows to give when his heart is pleased." And another one
of Ikhnaton's lieutenants says with disarming frankness: "How
^°
prosperous is he who hears thy teaching of life!"
All this sounds strangely familiar. To anyone who is familiar
with the political machines of American cities and states, or to
one who knows anything about the organization and conduct of

ruling cliques anywhere in the world, with their community of
interests and rewards for "faithful service" and support, this
picture of ancient Egypt will present no mystery. Whether Ikh-

naton was a dominant figure or only a figure-head is immaterial.
In either case we have a dominant, ruling clique. They possess
the power, they control the wealth, and they share the spoils.
It is an old familiar pattern. Breasted and Weigall try to put a
religious and philosophic complexion upon this tight little political
machine that ruled and exploited Egypt, Weigall comments upon

the rewards bestowed upon those who were intelligent enough
to grasp the lofty concepts taught by Ikhnaton, and Breasted
speaks of the "nucleus of men who really appreciated the ideal
aspects of the king's teaching." But the anatomy of machine

politics shows so clearly through its ideological vestments that
both are obliged to admit that many of Ikhnaton's followers were
probably more concerned with the very earthly desire for riches
and honors than with a lofty view of the cosmos.^^
X
Every effort has been made to extoll the originality and
uniqueness of Ikhnaton and to emphasize his importance as an
He is but a boy when
individual in the culture history of Egypt.
he ascends the throne, and only an adolescent when the "revolu-
tion" gets well under way. "Still, when one calls to mind the
IKhNATON 263
infant prodigies, the child preachers who stir an audience at an

early age/' Weigall writes, "one may credit a boy of eighteen
or nineteen with the planning of a new city" and the founding of
a new religion. Weigall does not cite any specific examples of

child prodigies; perhaps he was thinking of the boy Jesus teaching
the elders. ^2
Ikhnaton's anatomical and psychological peculiarities have been
used to support the conception of him as a phenomenon among
men. "His skull was misshapen/' Weigall tells us, "and he must
have been subject to occasional epileptic fits." He thinks the king
must have had hallucinations, also. Some great men have been
epileptic— Mohammed and Napoleon, for example. Religious
leaders often have hallucinations. If, therefore, Ikhnaton was an
epileptic and had hallucinations, it would indicate that he was
a most unusual phenomenon— at least so it was reasoned, ap-
parently.^^
But what basis is there for Weigall's suppositions? Neither
epilepsy nor hallucinations can be inferred from the sculptures
and reliefs nor from the supposed mummy of Ikhnaton, and we
know of no evidence of these traits from contemporary records.
There is, however, some evidence that indicates or at least
strongly suggests that Ikhnaton was pathological in some respects,
but this evidence is confused, self-contradictory at points, and

certainly inconclusive.
The statues and reliefs, according to Moret, depict Ikhnaton
as "a stripling of medium height, with slender bones and delicate
modelling" at the time of his ascension to the throne. Later,
however, he "became rounded and effeminate— a hermaphrodite
figure with prominent breasts, wide hips and thighs too much
curved, which makes one suspect a morbid nature, with some
pathological flaw." Sir Marc A. Ruffer speaks of "the pathological
obesity" of Ikhnaton, although his face, neck and legs were thin.
"Where the king is represented distributing collars of gold,"
says this author, "his abdomen actually hangs over the edge of
the balcony, a most realistic piece of portraiture." But in balcony

scenes reproduced in Breasted's A History of Egypt (Fig. 139)
and Moret, The Nile and Egyptian Civilization (Fig. 63), and
in other works, he is shown as a very slender man indeed. Gar-
diner says "the portraits represent him with ... a deformed
emaciated body" (emphasis ours). Thus, the evidence of rep-
resentations in art is inconsistent and inconclusive.^*
When we turn to the mummy supposed by some to be that of
Ikhnaton, we find the picture so confused and full of contradic-
tions that we are inclined to give up in despair and conclude

that for the present at least the evidence is insufficient to warrant
a definitive verdict of any kind. Weigall says that "there can be

no doubt that the mummy found in the tomb of Queen Tiy was
that of Akhnaton." Elliot Smith, the British anatomist who ex-
amined the skeletal remains believed that "we have the most posi-
tive evidence that these bones are the remains of Khouniatonou
[Ikhnaton]." Other scholars, however, have, on the basis of re-
searches since the skeleton in question was found, come to deny

or to doubt that the bones are those of Ikhnaton. Thus, Kurt
Sethe is convinced that certain evidence "proves" that the body
cannot have been that of the heretic king: "For us it is sufficient
that the body cannot in any case be that of the king in whose
coffin it found a resting place." A decade later, R. Engelbach
expressed his conviction that the mummy was not that of Ikh-
naton; he thinks it is the remains of Smenkhkara. Derry shares
Engelbach's view in this matter. Peet has expressed his doubt.
And Pendlebury says that "there is every reason to suppose that
it is his [i.e., Smenkhkara's] skeleton, found in the cache of Queen
Ty at Thebes, which has so long passed for that of Akhenaten." ^^
The age at time of death of the person whose skeleton is under

consideration has been the subject of much debate, also. Elliot
Smith originally estimated the age at death at twenty-four to
twenty-six years. But, as we have seen, archeologists were very
unvtdlling to accept this estimate since it would have made Ikh-
IKHNATON 265
naton but a boy when he became king and hence would have
been too young to do all that he was supposed to have done.
Under considerable pressure from the archeologists, Elliot Smith
reconsidered. He came to the conclusion that the bones showed
signs of "a. rare disorder, only recently recognized by physicians,"
known as Dystocia adiposo-genitalis. "One of the effects of this
condition/' he says, "is to delay the process of the consolidation
of the bones." Therefore, he concludes, the person in question
may have been as old as thirty or even thirty-six at the time of
his death. But, he cannot resist adding, the bones still appear to
him to be those of a man who died in his early twenties! Professor
Derry believes that the bones indicate an age of not more than
twenty-three years. Regarding the pathology of the individual,
there is flat contradiction as well as confusion. Elliot Smith, who
was the first to examine the skeleton, was convinced that he had
had hydrocephalus. A. R. Ferguson, Professor of Pathology in
the Cairo School of Medicine, who also examined the cranium,
declared, according to Elliot Smith, that "the signs of hydro-
cephalus were unquestionable." Derry, who examined the cranium
after further restoration of it, declared that "the conformation of
the skull does not support the statement that the person to whom
it belonged suffered from hydrocephalus ... It is indeed the very
reverse of the shape produced by hydrocephalus," ^® (emphasis
ours).
In view of the evidence and conflicting testimony, we believe
we would be justified in drawing the following conclusions: i.
We do not know whose skeleton was found; 2. Its age is some-

what uncertain but probably not more than twenty-five years;
and 3. The clinical diagnosis is inconclusive.
XI
Attempt has also been made to account for Ikhnaton's great-
ness by claiming that he was of foreign extraction. Weigall says

that "it must always be remembered that the king had much
foreign blood in his veins." Ruffer suggests that "his pecuhar

genius may have been due to the foreign blood in his veins."
Numerous authors believe that Ikhnaton's mother, Tiy, was not
an Eg}'ptian, although Breasted says that "there is not a particle
"
of evidence to prove her of foreign birth, as is so often claimed."
Elliot Smith finds evidence of non-Egyptian ancestry in the
facial skeleton. The differences between Ikhnaton and his father
are "farmore than individual differences, for they are racial.
Amenothes Ill's face is cast in the Egyptian mould; but in the
case of Kliouniatonou, the jaw is typically Armenoid, a fact most

^^
clearly demonstrated in the form of its ascending ramus."
It would not be surprising at all if Ikhnaton should prove to
have "foreign blood in his veins." We know that a number of
Egyptian kings before Ikhnaton had wives from Asia. But what
is the significance of this foreign blood or the Armenoid jaw so
far as intelligence or character, monotheism or political reform,
are concerned? The answer can only be: precisely nothing.
XII
How then are the striking events which took place in Egypt
between 1375 and 1358 b.c. to be explained? can choose be- We
tween two types of interpretation: the one is psychological and
anthropomorphic; the other is culturological. What are their
relative merits?
We have already seen that what took place during Ikhnaton's

reign was but a continuation and a culmination of cultural trends
that had been going on for centuries before the "Heretic King"
was born. Philosophic development toward monotheism was al-
ready well advanced before Ikhnaton's birth. The rivalry between
the throne and the temple, the struggle between priest and king
for power, was already hoary with age in 1386 b.c. More than
that, this sort of competition is a characteristic of all nations
where the temporal and ecclesiastical aspects of the central in-
tegrative mechanism are structurally differentiated. We observe

IKHNATON 267
these cultural trends continuing in Egypt for centuries after

Ikhnaton's death. The attempt of the throne to eliminate the
ecclesiastical component of the integrative mechanism failed, as
fail it must; the ecclesiastic aspect of social integration and regu-

lation has not yet been eliminated from any nation so far, as the
re-establishment of the church in the Soviet Union makes em-
phatically clear. The contest between church and state in Egypt
continued after Ikhnaton's death with the priests growing in
power as they had in the reigns before his time. The theology of
monotheism collapsed for the time being but we can trace this
current of thought in the centuries following Ikhnaton. In short,
the stirring events of Ikhnaton's reign can be accounted for as
a part of a great process of cultural change and development. And
we can explain this process in terms of It is composed of
itself.
complexes and classes of cultural elements— philosophic, political,

economic— which continually act and react upon one another,
producing changes of all sorts, new combinations and syntheses,
and new alignments. We can explain this culture process in
way that we can account for the
ancient Egypt in exactly the same
changes brought about in American culture by the introduction
of the automobile. We do not need to call upon great men or
upon psychological forces to make them intelligible.
What does the anthropomorphic, psychological— the Great Man
—interpretation have to offer?
In the first place, we must ask, What could a man, a human
organism, of exceptional quality and ability have done in this
or any situation except to respond to it— to work with the
materials at hand, to try to cope with the problems confronting
him; in short, to fit himself to the culture process that is his
context? A man of superior neuro-sensory-glandular-muscular
make-up might have made a better, i.e., more effective, response
than one of inferior brains and physique, but the pattern of the
response would have been substantially the same because it would
have been determined by the same cultural situation. Further-
more, the difference between tlie mentality of one man and

another is sHght indeed when measured against the background
of an age-old cultural process. So that even if Ikhnaton were an

organism of exceptionally fine quality, this fact would not at all
suffice to explain the events of his reign.

But we do not know that Ikhnaton was an organism of superior
quality. On the contrary, virtually all that we know about him
indicates that he was a diseased and hence an inferior organism.
Why, then, has historian after historian explained this period

of Eg^'ptian history by pointing to the colossal genius of this
man?
The answer seems to be that, as we indicated at the outset, the
old, primitive, anthropomorphic type of thinking that has been
so popular for so many hundreds of thousands of years has not
yet been outgrown. Science, and especially social science, is still
too young to have made itself felt in historical interpretation to

any great extent. And the science of culture is still so new as to
make its proper designation, "culturology," sound outlandish. The

pathetic thing about Great Man interpretations of history is that
they leave the great man unexplained. It is like the medieval
explanation of fossils: produced by "stone-making forces."
What Breasted, Weigall, Moret and others have done is to
create a personality for Ikhnaton and then to explain events in
the culture process by citing various traits of this personality. The
image of Ikhnaton is created by inference: great events took place
during his reign, therefore a great mind and will must have
brought them about; the struggle with the priesthoods was bitter
and prolonged, therefore Ikhnaton was a man of determination
and perseverance; a new era in art was inaugurated, therefore the
young king was original and creative. He must have had "foreign
olood in his veins" because his ideas were so novel. He must have
been older than his supposed skeletal remains indicate because
one so young could not have accomplished so much, and so on.
We may cite a particularly striking example of this. Sir Marc A.
:
IKHNATON
who made a study of
Ruffer, the paleopathology of ancient Egypt,
and who consequently was intimately acquainted with the evi-
dence indicating Ikhnaton's abnormality, nevertheless argues as
follows
"... monarch who founds a monotheistic religion in the
a
teeth of the opposition of a most powerful priesthood, who builds
a new town where he worships his god away from old associations
and among congenial surroundings, who endows that new town
with beautiful temples, who patronizes a new form of art, and
who perhaps composed the magnificent hymn to Aton, cannot
be considered as lacking in energy, or as a degenerate, or an
effeminate person." ^^ Thus, certain facts indicating pathology
are not permitted for a moment to interfere with a cherished illu-
sion of historical interpretation. Surely the mastery of myth over
realism could go no further.
Sometimes these psychological interpretations contradict each
other. Thus Sir Marc cites Ikhnaton's "pathological obesity" as a
possible reason for the loss of Egypt's Asiatic empire. "The ex-
treme corpulency of the king," he vvnrites, "may have been
responsible for his politics. On account of his obesity he probably
disliked physical exertion, and may have been the reason why
this
he persistently refused to lead his to war when the outlying

army
provinces were threatened." But when he surveys the great achieve-
ments of the Eighteenth Dynasty, he is impressed with the
"tireless energy" that characterized its rulers, Ikhnaton as well
as Ahmose! *^°
The fact is that we know very little indeed about Ikhnaton as

a political figure and virtually nothing about his personality and
character. It is usually said that Amenhotep III was Ikhnaton's
father, but Newberry asserts that this is merely an assumption:
"This is nowhere asserted on any Eg}'ptian inscription." Concern-
ing the ancestry of other intimates of Ikhnaton— his wife, Nefer-
titi, his "beloved" coregent Smenkhkara, and his son-in-law and

successor, Tutankhamun— "nothing whatever is definitely known"
(Newberry). His age at the time of his accession has been much
debated and is still uncertain. Evidence concerning his health
and physical condition is so varied as to be virtually worthless.
We do not know why he became estranged from his wife. We

do not know how he met his death, whether from natural causes
or by violence. And, finally, we do not know where he was laid
to rest. If, therefore, we do not have adequate information of this
sort, data on Ikhnaton as a king, a political institution, how could

we expect to have any reliable information pertaining to his per-
sonality and character? Indeed, do we have any facts at all on
^^
this subject?
That Ikhnaton actually lived is not questioned, and he must

therefore have had a personality and a character. But these cannot
be inferred or deduced from the political history of Egypt. There
is sharp disagreement today concerning the personality and char-
acter of the late Franklin D. Roosevelt, about whom we have a vast
amount of factual data obtained by direct observation. The same
might be said of Lenin, Hitler, Wilson, or any other outstanding
political figure of recent times. What then can we hope to know
or understand of this remote Egyptian king as a person? Yet
students without number give us the most intimate and personal
details about him, and they do it with confidence and assurance.
Indeed, they give the impression of drawing upon the report of
an exhaustive psychiatric analysis.
The extent to which the personality and character of Ikhnaton

have been created ad hoc by scholars to explain the facts of
Egjptian culture history is sometimes remarkable. One gets the
impression that Weigall could not have known his hero better
had he been a member of Amenhotep Ill's household at the time
of Ikhnaton's birth and had associated with him daily until his
death. Weigall describes him as "... a quiet, studious boy, whose
thoughts wandered in fair places, searching for that happiness
which had denied to him. His nature was
his physical condition
gentle; his young heart overflowed with love. He delighted, it

IKHNATON 271
would seem, to walk in the gardens of the palace, to hear the

birds singing, to watch the fish in the lake, to smell the flowers,
to follow butterflies, to warm his small bones in the sunshine." ^^
Only where one knows so little can one write so much; the
absence of facts gives the imagination free rein.
Thus in the Great Man interpretation of history the known
facts of the culture process are explained by the pseudo-facts of
psychology, the known by the unknown. A worse error of reason-
ing would be hard to find— within or outside the field of scholar-
ship.
XIII
To be sure, not all students of Egypt have interpreted the

history of Ikhnaton's reign in this anthropomorphic fashion;
many have seen clearly that these political and theological events
were the logical expression of a cultural historical process. As a
matter of fact. Breasted himself describes and documents this
process very well indeed as our quotations from his works show.
But he seems to have given relatively little weight to cultural
historical interpretation as compared with biographic and psy-
chiatric explanation. Let us turn now briefly to those who have
emphasized, or at least have called specific attention to, the
process of culture history in their interpretations of Ikhnaton.
*'Up to a few years ago," writes T. E. Peet, "it was customary
to believe that this entire movement was a product of the brain
of Ikhnaton . . . This we now know to be incorrect ... it [is]
now necessary to see in the movement not merely the personal
influence of an original genius, but also the inevitable product of
^^
the conditions of the time."
James Baikie writes: "It is evident, therefore, that Atenism was
not the sudden break with all the religious past of Egypt which
it is often represented as being; . . . [it] had its roots deep in
native soil, and could be traced as far back as you can trace any-
^*
thing in the history of the land."
John Pendlebury declares that Ikhnaton was not ''the first

individual in history^ as has been claimed/' and points out that
actually "we know less about him personally than about many of
his predecessors." Also, he not only recognizes the antecedents of

the new religion but suggests Minoan inspiration for the new
art atAkhetaten which has so often been attributed to the genius
of Ikhnaton himself. This "startling change ... in the spirit and
outlook of Eg}TDtian art/' he says, "can only be attributed to a
sudden intensification of Minoan influence/' occasioned by the
destruction of Knosscs and the collapse of the Minoan empire.
H. Frankfort believes that the art of Ikhnaton may have derived
some inspiration from the works of the reign of Thutmosis.^^
We also find a live appreciation of the role of cultural forces
in history in the writings of Steindorff and Seele, P. E. Newberry,

S. R. K. Glanville, and others. Many of these students do, how-
ever, as we have pointed out earlier, invoke the peculiar traits of
Ikhnaton's personality as a means of accounting for the remark-
able events of his reign.
XIV
What we have said about Ikhnaton so far would apply to any
great man who has been invoked to explain historical events. We
now wish to turn to aspects of the scholars' image of the Heretic
King that are peculiar to him.
When Breasted, Weigall and others create a phenomenal person
to explain remarkable historical events they are, as we have seen,
following a tradition that has flourished since the Old Stone Age.
But they had an added reason for their exaltation of Ikhnaton.
This is to be found in the religious outlook of these authors.
It would appear from their discussion of Ikhnaton's role in

philosophic evolution that Breasted and Weigall believe that
there is a God, that there is only one God, and it would seem.
He is an English-speaking, Protestant deity. They appear to as-
sume also— their assumptions are implicit rather than explicit,
IKHNATON 273
as is so frequently the case in philosophic or scientific discussions,

and the more basic the premise the more likely it is to remain
unexplicit— that mankind as a whole has been moving slowly
toward a realization that there is only one God and one true
faith— the one taught by Jesus Christ. As culture advanced, man-
kind came closer and closer to a recognition of the one true God
and to sense the precepts that were eventually to be expounded
by His Son.
Now, some reason which these authors do not make clear,
for
God— the one and only God, our God, the English-speaking,
Protestant God— decided to reveal himself to this Egyptian king
about 1400 B.C. Ikhnaton caught the vision, was fired by it,
and thereafter devoted his whole life, with passionate zeal, to an

attempt to establish the true faith. But he failed. The people were
not ready for it. Or, perhaps God miscalculated and revealed
Himself too soon. But though this adventure in monotheism
failed all was not lost. The precious truth had been let out and
truth cannot and will not die. It was somehow communicated to
the Hebrews who, after some centuries of incubation, were to
bring it forth again in the person of Jesus Christ.
Such is our theory about Breasted and Weigall. Let us now
see what there is to support it.
Weigall believes that Ikhnaton was "the first man to whom

God revealed himself . . . For the first time in the history of
man the real meaning of God, as we now understand it, had been
comprehended." ^^ Osiris was but a mythological being. So were
Ptah, Set, and Horus. Even Amon-Re was but a superstition. But
the God who revealed himself to Ikhnaton was genuine; this time
it was real.
Ikhnaton was, according to Breasted, a "God-intoxicated man,

whose mind responded with marvellous sensitiveness and discern-
ment to the visible evidences of God about him. He was fairly
ecstatic in his sense of the beauty of the eternal and universal

light . . . While to the traditional Pharaoh the state god was
only the triumphant conqueror, who crushed all peoples and

drove them tribute-laden before the Pharaoh's chariot, Ikhnaton
saw in him the beneficent father of all men. It was the first time
in history that a discerning eye has caught this great universal
®^ (emphasis ours).
truth,"
Ikhnaton devoted himself with "feverish fanaricism" to spread-
ing the true faith, "fully convinced that he might enrirely recast
the world of religion."''^
After Ikhnaton had caught the vision of the true God he be-
came impatient with the paganism of his fellow countrymen:
Boldly he looked to God and having

as a child to its father;
solved be the riddle of life, there was no
what he deemed to
place in his mind for aught but an open, fearless adoration of
the creator Akhnaton was the sworn enemy of the table-
. . .
turners of his day, and the tricks of priestcraft were . . .
anathema to his pure mind (Weigall).^^

With a revolution at home on his hands it is not surprising that
the king did not have sufficient means to protect Egyptian pos-
sessions abroad. But our authors have another explanation for
Egypt's loss of empire at the close of the Eighteenth Dynasty. It
was because (
i
) Ikhnaton was too engrossed in his new philosophy
to concern himself with politics, and (2) like Christ, he was
opposed to brute force:
"Instead of gathering the army so sadly needed in Naharin,
Amenhotcp IV immersed himself heart and soul in the thought of
the time, and the philosophizing theology of the priests was of
more importance to him than all the provinces of Asia ... It
shows the astonishing leniency of Ikhnaton in a manner which

would indicate that he was opposed to measures of force"
(Breasted). So he sat "singing hymns to the Disk at Tell el-
Amarna while the vast empire bequeathed to him by his fathers"
went to pieces.^"
Weigall tells us that Egypt lost her empire because it was against
Ikhnaton's principles to fight. He "had the power to let loose upon
IKHNATON 275
Asia an army which would silence all insult but [he] did not find
such a step consistent with his principles . . . Akhnaton definitely
refused to do battle believing that a resort to arms was an offence
to God . . . like that greater Teacher 1300 years later . . . the
Pharaoh suffered a very Agony as he realized that his principles
were leading him to the loss of all his dearest possessions." ^^
The image of Ikhnaton created by Breasted and Weigall bears

a considerable likeness to that of Jesus Christ, as is no doubt proper
to one whose mission is to bring the true faith to mankind. He was

indeed "the first prophet of history . . . like Jesus ... a prophet
both of nature and of human life" (Breasted)."
Our authors see in Ikhnaton the first expression of the true
faith that is now ours. "The faith of the patriarchs is the lineal
ancestor of the Christian faith; but the creed of Akhnaton is its
isolated prototype. One might believe that Almighty God had for
a moment revealed himself to Egypt, and had been more clearly,
though more momentarily, interpreted there than ever He was in

Syria or Palestine before the time of Christ" ( Weigall ).^^
Both Breasted and Weigall call attention to similarities between
Egyptian hymns to Aton and Psalms of the Hebrews. Breasted
points out that about "a chapter and a half of the Book of Proverbs
is largely drawn verbatim from the Wisdom of Amenemope; that
is, the Hebrew version is practically a literal translation from the
Egyptian." The "teachings of the Egyptian sages exerted a pro-
found influence on Hebrew religious thinking and, having thus
effected lodgment in Palestine, they had advanced through the
first stage in their long transition from Egypt to us of the modern
world." *
* Breasted, The Dawn of Conscience, p. 22. Baikie admits that the re-
semblance between the Egj'ptian hymn and the Hebrew Psalter 104 is "indeed
sufficiently striking" but sees "no need to imagine that there was borrowing
on the part of the later author" {The Amarna Age, p. 321). W. O. E.
Oesterly, on the other hand, feels that the evidence of historical connection
is "convincing" ("Egypt and Israel," pp. 244-45, in The Legacy of Egypt,
S. R. K. Glanville, ed.).
Thus Ikhnaton is not merely the Great Man who moves and
shapes the culture history of Egypt; he becomes the instrument of
Divine Purpose. Through him did God first reveal himself to man.
But the time was not yet ripe; paganism and idolatry were still
too strongly entrenched. So the revelation was handed on, perhaps

from Joseph to Moses, down the ages until He who came to re-
deem us all was born.
Breasted was once enrolled in a Protestant theological school.
It is probable that Weigall was a Protestant, also. It is of some
interest, therefore, to note the way in which the Roman Catholic
church regards this "God-intoxicated man." Plainly, they do not
like him. "With the single exception of Amenhotep IV," says the
Catholic Encyclopedia, "who allowed himself to be drawn into
a scheme to reform the Egyptian religion, all its kings were wise
and just rulers." ^* But, after all, no ecclesiastical hierarchy is
likely to approve of a temporal ruler who closes temples, drives
out priests, and confiscates their wealth. The other Pharaohs,

however, those who, according to this Catholic authority were
"great builders, and devoted their vast resources ... to the erec-
tion of magnificent temples . . . which they richly endowed"—
these rulers he finds were "wise and just." It will be noted, too,
that this writer says that Ikhnaton "allowed himself to be drawn
into" the scheme to reform Egyptian religion; in other words, that
the movement against the priesthoods was a political device of

temporal politicians to safeguard or enhance their power. Catholic
scholars do not take much stock in the theory that God revealed
himself first to an Egyptian. They scout the notion that Moses
may have been influenced by the teachings of Ikhnaton:
"Although Moses, learned as he was in the wisdom of the
Eg\'ptians, may have been indebted to an Egyptian model for one
or two external features in his organization of Divine worship,
he was, thanks to the Divine inspiration, entirely original in the
establishment of the Jewish priesthood, which is based on the
^^
unique idea of Jahweh's covenant with the Chosen People."
IKHNATON 277
The author of the article "Egypt" in the CathoHc Encyclopedia
is much too sophisticated in the ways of politicians whether
temporal or ecclesiastical to believe that it was Ikhnaton's super-
natural vision and religious zeal that animated him, 'The effort
of Amenhotep IV," he writes, "to introduce the cult of his only
god, Aton, was perhaps not prompted exclusively by a religious

ideal, as is generally supposed." He believes the long trend toward
monotheism in Egypt "must have been encouraged by the Phar-
aohs in their capacity rather of political than of religious rulers
^^
of the nation."
Jewish scholars, too, reject the idea that Moses may have been
influenced by Ikhnaton. They admit that the "concept of Divine
Unity has appeared among other religious and philosophic groups,"
but insist that "Hebrew monotheism is unique." *
If Ikhnaton was indeed the means of the first revelation of God
to man, it was apparently, as we have suggested, the Protestant

deity who made himself known.
XV
The drama of Ikhnaton and monotheism is excellent material
for the artist as well as for the historian and scientist. Thomas
Mann uses Joseph in Egypt as the vehicle for his message to a
world sick and in turmoil. Amenhotep III, the father of Ikhnaton,
was the pharaoh of Egypt during the earlier part of Joseph's life,
according to Harry Slochower's interpretation of Mann's novel.^^

Potiphar, the eunuch husband of Mut, was allied with the growing
Aton movement; Mut, with the party of Amon. The symbolism
* Abraham Shusterman, "Monotheism," in The Universal Jewish Encyclo-
pedia, Vol. VII (New York, 1942), p. 624. It will be recalled that James
Baikie was unwilling to admit that Hebrew psalmists may have drawn upon
Egyptian hymns. Now Baikie was a clergyman. Thus it would appear that all
clerical scholars —
Catholic, Protestant, and Jewish alike are unwilling to —
admit any connection between their own religious faith and tradition and
another; historical connections are not in keeping with divine revelation. Their
bias, springing from vested interest, is of course understandable; but it in
hardly conducive to sound scholarship.
of Mut's longing for Joseph and her attempt to seduce him,

Joseph's rejection of Mut and his subsequent fate, is intriguing
but does not concern us here. Ikhnaton may have been the phar-
aoh before \^•hom Joseph was brought after he had interpreted his
fellow-prisoners' dreams. Mann does not identify him by name,
but describes him as follows:
Pharao is seventeen. This hypersensitive and tender youth, a

searcher of God, like Joseph's forefathers, and enamoured of
a dreamy religion of love, has ascended the throne during the
time of Joseph's imprisonment. He is an anticipating, a pre-
mature Christian, the mythical prototype of those, who are on
the right way, but not the right ones for that way.^^
We can only conclude that this pharaoh was indeed Ikhnaton.

Like Breasted and Weigall, Mann sees in him the instrument of
God's revelation to man. But, because he "was not the right one
for that way," it remained for the Jews to keep the vision alive
until the coming of the Messiah, our Christ.
Sigmund Freud, too, has been captured by the engrossing
theme of Ikhnaton, Moses, and monotheism.^^ He assumes that
Moses was an Egyptian— mose is an ending of many Egyptian
proper names— and a devout follower of Ikhnaton. Frustrated in
his desire and attempt to monotheize the Egyptians, Moses deter-
mined to give the new theology to the Hebrews then in Egypt.

In this way the philosophy of Ikhnaton was perpetuated.
XVI
"Until Ikhnaton the history of the world had been but the
irresistible drift of tradition. All men had been but drops of water
in the great current" (Breasted). Now that our study is done we
must conclude that history is still the irresistible flow of the stream
of culture and that all men are but chips floating on that stream.
Our inquiry has shown conclusively that the events of Ikhnaton's
reign were but links in a chain that extended for centuries before
IKHNATON 279
and after his lifetime. The Hnks were more striking or emphatic
no doubt, but Hnks, nevertheless. We can come to no other
conclusion than that the general trend of events would have been
the same had Ikhnaton been but a sack of sawdust.
The Great Man theory of historical interpretation is, however,
one of compelling power and appeal:
A man Caesar is born, and for ages after we have a Roman Em-
pire, Christ is born, and millions of minds so grow and cleave
to his genius that he
confounded with virtue and the possible
is
of a man. An is the lengthened shadow of one man;

institution
as Monachism of the Hermit Antony; the Reformation, of
Luther; Quakerism, of Fox; Methodism, of Wesley; Abolition,
of Clarkson ... all history resolves itself very easily into the
biography of a few stout and earnest persons (Emerson, Essay
on Self Rehance).
Thus wrote the man who provided the intelligentsia of America

with the verbal reflexes called "thought" for so many years. The
conception is still popular. History is "explained" by citing the
Great Man. But how is the Great Man accounted for? He isn't.
He is either taken for granted or is said to be inexplicable. "Genius

defies all laws . .
."
The Great Man theory is, of course, the quintessence of anthro-

pomorphism. It pictures man, like God, a first cause, a prime
mover: "Let there be light and there was light ... an institution
is but the lengthened shadow of one man." Man ever creates
himself in God's image.
The Ikhnaton we meet in the sober studies of the scholars' pen
is a sheer fictional character, no more real than Hamlet or Huckle-
berry Finn. We know nothing about him as a person that is cer-
tain and direct. And at every point where the Great Man theory
conflicts with evidence, it is the evidence that must give way. If
the ossification of bones indicates a man who died too young to

have done what the Great Man did, a way must be found to
delay the process of ossification. If an empire is lost, it is because

the Great Man is morally opposed to the use of force; or he is too
fat and lazy to lead his army. If a new city is built the Great Man
becomes a dynamo of energ}'. This Ikhnaton is nothing but the
composite personification of all the political, social, military and
philosophic events of his day. As such he is no different from
Whiriwind Old Man, invented by the Pueblo Indians to "ex-
plain" the spirals of dust in the hot desert air, or the John Bull
who determines British foreign policy. And so it is with all Great

Men, whether it be a Paul Bunyan of the folk or a George Wash-
ington of historians.
It goes without saying that men differ in their talents and
abilities. Some are silk purses biologically; others are sows' ears.
But it takes more than superior brains and glands to make a
Great Man. Perhaps we should say exceptional rather than

superior, for some Great Men have been pathological in one
respect or another. Mohammed, for example, is said to have been
an epileptic. It takes, then, more than exceptional natural endow-
ment to make a Great Man; a certain concatenation of cultural
forces and historical circumstances is required also. No one can
be a great actor without a play, a stage, and an audience. Con-
versely, a man of mediocre talents may become Great if chance
and circumstance place him at the focal point of a tremendously
significant historical event. In the process of cultural development,
a Great Man is but the neural medium through which an im-
portant synthesis of culture elements takes place. Darwin, Newton,
Beethoven, and Edison were men of this type. Tliey were the
neurological loci of important cultural events. To be sure, they
may have been superior organisms. But had they been reared as
swineherds. Greatness would not have found them. In history,

in political and social movements, the Great Man is that ana-
tomical part of a social organism that functions as a directive,
regulative or integrative mechanism. Ability— or epilepsy— or
chance, or both together, may have put him in this position. The
IKHNATON 281
Great Man is an instrument employed by a nation or a movement

in the exercise ofits functions. Torn from his context, the Great
Man— an Napoleon, a Kaiser sawing wood, the mutilated

exiled
corpse of Mussolini, a Big Name in a "War Crimes Trial"— is
but an insignificant hunk ofhuman flesh.
The measure of a Great Man in the life of nations can be taken
when we see how independent of him the behavior of a nation is.
The behavior of the social organism that is Russia has remained
constant for decades and even centuries: expansion toward the
east, tropismatic gropings toward warm-water ports, penetration
of the Balkans, Pan-Slavism. Whether a Czar or a Commissar sits
in the driver's seat is immaterial; the great organism goes its own
way unalterably. The same observations may be made in the case
of Germany. Whether the Great Man be Wilhelm, Bismarck, or
Hitler, the organism that was Germany followed a constant and
uniform course: Drang nach Oesten, lebensraum, colonies, com-
mercial rivalry. The reasons for this uniformity of national be-
havior are of course plain: the land, the people who grow upon it,
the resources of the land or its lack of them, its position with
reference to other nations, the trade routes of the world, etc.
These remain relatively constant and consequently the behavior
of the social organism remains constant. Great Men and Ideol-
ogies do more to obscure these fundamental facts than to explain
them. The Great Man is the instrument, the Ideology, the ration-
alization, of the social organism as it struggles for survival in the
international jungle of nations.

CHAPTER TEN
THE LOCUS OF MATHEMATICAL
REALITY
"He's [the Red King's] dreaming now," said Tweedledee: "and what
do vou think he's dreaming about?"
Alice said, "Nobody can guess that."
"Why, about you.'" Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands trium-
phantly. "And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose
you'd be?"
"Where I am now, of course," said Alice.
"Not you!" Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. "You'd be no-
where. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!"
"If that there King was to wake," added Tweedledum, "you'd go
out —bang! — just like a candle."
"I shouldn't!" Alice exclaimed indignantly. "Besides, if I'm only a
sort of thing in his dream, what are you, I should like to know?"
"Ditto," said Tweedledum.
"Ditto, ditto!" cried Tweedledee.
He shouted this so loud that Alice couldn't help saying "HushI
if you make so much noise."
You'll be waking him, I'm afraid,
"Well, no use your talking about waking him," said Tweedle-
it's
dum, "when you're only one of the things in his dream. You know
very well you're not real."
"I am real!" said Alice, and began to cry.
"You won't make yourself a bit realler by crying," Tweedledee re-
marked: "there's nothing to cry about."
—
"If I wasn't real," Alice said —
half laughing through her tears, it all
seemed so ridiculous "I shouldn't be able to cry."
"I hope you don't suppose those are real tears?" Tweedledum inter-
rupted in a tone of great contempt.
—
Lewis Carroll Through the Looking Glass
D o mathematical truths reside in the external world, there

to be discovered by man, or are they man-made inventions?
Does mathematical reality have an existence and a validity
282
THE LOCUS OF MATHEMATICAL REALITY 283
independent of the human species or is it merely a function of

the human nervous system?
Opinion has been and still is divided on this question. Mrs.
Mary Somerville (1780-1872), an Englishwoman v^ho knew or
corresponded with such men as Sir John Herschel, Laplace, Gay
Lussac, W. Whewell, John Stuart Mill, Baron von Humboldt,
Faraday, Cuvier, and De Candolle, and who was herself a
scholar of distinction,* expressed a view widely held when she
said:
"Nothing has afforded me so convincing a proof of the unity

of the Deity as these purely mental conceptions of numerical and
mathematical science which have been by slow degrees vouch-
safed to man, and are still granted in these latter times by the
Differential Calculus, now superseded by the Higher Algebra, all
of which must have existed in that sublimely omniscient Mind

^
from eternity."
Lest it be thought that Mrs. Somerville was more theological

than scientific in her outlook, let it be noted that she was de-
nounced, by name and in public, from the pulpit by Dean Cock-
burn of York Cathedral for her support of science.^
In America, Edward Everett (1794-1865), a distinguished

scholar (the first American to win a doctorate at Gottingen),
reflected the enlightened view of his day when he declared:
"In the pure mathematics we contemplate absolute truths
which existed in the divine mind before the morning stars sang
together, and which will continue to exist there when the last of
^
their radiant host shall have fallen from heaven."
In our own day, a prominent British mathematician, G. H.
Hardy, has expressed the same view with, however, more tech-
nicality than rhetorical flourish, in A Mathematician's Apology:
* She wrote the following works, some of which went into several editions:
The Mechanism oi the Heavens, 1831 (which was, it seems, a popularization
of the Mecanique Celeste of Laplace); The Connection of the Physical Sci-
ences, 1858; Molecular and Microscopic Science, 1869; Physical Geography,
1870.
"I believe that mathematical reality lies outside us, and that
our function is to discover or observe it, and that the theorems
which we prove, and which we describe grandiloquently as our
* *
'creations' are simply our notes of our observations."
Taking the opposite view we find the distinguished physicist,
P. W. Bridgman, asserting that "it is the merest truism, evident

atonce to unsophisticated observation, that mathematics is a hu-
man invention." ^ Edward Kasner and James Newman state that
"we have overcome the notion that mathematical truths have an
existence independent and apart from our own minds. It is even
^
strange to us that such a notion could ever have existed."
From a psychological and anthropological point of view, this
latter conception is the only one that is scientifically sound and

valid. There is no more reason to believe that mathematical
realities have an existence independent of the human mind than
to believe that mythological realities can have their being apart
from man. The square root of minus one is real. So were Wotan
and Osiris. So are the gods and spirits that primitive peoples
believe in today. The question at issue, however, is not. Are these
things real?, but, Where is the locus of their reality? It is a mis-
take to identify reality with the external world only. Nothing is
more real than an hallucination.

Our concern here, however, is not to establish one view of
mathematical reality as sound, the other illusory. What we pro-
pose to do is to present the phenomenon of mathematical be-
havior in such a way as to make clear, on the one hand, why the
belief in the independent existence of mathematical truths has
seemed so plausible and convincing for so many centuries, and,
* The mathematician is not, of course, the only one who is inclined to

believe that his creations are discoveries of things in the external world. The
theoretical physicist, too, entertains this belief. "To him who is a discoverer
in this field," Einstein obsen'es, "the products of his imagination appear so
necessary and natural that he regards them, and would like to have them
regarded by others, not as creations of thought but as given realities," ("On
the Method of Theoretical Physics," in The World as I See It, p. 30).
on the other, to show that all of mathematics is nothing more

than a particular kind of primate behavior.
Many persons would unhesitatingly subscribe to the proposition
that "mathematical reality must lie either within us, or outside
us." Are these not the only possibilities? As Descartes once
reasoned in discussing the existence of God, "it is impossible
we can have the idea or representation of anything whatever,
unless there be somewhere, either in us or out of us, an original
which comprises, in reality . ,
." ^ (emphasis ours). Yet, irresistible
though this reasoning may appear to be, it is, in our present

problem, fallacious or at least treacherously misleading. The fol-
lowing propositions, though apparently precisely opposed to each

other, are equally valid; one is as true as the other: i. "Mathe-
matical truths have an existence and a validity independent of the
human mind," and 2. "Mathematical truths have no existence or
validity apart from the human mind." Actually, these propositions,
phrased as they are, are misleading because the term "the human
mind" is used in two different senses. In the first statement, "the
human mind" refers to the individual organism; in the second,
to the human species. Thus both propositions can be, and actually
are, true. Mathematical truths exist in the cultural tradition into
which the individual is born, and so enter his mind from the
outside. But apart from cultural tradition, mathematical concepts
have neither existence nor meaning, and of course, cultural tradi-
tion has no existence apart from the human species. Mathematical

realities thus have an existence independent of the individual
mind, but are wholly dependent upon the mind of the species.
Or, to put the matter in anthropological terminology: mathe-

matics in its entirety, its "truths" and its "realities," is a part of
human culture, nothing more. Every individual is born into a cul-
ture which already existed and which is independent of him.

Culture traits have an existence outside of the individual mind
and independent of it. The individual obtains his culture by learn-
ing the customs, beliefs, techniques of his group. But culture

itself and can have, no existence apart from the human

has,
species. Mathematics, therefore—hke language, institutions, tools,

the arts, etc.— is the cumulative product of ages of endeavor of the
human species.
The great French savant Emile Durkheim was one of the first
to make this clear. He discussed it in the early pages of The Ele-
mentars^ Forms of the Religious Life. And in The Rules of Soci-
ological Method especially he set forth the nature of culture and

its relationship to the human mind. Others, too, have of course
discussed the relationship between man and culture, but Durk-
heim's formulations are especially appropriate for our present dis-
cussion and we shall call upon him to speak for us from time to
time.^
Mathematics is, of course, a part of culture. Every people in-
herits from its predecessors, or contemporary neighbors, along with
ways of cooking, marrying, worshipping, etc., ways of counting,
calculating, and whatever else mathematics does. Mathematics is,
in fact, a form of behavior: the responses of a particular kind of

primate organism to a set of stimuli. Whether a people counts by
fives, tens, twelves or twenties; whether it no words for
has
cardinal numbers beyond 5, or possesses the most modern and
highly developed mathematical conceptions, their mathematical
behavior is determined by the mathematical culture which
possesses them.
We can see now how the belief that mathematical truths and
realities lie outside the human mind arose and flourished. They
do lie outside the mind of each individual organism. They enter
the individual mind, as Durkheim says, from the outside. They
impinge upon his organism, again to quote Durkheim, just as
cosmic forces do. Any mathematician can see, by observing him-
self as well as others, that this is so. Mathematics is not something
that is secreted, like bile; it is something drunk, like wine. Hotten-
tot boys grow up and behave, mathematically as well as otherwise,
in obedience to and in conformity with the mathematical and

THE LOCUS OF AAATHEMATICAL REALITY 287
other traits in their culture. EngHsh or American youths do the
same in their respective cultures. There is not one iota of ana-
tomical or psychological evidence to indicate that there are any
significant innate, biological racial differences so far as mathe-
matical or any other kind of human behavior is concerned. Had
Newton been reared in Hottentot culture he would have calcu-
lated like a Hottentot. Men G. H. Hardy, who know, through
like
their own experience as well as from the observation of others,

that mathematical concepts enter their minds from the outside,
conclude understandably— but erroneously— that they have their
origin and locus in the external world, independent of man.
Erroneous, because the alternative to "outside the human mind,"
the individual mind, that is, is not "the external world, inde-
pendent of man," but culture, the body of traditional thought and
behavior of the human species.
Culture frequently plays tricks upon us and distorts our think-

ing. We tend to find in culture direct expressions of "human
nature" on the one hand and of the external world on the other.
Thus each people is disposed to believe that its own customs and
beliefs are direct and faithful expressions of man's nature. It is
"human nature," they think, to practice monogamy, to be jealous

of one's wife, to bury the dead, drink milk, to appear in public
only when clad, to call your mother's brother's children "cousin,"
to enjoy exclusive right to the fruit of your toil, etc., if they
happen to have these particular customs. But ethnography tells
us that there is the widest divergence of custom among the peoples

of the world: there are peoples who loathe milk, practice
polyandry, lend wives as a mark of hospitality, regard inhumation
with horror, appear in public without clothing and without shame,
call their mother's brother's children "son" and "daughter," and
who freely place all or the greater portion of the produce of their
toil at the disposal of their fellows. There is no custom or belief
that can be said to express "human" nature more than any other.
Similarly it has been thought that certain conceptions of the
^
external world were so simple and fundamental that they imme-

diately and faithfully expressed its structure and nature. One is
inclined to think that yellow, blue, and green are features of the
external world which any normal person would distinguish until
he learns that the Creek and Natchez Indians did not distinguish
yellow from green; they had but one term for both. Similarly,
the Choctaw, Tunica, the Keresan Pueblo Indians and many
other peoples make no terminological distinction between blue
and green.
The great Newton was deceived by his culture, too. He took it
for granted that the concept of absolute space directly and imme-
diately corresponded to something in the external world; space,
he thought, is something that has an existence independent of
the human mind, "I do not frame hypotheses," he said. But the
concept space is a creation of the intellect, as are other concepts.
To be sure, Newton himself did not create the hypothesis of
absolute space. It came to him from the outside, as Durkheim
properly puts it. But although it impinges upon the organism
comme Jes ioTces cosmiques, it has a different source: it is not
the cosmos but man's culture.
For centuries it was thought that the theorems of Euclid were
merely conceptual photographs, so to speak, of the external world;
that they had a validity quite independent of the human mind;
that there was something necessary and inevitable about them.
The invention of non-Euclidean geometries by Lobatchewsky,
Riemann and others has dispelled this view entirely. It is now
clear that concepts such as space, straight line, plane, etc., are
no more necessary and inevitable as a consequence of the struc-
ture of the external world than are the concepts green and yellow
—or the relationship term with which you designate your mother's
brother, for that matter.
To quote Einstein again:
"We come now to the question: what is a priori certain or
necessary, respectively in geometry (doctrine of space) or its
foundations? Formerly we thought everything; nowadays we think

—nothing, Aheady the distance-concept is logically arbitrary;
there need be no things that correspond to it, even approxi-
^°
mately."
Kasner and Newman say that "non-Euclidean geometry is proof
that mathematics man's own handiwork, subject only to
... is
the limitations imposed by the laws of thought." ^^

Far from having an existence and a validity apart from the
human species, all mathematical concepts are "free inventions of
the human intellect," to use a phrase with which Einstein char-
acterizes the concepts and fundamental principles of physics. But
because mathematical and scientific concepts have always entered
each individual mind from the outside, everyone until recently
has concluded that they came from the external world instead of
from man-made culture. But the concept of culture, as a scien-
tific concept, is but a recent invention itself.
The cultural nature of our scientific concepts and beliefs is
clearly recognized by the Nobel prize winning physicist, Erwin

Schrodinger, in the following passage:
"Whence arises the v^ddespread belief that the behavior of
molecules is determined by absolute causality, whence the con-
viction that the contrary is unthinkable? Simply from the custoniy
inherited through thousands of years, of thinking causally, which
makes the idea of undetermined events, of absolute, primary
casualness, seem complete nonsense, a logical absurdity," ^*
(Schrodinger's emphases).
Similarly, Henri Poincare asserts that the axioms of geometry
are mere "conventions," i.e., customs: they "are neither synthetic
a priori judgments nor experimental facts. They are conven-
tions . .
." ^^
We turn now to another aspect of mathematics that is illu-
minated by the concept of culture. Heinrich Hertz, the discoverer

of wireless waves, once said:
"One cannot escape the feeling that these mathematical
formulas have an independent existence and an intelligence of

their own, that they are wiser than we are, wiser even than their
discoverers [sic], that we get more out of them than was originally
^*
put into them."
Here again we encounter the notion that mathematical formulas
have an existence "of their own," (i.e., independent of the human
species), and that they are "discovered," rather than man-made.
The concept of culture clarifies the entire situation. Mathematical
formulas, like other aspects of culture, do have in a sense an
"independent existence and intelligence of their own." The Eng-
lish language has, in a sense, "an independent existence of its
own." Not independent of the human species, of course, but inde-

pendent of any individual or group of individuals, race or nation.
It has, in a sense, an "intelligence of its own." That is, it behaves,
grows and changes in accordance with principles which are in-

herent in the language itself, not in the human mind. As man
becomes self-conscious of language, and as the science of philology
matures, the principles of linguistic behavior are discovered and
its laws formulated.
So it is with mathematical and scientific concepts. In a very
real sense they have a life of their own. This life is the life of
culture, of cultural tradition. As Durkheim expresses it: "Col-

lective ways of acting and thinking have a reality outside the
individuals who, at every moment of time, conform to it. These
ways of thinking and acting exist in their own right." ^^ It would
be quite possible to describe completely and adequately the evolu-
tion of mathematics, physics, money, architecture, axes, plows,
language, or any other aspect of culture without ever alluding
to the human species or any portion of it. As a matter of fact,
the most effective way to study culture scientifically is to proceed
as if the human race did not exist. To be sure it is often con-
iVenient to refer to the nation that first coined money or to the
man who invented the calculus or the cotton gin. But it is not
necessary, nor, strictly speaking, relevant. The phonetic shifts in
Indo-European as summarized by Grimm's law have to do solely

with linguistic phenomena, with sounds and their permutations,
combinations and interactions. They can be dealt with adequately
without any reference to the anatomical, physiological, or psy-
chological characteristics of the primate organisms who produced
them. And sowith mathematics and physics. Concepts have
it is
a life of their own. Again to quote Durkheim, "when once born,

[they] obey laws all their own. They attract each other, repel each
other, unite, divide themselves and multiply . ,

." ^^ Ideas, like
other culture traits, interact with each other, forming new
syntheses and combinations. Two or three ideas coming together
may form new concept or synthesis.
a The laws of motion asso-
ciated with Newton were syntheses of concepts associated with
Galileo, Kepler and others. Certain ideas of electrical phenomena
grow from the "Faraday stage," so to speak, to those of Clerk
Maxwell, H. Hertz, Marconi, and modern radar. "The applica-
tion of Newton's mechanics to continuously distributed masses
led," says Einstein, "inevitably to the discovery and application of
partial differential equations, which in their turn first provided the
language for the laws of the field-theory" (emphasis ours). The
theory of relativity was, as Einstein observes, "no revolutionary
act, but the natural continuation of a line that can be traced
through centuries." More immediately, "the theory of Clerk
Maxwell and Lorentz led inevitably to the special theory of
relativity." ^^ Thus we see not only that any given thought-system
is an outgrowth of previous experience, but that certain ideas
lead inevitably to new concepts and new systems. Any tool,
machine, belief, philosophy, custom or institution is but the

outgrowth of previous culture traits. An understanding of the
nature of culture makes clear, therefore, why Hertz felt that
"mathematical formulas have an independent existence and an
intelligence of their own."
His feeling that "we get more out of them than was originally
put into them," arises from the fact that in the interaction of
culture traits new syntheses are formed which were not antici-
pated by "their discoverers," or which contained impHcations
that were not seen or appreciated until further growth made them
more explicit. Sometimes novel features of a newly formed
synthesis are not seen even by the personin whose nervous sys-
tem the synthesis took place. Thus Jacques Hadamard tells us

of many occasions in which he failed utterly to see things that
"ought to have struck . . . [him] blind." He cites numerous in-
stances in which he failed to see "obvious and immediate con-

sequences of the ideas contained" in the work upon which he was
engaged, leaving them to be "discovered" by others later.^^
The contradiction between the view held by Hertz, Hardy and

others that mathematical truths are discovered rather than man-
made is thus resolved by the concept of culture. They are both;
they are discovered but they are also man-made. They are the
product of the mind of the human species. But they are en-
countered or discovered by each individual in the mathematical
culture in which he grows up. The process of mathematical
growth is, as we have
pointed out, one of interaction of mathe-
matical elements upon one another. This process requires, of
course, a basis in the brains of men, just as a telephone conversa-
tion requires wires, receivers, transmitters, etc. But we do not
need to take the brains of men into account in an explanation of
mathematical growth and invention any more than we have to
take the telephone wires into consideration when we wish to ex-
plain the conversation it carries. Proof of this lies in the fact
of numerous inventions (or "discoveries") in mathematics made
simultaneously by two or more persons working independently.*
* The
following data are taken from a long and varied list published in
Social Change, by Wm.
F. Ogburn (New York, 1923), pp. 90-102, in which
simultaneous inventions and discoveries in the fields of chemistry, physics,
biology, mechanical invention, etc., as well as in mathematics, are listed.
Law of inverse squares: Newton, 1666; Halley, 1684.
Introduction of decimal point: Pitiscus, 1608-12; Kepler, 1616; Napier,
1616-17.
If these discoveries really were caused, or determined, by indi-

vidual minds, we would have to explain them as coincidences.
On the basis of the laws of chance these numerous and repeated

coincidences would be nothing short of miraculous. But the
culturological explanation makes the whole situation clear at
once. The whole population of a certain region is embraced by

a type of culture. Each individual is born into a pre-existing
organization of beliefs, tools, customs and institutions. These
culture traits shape and mould each person's life, give it content
and direction. Mathematics is, of course, one of the streams in
the total culture. It acts upon individuals in varying degree, and

they respond according to their constitutions. Mathematics is
the psychosomatic response to the mathematical culture.

But we have already noted that within the body of mathe-
matical culture there is action and reaction among the various
elements. Concept reacts upon concept; ideas mix, fuse, form

new syntheses. This process goes on throughout the whole extent
of culture although more rapidly and intensively in some regions
(usually the center) than in others (the periphery). When this
process of interaction and development reaches a certain point,
new syntheses * are formed of themselves. These syntheses are,

to be sure, real events and have location in time and place.
The places are of course the brains of men. Since the cultural
process has been going on rather uniformly over a wide area and
Logarithms: Burgi, 1620; Napier-Briggs, 1614.

Calculus: Newton, 1671; Leibnitz, 1676.
Principle of least squares: Gauss, i8og; Legendre, 1806.
A treatment of vectors without the use of co-ordinate systems: Hamilton,
1843; Grassman, 1843; and others, 1843.
Contraction hypothesis: H. A. Lorentz, 1895; Fitzgerald, 1895.
The double theta functions: Gopel, 1847; Rosenhain, 1847.
Geometry with axiom contradictory to Euclid's parallel axiom: Lobat-
chevsky, 1836-40; Bolyai, 1826-33; Gauss, 1829.
The rectification of the semi-cubal parabola: Van Heuraet, 1659; Neil,
1657; Fermat, 1657-59.
The geometric law of duality: Oncelet, 1838; Gergone, 1838.
* Hadamard entitles one chapter of his book "Discovery as a Synthesis."
population, the new synthesis takes place simultaneously in a
number of brains at once. Because we are habitually anthro-

pocentric in our thinking we tend to say that these men made
these discoveries. And in a sense, a biological sense, they did.
But if we wish to explain the discovery as an event in the growth
of mathematics we must rule the individual out completely.
From this standpoint, the individual did not make the discovery
at all. was something that happened to him. He was merely
It
the place where the lightning struck. A simultaneous "discovery"

by three men working "independently" simply means that cul-
tural-mathematical lightning can and does strike in more than
one place at a time. In the process of cultural growth, through
invention or discovery, the individual is merely the neural locus
in which the advance occurs. Man's brain is merely a catalytic
agent, so to speak, in the culture process. This process cannot
exist independently of neural tissue, but the function of man's
nervous system is merely to make possible the interactive process
and to effect syntheses of cultural elements.
To be sure individuals differ just as catalytic agents, lightning

conductors or other media do. One person, one set of brains,
may be medium for the growth of mathematical cul-
a better
ture than another. One man's nervous system may be a better

catalyst for the culture process than that of another. The mathe-
matical cultural process is therefore more likely to select one set
of brains than another as its medium of expression. But it is
easy to exaggerate the role of superior brains in cultural advance.

It is not merely superiority of brains that counts. There must be a
juxtaposition of brains with a specific cultural tradition. If the
proper cultural elements are lacking, superior brains will be of
no avail. There were brains as good as Newton's in England
10,000 years before the birth of Christ, at the time of the Norman
conquest, or any other period of English history. Everything
that we know about fossil man, the prehistory of England, and
the neuroanatomy of Homo sapiens will support this statement.
There were brains as good as Newton's in aboriginal America or
in Darkest Africa. But the calculus was not invented in these
other times and places because the requisite cultural elements
were lacking. Contrariwise, when the cultural elements are present,
the discovery or invention becomes so inevitable that it takes
place independently in two or three nervous systems at once.
Had Newton been reared as a sheep herder, the mathematical
culture of England would have found other brains in which to
achieve its new synthesis. One man's brains may be better than
another's, just as his hearing may be more acute or his feet
larger. But just as a "brilliant" general is one whose armies are
victorious, so a genius, mathematical or otherwise, is a person in
whose nervous system an important cultural synthesis takes place;
he is the neural locus of an epochal event in culture history.
The nature of the culture process and its relation to the minds
of men is well illustrated by the history of the theor}' of evolu-
tion in biology. As is well known, this theory did not originate
wdth Darwin. We find it in one form or another in the neural
reactions of many others before Danvin was born: Buffon,
Lamarck, Erasmus Darwin, and others. As a matter of fact,
virtually all of the ideas which together we call Darwinism are to

be found in the writings of J.
C. Prichard, an English physician
and anthropologist (1786-1848). These various concepts were
interacting upon each other and upon current theological beliefs,
competing, struggling, being modified, combined, resynthesized,
etc., for decades. The time finally came, i.e., the stage of develop-
ment was reached, where the theological system broke down and
the rising tide of scientific interpretation inundated the land.
Here again the new synthesis of concepts found expression
simultaneously in the nervous systems of two men working inde-
pendently of each other: A. R. Wallace and Charles Darwin.
The event had to take place when it did. If Darwin had died in
infancy, the culture process would have found another neural

medium of expression.
This illustration is especially interesting because we have a
vivid account, in Darwin's own words, of the way in which the
synthesis of ideas took place:

"In October 1838," Darwin wrote in his autobiographic sketch,
"that is, fifteen months after I had begun my systematic enquiry,
I happened to read for amusement 'Malthus on Population,' and
being well prepared to appreciate the struggle for existence which
everyM'here goes on from long-continued observation of the habits
of animals and plants, it at once struck me that under these cir-
cumstances favourable variations would tend to be preserved, and

unfavourable ones to be destroyed. The result of this would be
the fomiation of a new species. Here then J had at last got a
theory by which to work . .

." (emphasis ours).
This is an exceedingly interesting revelation. At the time he
read Mai thus, Darwin's mind was filled with various ideas, (i.e.,
he had been moulded, shaped, animated and equipped by the

cultural milieu into which he happened to have been born and
reared— a significant aspect of which was independent means;
had he been obliged to earn his living in a "counting house" we
might have had "Hudsonism" today instead of Darwinism).
These ideas reacted upon one another, competing, eliminating,
strengthening, combining. Into this situation was introduced, hy
chance, a peculiar combination of cultural elements (ideas) which
bears the name of Malthus. Instantly a reaction took place, a new
synthesis was formed— "here at last he had a theory by which
to work." Darwin's nervous system was merely the place where
these cultural elements came together and formed a new synthesis.
It was something that happened to Darwin rather than something
he did.
This account of invention in the field of biology calls to mind

the well-known incident of mathematical invention described so
vividly by Henri Poincare. One evening, after working very hard
on a problem but without success, he writes:
". . . contrary to my custom, I drank black coffee and could
not sleep. Ideas rose in crowds; I felt them collide until pairs
interlocked, so to speak, making a stable combination. By the
next morning had established the existence of a class of
I
Fuchsian functions ... I had only to write out the results,

which took but a few hours." ^^
Poincare further illustrates the process of culture change and
growth in its subjective (i.e., neural) aspect by means of an
imaginative analogy. He imagines mathematical ideas as being
something like "the hooked atoms of Epicurus. During complete
repose of the mind, these atoms are motionless, they are, so to
speak, hooked to the wall." No combinations are formed. But in
mental activity, even unconscious activity, certain of the atoms
"are detached from the wall and put in motion. They flash in
every direction through space . . . like the molecules of a gas

. . . Then their mutual impacts may produce new combina-
tions." ^° This is merely a description of the subjective aspect of
the culture process which the anthropologist would describe ob-
jectively (i.e., without reference to nervous systems). He would
say that in cultural systems, traits of various kinds act and react
upon one another, eliminating some, reinforcing others, forming
new combinations and syntheses. The significant thing about
the loci of inventions and discoveries from the anthropologist's
standpoint is not quality of brains, but relative position within
the culture area: inventions and discoveries are much more likely
to take place at culture centers, at places where there is a great

deal of cultural interaction, than on the periphery, in remote or
isolated regions.
The dominating influence of the external cultural tradition
upon the individual mind is sometimes felt very distinctly, but
it is seldom recognized for what it really is. Thus, Goethe declared
that:
"All productivity of the highest kind, every important con-
ception, every discovery, every great thought which bears fruit,
... is in no one's control, and is beyond every earthly power.
Such things are to be regarded as unexpected gifts from above,

-^
as pure divine products."
The brothers Goncourt speak of "an unknown force, a superior
will, a sort of compulsion to write, which commands the work

and guides the pen; so much so that at times the book which
comes forth from your hands seems not to have been born of
yourself at all ." " And George Eliot declared that "in all
. .
her writings which she considered her best, there was a 'not
herself which took possession of her and made her feel 'her own
personality to be merely the instrument through which the
spirit acted/ " ^^
To be sure, there is a "something outside one's self," a power,

a force, that lays hold of one and compels him to do thus and so.
But there is nothing mysterious or mystical about it. It is not

something unearthly or divine asGoethe suggested. It is simply
the great tradition of culture that holds each one of us in its
powerful embrace. When, as if in a river, we are caught up in
a current or rapids of culture change, or swept into the vortex

we can do naught but give ourselves wholly
of cultural synthesis,
to Then indeed do we feel a spirit and a power within us that
it.
we know full well is not our own. But we know whence it comes
and what its nature is. It is the great and cumulative stream of
human culture, flowing down to us from its sources in antiquity,
carrying us upon its bosom, nourishing and sustaining us, using,
but yet preserving rather than consuming, us for the culture and
the generations yet to come.
If mathematical ideas enter the mind of the individual mathe-

matician from the outside, from the stream of culture into which
he was born and reared, the question arises, where did culture in
general, and mathematical culture in particular, come from in
the first place? How did it arise and acquire its content?
It goes without saying, of course, that mathematics did not
originate with Euclid and Pythagoras— or even with the thinkers
of ancientEgypt and Mesopotamia. Mathematics is a develop-

ment of thought that had its beginning with the origin of man
and culture a million years or so ago. To be sure, little progress
was made during hundreds of thousands of years. Still, we find in

mathematics today systems and concepts that were developed by
primitive and preliterate peoples of the Stone Ages, survivals of
which are to be found among savage tribes today. The system
of counting by tens arose from using the fingers of both hands.
The vigesimal system of the Maya astronomers grew out of the
use of toes as well as fingers. To calculate is to count with calculi,
pebbles. A straight line was a stretched linen cord, and so on.

To be sure, the first mathematical ideas to exist were brought
into being by the nervous systems of individual human beings.*
They were, however, exceedingly simple and rudimentary. Had it
not been for the human ability to give these ideas overt expression
in symbolic form and to communicate them from one person to

another so that new combinations would be formed, and these
new syntheses passed on from one generation to another in a
continuous process of interaction and accumulation, the human
species would have made no mathematical progress beyond its
initial stage. This statement is supported by our studies of anthro-
* The question of the extent to which the form and content of mathe-
matical thought are determined by the structure of the human mind, i.e., by
the neuro-sensory-muscular-etcetera system of man, is interesting and relevant
but one into which we shall not go at length here. Obviously the structure of
the human organism conditions all of man's experience, mathematical and
otherwise. With regard to such things as "inherent and necessary laws of
thought," however, it may be remarked that normal children and many primi-
tive peoples find nothing wrong with the notion that a body can be in two
different places at the —
same time not to mention the objection that is raised
to the phrase "at the same time" by the theory of relativity; 3=1 in some
philosophies; an animal need not be either a mammal, A, or a non-mammal,
not-A; it may be a monotreme, like the duckbill who lays eggs reptilian
fashion but who suckles its young; etc. Whatever the influence of the struc-
ture and processes of the human organism upon the "laws of thought or
logic" may be, it must, of course, find expression in one cultural form or an-
other; any neurological imperative will therefore always be conditioned by
convention.
poid apes. They are exceedingly intelligent and versatile. They

have a fine appreciation of geometric forms, solve problems by
imagination and insight, and possess not a little originality. But
they cannot express their neuro-sensory-muscular concepts in
overt symbolic form. They cannot communicate their ideas to one

another except by gestures, i.e., by signs rather than symbols.
Hence ideas cannot react upon one another within their nervous
systems to produce nev^' syntheses. Nor can these ideas be trans-
mitted from one generation to another in a cumulative manner.

Consequently, one generation of apes begins where the preceding
generation began. There is neither accumulation nor progress.
Thanks to articulate speech, the human species fares better.
Ideas are cast into symbolic form and given overt expression.
Communication is thus made easy and versatile. Ideas now im-
pinge upon nervous systems from the outside. These ideas react
upon one another within these nervous systems. Some are
eliminated; others strengthened. New combinations are formed,
new syntheses achieved. These advances are in turn communicated
to someone else, transmitted to the next generation. In a relatively
short time, the accumulation of mathematical ideas has gone
beyond the creative range of the individual human nervous sys-
tem unaided hy cultural tiadition. From this time on, mathe-

matical progress is made by the interaction of ideas already in
existence rather than by the creation of new concepts by the
human nervous system alone. Ages before writing was invented,
individuals in all cultures were dependent upon the mathematical
ideas present in their respective cultures. Thus, the mathematical
behavior of an Apache Indian is the response that he makes to
stimuli provided by the mathematical ideas in his culture. The
same was true for Neanderthal man and the inhabitants of ancient
Eg}q3t, Mesopotamia and Greece. It is true for individuals of
modern nations today.
Thus we see that mathematical ideas were produced originally
by the human nervous system when man first became a human
being a million years ago. These concepts were exceedingly rudi-

mentary, and the human nen'ous system, unaided by culture,
could never have gone beyond them regardless of hov^^ many
generations lived and died. It was the formation of a cultural
tradition that made progress possible. The communication of
ideas from person to person, the transmission of concepts from
one generation to another, placed in the minds of men (i.e.,
stimulated their nervous systems) ideas which through inter-
action formed new syntheses which were passed on in turn to

others.
We return now, in conclusion, to some of the observations of

G. H. Hardy, to show that his conception of mathematical
reality and mathematical behavior is consistent with the theory
of culture that we have presented here and is, in fact, explained

by it.
"I believe that mathematical reality lies outside us," ^^ he says.
If by ''us" he means "us mathematicians individually," he is quite

right. They do lie outside each one of us; they are a part of the
culture into which we are born. Hardy feels that "in some sense,
mathematical truth is part of objective reality," ^^ (emphasis
ours). But he also distinguishes "mathematical reality" from
"physical reality," and insists that "pure geometries are not pic-
tures . . . [of] the spatio-temporal reality of the physical world."

What then is the nature of mathematical reality? Hardy declares
that "there is no sort of agreement . . . among either mathe-
maticians or philosophers" ~^ on this point. Our interpretation
provides the solution. Mathematics does have objective reality.
And this reality, as Hardy insists, is not the reality of the physical
world. But there is no mystery about it. Its reality is cultural: the
sort of reality possessed by a code of etiquette, traffic regulations,
the rules of baseball, the English language or rules of grammar.
Thus we see that there is no mystery about mathematical
reality. We need not search for mathematical "truths" in the
divine mind or in the structure of the Universe. Mathematics

is a kind of primate behavior as languages, musical systems and
penal codes are. Mathematical concepts are man-made just as
ethical values, traffic rules, and bird cages are man-made. But this
does not invalidate the belief that mathematical propositions lie

outside us and have an objective reality. They do lie outside us.
They existed before we were born. As we grow up we find them
in the world about us. But this objectivity exists only for the indi-
^•idual. The locus of mathematical reality is cultural tradition,
i.e., the continuum of symbolic behavior. This theory illuminates

also the phenomenon of novelty and progress in mathematics.
Ideas interact with one another in the nervous systems of men

and thus form new syntheses. If the owners of these nervous
systems are aware of what has taken place they call it invention
as Hadamard does, or "creation," to use Poincare's term. If they
do not understand what has happened, they call it a "discovery"
and belie\'e they have found something in the external world.
Mathematical concepts are independent of the individual mind
but lie wholly within the mind of the species, i.e., culture.
Mathematical invention and discover}^ are merelv two aspects of

an event that takes place simultaneously in the cultural tradition
and in one or more human nervous systems. Of these two factors,
culture is the more significant; the determinants of mathematical

evolution lie here. Tlie human nen'ous system is merely the
catalyst that makes the cultural process possible.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE DEFINITION AND PROHIBITION
OF INCEST
"Again and again in the world's history, savage tribes must have had
plainly before their minds the simple practical alternative between
marrying-out and being killed out . .
." —E. B. Tylor i
he subject of incest has a strange fascination for

7,:. man.
He was preoccupied with it long before he developed the
art of writing. We find incestuous episodes in the mythol-
ogies of countless peoples. And in advanced cultures, from
Sophocles to Eugene O'Neill, incest has been one of the most
popular of all literary themes. Men seem never to tire of it but
continue to find it ever fresh and absorbing. Incest must indeed
be reckoned as one of man's major interests in life.
Yet, despite this intense and perennial concern, it is a fact

that incest is but little understood even today. Men of science
have been obliged all too often to admit that they are baffled and
to declare that it is too mysterious, too obscure, to yield to rational
interpretation, at least for the present.
One of the more common explanations of the universal pro-
hibition of incest is that it is instinctive. Thus Robert H. Lowie
once accepted "Hobhouse's view that the sentiment is in-
stinctive." ^ To "explain" an element of behavior by saying that

it is "instinctive" contributes little to our understanding of it as
a rule. Sometimes it merely conceals our ignorance with a verbal

curtain of pseudo-knowledge. To say that prohibitions against
incest are "instinctive" is of course to declare that there is a
303
natural, inborn and innate feeling of revulsion toward unions with
close relatives. But if this were the case, why should societies
enact strict laws to prevent them? Why should they legislate

against something that everyone already wishes passionately to
avoid? Do not, as a matter of fact, the stringent and worldwide
prohibitions indicate a universal and powerful desire for sexual
unions with one's relatives? Clinical evidence points in the same

direction, "Freud has shown all but conclusively," writes Golden-
weiser, "that incestuous tendencies represent one of the most
^
deeply rooted impulses of the individual."
There are further objections to the instinct theory. Some
societies regard marriage with a first cousin as incestuous while
others do not. Are we to assume that the instinct varies from
tribe to tribe? Certainly when we consider our own legal defini-
tions of incest, which vary from state to state, to claim that a
biological instinct can recognize state boundary lines is somewhat

grotesque. In some societies it is incestuous to marry a parallel
cousin (a child of your father's brother or your mother's sister)
but it is permissible, and may even be mandatory, to marry a
cross cousin (a child of your father's sister or your mother's
brother). We cannot see how "instinct" can account for this,
either; in fact, we cannot see how instinct can distinguish a cross

cousin from a parallel cousin. It is usually incestuous to marry a
clansman even though no genealogical connection whatever can
be discovered with him, whereas marriage with a close relative in
another clan may be permissible. Plainly, the instinct theory does
not help us at all, and it is not easy to find a scientist to defend
it today.*
* In
1932, Professor Lowie abandoned the instinct theory of incest pro-
hibitions. But he comes no closer to an explanation than to observe that "the
aversion to incest is, therefore, best regarded as a primeval cultural adaptation"
(Lowic, 1933) p. 67. In one of his most recent works. An Introduction to
Cultural Anthiopohg}' (2nd ed., New York, 1940) he again discusses incest
but goes no further than to suggest that "the horror of incest is not inborn,
<hough it is doubtless a very ancient cultural feature" (p. 232).
THE DEFINITION AND PROHIBITION OF INCEST 305
Another theory, championed generations ago by Lewis H.

Morgan * and others, and not without defenders today,
is that
incest was defined and prohibited because inbreeding causes bio-

logical degeneration. This theory is so plausible as to seem self-
evident, but it is wrong for all that. In the first place, inbreeding
as such does not cause degeneration; the testimony of biologists

is conclusive on this point. To be sure, inbreeding intensifies the
inheritance of traits, good or bad. If the offspring of a union of

brother and sister are inferior it is because the parents were of
inferior stock, not because they were brother and sister. But
superior traits as well as inferior ones can be intensified by in-
breeding, and plant and animal breeders frequently resort to this

device to improve their strains. If the children of brother-sister or
father-daughter unions in our own society are frequently feeble-
minded or otherwise inferior it is because feeble-minded indi-
viduals are more likely to break the powerful incest taboo than
are normal men and women and hence more likely to beget
degenerate offspring. But in societies where brother-sister mar-
riages are permitted or required, at least within the ruling family,
as in ancient Egypt, aboriginal Hawaii and Incaic Peru, we may

find excellence. Cleopatra was the offspring of brother-sister mar-
riages continued through several generations and she was "not
only handsome, vigorous, intellectual, but also prolific ... as
perfect a specimen of the human race as could be found in any
^
age or class of society."
But there is still another objection to the degeneration theory as

a means of accounting for the origin of prohibitions against incest.
A number of competent ethnographers have claimed that certain
tribes are quite ignorant of the nature of the biological process
of reproduction, specifically, that they are unaware of the relation-
ship between sexual intercourse and pregnancy. Or, they may

believe that coitus is prerequisite to pregnancy but not the cause
of it.^ Malinowski, for example, claims that the Trobriand Is-
landers denied that copulation has anything to do with pregnancy,

not only among human beings but among the lower animals as
well." This thesis of ignorance of the facts of life among primitive
peoples has been challenged by other ethnologists, and I am not

prepared to adjudicate the dispute. But it may be pointed out
that such ignorance should not be ver)' surprising. Once a fact
becomes well known there is a tendency to regard it as self-evident.

But the relationship between coitus and pregnancy, a condition
that would not be discovered until weeks or even a few months
later, is anything but obvious. Furthermore, pregnancy does not
always follow intercourse. And knowing primitive man's penchant
for explaining so many things, the phenomena of life and death

especially, in terms of supernatural forces or agents, we should
not be surprised to find some tribes even today who do not under-
stand the physiology of paternity.
At any rate, there must have been a time at which such under-
standing was not possessed by any members of the human race.
We have no reason to believe that apes have any appreciation of
these facts, and it must have taken man a long time to acquire
it. There are reasons, however, as we shall show later on, for
believing that incest taboos appeared in the very earliest stage
of human social evolution, in all probability prior to an under-
standing of paternity. The reason for the prohibition of inbreed-
ing could not therefore have been a desire to prevent deterioration
of stock if the connection between copulation and the birth of
children wêre not understood.
This thesis receives additional support from a consideration of
the kinship systems of primitive peoples. In these systems a per-
son calls many of his collateral relatives "brother" and "sister,"
namely, his parallel cousins of several degrees for example, and the
children of his mother's and father's parallel cousins, also of
several degrees. Marriage between individuals who call each other
"brother" and "sister" is strictly prohibited by the incest taboo,
even though they be cousins of the third or fourth degree. But
marriage with a first cross-cousin may be permitted and often
is required. Now these people may not understand the biology
of conception and pregnancy, but they know which woman bore
each child. Thus we see that the marriage rules disregard the
degree of biological relationship so far as preventing inbreeding is
concerned; they may prohibit marriage with a fourth parallel
cousin who is called "brother" or "sister," but permit or require
marriage with a first cross-cousin who is called "cousin." Obviously,
the kinship terms express sociological rather than biological re-
lationships. Obvious also is the fact that the incest taboos follow
the pattern of social ties rather than those of blood.
But suppose that inbreeding did produce inferior offspring, are
we to suppose that ignorant, magic-ridden savages could have

established this correlation without rather refined statistical tech-
niques? How could they have isolated the factor of inbreeding
from numerous others such as genetics, nutrition, illnesses of
mother and infant, etc., without some sort of medical criteria
and measurements— even though crude— and vîthout even the

rudiments of statistics?
Finally, if we should grant that inbreeding does produce de-

generacy, and that primitive peoples were able to recognize this
fact, why did they prohibit marriage with a parallel cousin while
allowing or even requiring union with a cross-cousin? Both are
equally close biologically. Or, why was marriage with a clansman
prohibited even though the blood tie was so remote that it could
not be established genealogically with the data available to
memory, while marriage with a non-clansman was permitted even
though he was a close blood relative? Obviously, the degeneracy
theory is as weak as the instinct hypothesis although it may be
more engaging intellectually.
Sigmund Freud's theory is ingenious and appealing— in a dra-
matic sort of way at least. Proceeding from Darwin's conjectures
concerning the primal social state of man, based upon what was
then known about anthropoid apes, and utilizing W. Robertson
Smith's studies of totemism and sacrifice, Freud developed the
following thesis: in the earliest stage of human society, people

lived in small groups each of which was dominated by a powerful
male, the Father. This individual monopolized all females in the
group, daughters as well as mothers. As the young males grew up

and became sexually mature, the father drove them away to keep
them from sharing his females with him.

"One day," says Freud in Totem and Tahoo, "the expelled
brothers joined forces, slew and ate the father, and thus put an
end to the father horde. Together they dared and accomplished
what would have remained impossible for them singly." ^ But
they did not divide their father's women among themselves as
they had planned. Now that he was dead their hatred and ag-
gressiveness disappeared, and their love and respect for him came
to the fore. As a consequence, they determined to give him in
death the submission and obedience they had refused in life.
They made therefore a solemn pact to touch none of their father's

women and to seek mates elsewhere. This pledge was passed on
from one generation to the next: * You must have nothing to
do with the women of your father's household, i.e., of your own
group, but must seek other mates. In this way the incest taboo
and the exogamy came into being. This part of

institution of
Totem and Taboo is great drama and not without value as an
interpretation of powerful psychological forces, just as Hamlet
is great drama in the same sense. But as ethnology, Freud's theory
would still be inadequate even if thismuch were verifiable. It does
not even attempt to account for the many and varied forms of
incest prohibition.
It is not our purpose here to survey and criticize all of the many
theories that have been advanced in the past to account for the
* In another work, Contributions to the Theory of Sex, Freud suggests, if
he does not say so outright, that the incest taboo became incorporated into
the germ plasm and was consequently transmitted by means of biological
heredity: "The incest barrier probably belongs to the historical acquisitions of
humanity and, moral taboos, it must be fixed in
like other many individuals
through organic heredity," (Freud, 1938) p. 617.
definition and prohibition of incest. We may, however, briefly
notice two others before we leave the subject, namely, those of
E. Westermarck and Emile Durkheim.
Westermarck's thesis that "the fundamental cause of the exoga-
mous prohibitions seems to be the remarkable absence of erotic
feelings between persons living very closely together from child-
hood, leading to a positive feeling of aversion when the act is
thought of," ^ is not in accord with the facts in the first place
and would still be inadequate if it were. Propinquity does not
annihilate sexual desire, and if it did there would be no need
for stringent prohibitions. Secondly, incest taboos are frequently
in force between persons not living in close association.
Durkheim attempts to explain the prohibition of incest as a
part of his general theory of totemism." The savage knew intui-

tively, Durkheim reasoned, that blood is a vital fluid or principle.
To shed the blood of one's own totemic group would be a great
sin or crime. Since blood would be shed in the initial act of inter-
course, a man must eschew all women of his own totem. Thus the
taboo against incest and rules of exogamy came into being. This
theory is wholly inadequate ethnologically. Taboos against incest
are much more widespread than totemism; the former are uni-
versal, the latter is far from being so. And the theory does not
even attempt to explain the many diverse forms of the definition
and prohibition of incest.
In view of repeated attempts and as many failures to account

for the origin of definitions of incest and of rules regulating its
prohibition, is it any wonder that many scholars, surveying de-

cades of fruitless theories, have become discouraged and have
come to feel that the problem is still too difficult to yield to
scientific interpretation?
In the same work in which he presented his theory, but some

pages earlier, Freud said: "Still, in the end, one is compelled to
subscribe to Frazer's resigned statement, namely, that we do not
know the origin of incest dread and do not even know how to
" «
guess at it.
Professor Ralph Linton treats of the subject as follows:
The causes which underlie such limitations on marriage,

technically known as incest regulations, are very imperfectly
understood. Since these regulations are of universal occur-
rence, it seems safe to assume that their causes are every-
where present, but biological factors can be ruled out at once.
Close inbreeding is not necessarily injurious Neither are . . .
purely social explanations of incest regulations altogether satis-
facton^ since the forms which assume are

these regulations
extremely varied ... It seems possible that there are certain
psychological factors involved, but these can hardly be strong
enough or constant enough to account for the institutionaliza-
tion of incest regulations . . . They have probably originated
from a combination of all these factors . ,
.^^
In other words, somewhere in the man-culture situation lie
the causes of incest regulations, but where they are and why and
how they are exercised are matters too obscure for description or
explanation.
The late Alexander Goldenweiser, a prominent disciple of Franz
Boas, never discovered the secret of the prohibition of incest. In
Early Civih'zation he spoke of certain taboos that "are everywhere
reinforced by the so-called 'horror of incest,' an emotional reaction
of somewhat mysterious origin." Fifteen years later in Anthro-
pology, his last major work, he could go no farther than to repeat
these identical words.^^
The sociologists have little to offer. Kimball Young, for example,
disavows instinct as the source of incest prohibitions, but he
* Totem and Taboo, 217. Frazer's statement was: "Thus the ultimate
p.
origin of exogamy and with it the law of incest —
since exogamy was devised
to prevent incest — remains a problem nearly as dark as ever," {Totemism
and Exogamy, Vol. I, p. 165).
advances no further explanation than to assert that "the taboo is
a rather constantand expected result arising from the very nature
of the social interaction between parents and children and among
the children themselves" i^— which is virtually equivalent to no
explanation at all.
Dr. Clark Wissler, one of the foremost anthropologists of our

day, observes:
". . . so far as we can see, the only facts sufficiently well estab-
lished to serve as a starting point are that anti-incest responses of
some kind are universal among mankind. As to why these are
universal, we are no nearer a solution than before." ^*
These are discouraging words indeed. "Anti-incest responses"

help us no more than "an instinctive horror" of incest. But in the
phrase "we are no nearer a solution [now] than before," we
may way out of the dilemma. Perhaps
find a clue to a these
theorists have been on the wrong track. Science has found itself
on the wrong track countless times during its relatively brief

career so far. So many, in fact, that many of the important achieve-
ments of science consist, not in the discovery of some new fact
or principle, but in erecting signs which read "Blind alley. Do

not enter!" Phrenology was one of these blind alleys. But until
it has been explored, how can one know whether a passage is

a blind alley or a corridor leading to a new world? Once it has
been found to be a blind alley, however, other scientists need
not and should not waste their time exploring it again. Perhaps
we are confronted by blind alleys in the various theories of incest

and exogamy that we have just surveyed. Wissler's admission
that "we are no nearer a solution [now] than before" would lead
us to think so.
Fortunately we are not in the situation of a mariner who has
lost his bearings and who must try to recover his true course.
We do not need to seek a new path in the hope of finding an

adequate solution of the problem of incest. The solution has
.
already been found, and that long ago.
Confusion in this field of ethnological theory has been due to
circumstances such as we have just described. Theorists who have
sought biological or psychological explanations of incest taboos
have been on the wrong track; they have only led us into blind
Those who have sought a culturological explanation have
alleys.
succeeded fully and well. The culturological point of view is

younger and less widely known than the psychological or even
sociological. Although it was set forth simply and adequately by

the great English anthropologist, E. B. Tylor, as early as 1871, in
the first chapter of Primitive Culture— which was significantly
,
enough entitled 'The Science of Culture"— it has not become
widely known or appreciated among social scientists, even among
cultural anthropologists. There are some who recognize in the
new science of culture only a mystical, fatalistic metaphysic that
should be shunned like the Devil. So habituated to psychological
interpretations are many students of human behavior that they
are unable to rise to the level of culturological interpretation.
Thus, Goldenweiser looked to psychology for ethnological salva-
tion: "It seems hardly fair to doubt that psychoanalysis will
ultimately furnish a satisfactory psychological interpretation of

this 'horror of incest'." ^^ Professor Wm. F. Ogburn observes
that:
"Incest taboos and marriage regulations may be quite fully
described historically and culturally, yet there is something de-
cidedly strange about incest and about marriage prohibitions.
*
One's curiosity is not satisfied by the cultural facts."
* Social Change, p. 175. What Professor Ogburn means apparently is that

culturology cannot tell us all that we want to know about incest. This is true;
psychology must be enlisted in the inquiry also. But one must insist upon a
sharp and clear distinction between the psychological problem and cultur-
ological problem. Psychology cannot account for the origin or the form of the
.prohibitions; only culturology can do this. But for an understanding of the
—
way the human primate organism behaves thinks, feels, and acts within, —
or with reference to, one of these cultural forms, we must go to psychology.
And even men like Lowie and Wissler, who have done excellent
•work along culturological lines in other areas, have relapsed to
the psychological level when confronted with the problem of
incest. Thus Lowie once declared that "it is not the function of
the ethnologist but of the biologist and psychologist to explain
I
why man has so deep-rooted a horror of incest." ^'^
And Wissler
is inclined to turn over all problems of cultural origins to the
psychologist, leaving to the anthropologist the study of traits
after they have been launched upon their cultural careers. ^^
The science of culture has, as we have already indicated, long

ago given us an adequate explanation of incest prohibitions. We
find it set forth simply and succinctly in an essay by E. B. Tylor
published in 1888: "On a Method of Investigating the Develop-
ment of Institutions, Applied to the Laws of Marriage and
Descent." "Exogamy," he wrote, "enabling a growing tribe tol
keep itself compact by constant unions between its spreading
clans, enables it to overmatch any number of small intermarrying
groups, isolated and helpless. Again and again in the world's
history, savage tribes must have had plainly before their minds
the simple practical alternative between marrying-out and being \
killed out" (p. 267). ,^Â

The origin of incest taboos greatly antedates clan organization,
but a sure clue to an understanding of incest prohibitions and
exogamy is given by Tylor nevertheless: primitive people were
confronted with a choice between "marrying-out and being killed
out." The argument may be set forth as follows:
Man, like all other animal species, is engaged in a struggle
for existence. Co-operation, mutual aid, may become valuable
means of carrying on this struggle at many points. A number of

individuals working together can do many things more cfEciently
and effectively than the same individuals working singly. And a
co-operative group can do certain things that lone individuals can-
not do at all. Mutual aid makes life more secure for both indi-
vidual and group. One might expect, therefore, that in the struggle
for security and survival every effort would be made to foster
co-operation and to secure its benefits.
Among the lower primates there is little co-operation. To be

sure, in very simple operations one ape may co-ordinate his efforts
with those of another. But their co-operation is limited and rudi-

mentary because the means of communication are crude and
limited; co-operation requires communication. Monkeys and apes
can communicate with one another by means of signs— vocal
utterances or gestures—but the range of ideas that can be com-
municated in this way is very narrow indeed. Only articulate
speech can make extensive and versatile exchange of ideas possible,

and this is lacking among anthropoids. Such a simple form of
co-operation as "you go around the house that way while I go
around the other way, meeting you on the far side," is beyond the
reach of the great apes. With the advent of articulate speech,

however, the possibilities of communication became virtually un-
limited. We can readily see its significance for social organization
in general and for incest and exogamy in particular.
One might get the impression from some psychologists, the

Freudians especially, perhaps, that the incestuous wish is itself
instinctive, that somehow a person "just naturally" focuses his

sexual desires upon a relative rather than upon a non-relative, and,
among relatives, upon the closer rather than the remoter degrees
of consanguinity. This view is quite as unwarranted as the theory
of an "instinctive horror" of incest; an inclination toward sexual
union with close relatives is no more instinctive than the social
regulations devised to prevent it. A child has sexual hunger as
well as food hunger. And he fixes his sex hunger upon certain
individuals as he does his food hunger upon certain edible sub-
stances. He finds sexual satisfaction in persons close to him be-
cause they are close to him, not because they are his relatives.
To be sure, they may be close to him because they are his relatives,
but that is another matter. As a consequence of proximity and
satisfaction the child fixates his sexual desires upon his immediate
associates, his parents and his sibhngs, just as he fixates his food
hungers upon familiar foods that have given satisfaction. He thus
comes to have definite orientations and firm attachments in the
realm of sex as in the field of nutrition. There is thus no mystery
about incestuous desire; it is merely the formation and fixation,
of definite channels of experience and satisfaction. |
We find therefore, even in sub-human primate families, a strong

inclination toward inbreeding; one strives to obtain sexual satis-
faction from a close associate. This tendency is carried over into

human society. But here it is incompatible with the co-operative
way of life that articulate speech makes possible. In the basic
'
activities of subsistence, and defense against enemies, co-operation

becomes important because life is made more secure thereby. \
Other factors being constant, the tribe that exploits most fully the
possibilities of mutual aid will have the best chance to survive.
In times of crisis, co-operation may become a matter of life or
death. In providing food and maintaining an effective defense
against foreign foes, co-operation becomes all-important.
But would primordial man be obliged to construct a co-opera-
tive organization for subsistence and defense from the very begin-
ning, or could he build upon a foundation already in existence?

In the evolutionary process, whether it be social or biological, we
almost always find the new growing out of, or based upon, the
old. And such was the case here; the new co-operative organization
for food and defense was built upon a structure already present:
the family. After all, virtually everyone belonged to one family
or another, and the identification of the co-operative group with
the sex-based family would mean that the benefits of mutual aid
would be shared by all. When, therefore, certain species of an-
thropoids acquired articulate speech and became human beings, a
new element, an economic factor, was introduced into an institu-

tion which had up to now rested solely upon sexual attraction
between male and female. We are, of course, using the term
economic in a rather broad sense here to include safety as well
as subsistence. The human primate family had now become a
corporation with nutritive and protective functions as well as
sexual and incidentally reproductive functions. And life was made

more secure as a consequence.
But a regime of co-operation confined to the members of a
family would be correspondingly limited in its benefits. If co-
operation is advantageous within family groups, why not between

families as well? The problem was now to extend the scope of
mutual aid.
In the primate order, as we have seen, the social relationships
between mates, parents and children, and among siblings ante-

dates articulate speech and co-operation. They are strong as well
as primary. And, just as the earliest co-operative group was built
upon these social ties, so would a subsequent extension of mutual

aid have to reckon with them. At this point we run squarely
agains.t the tendency to mate with an intimate associate. Co-
operation between families cannot be established if parent marries
child; and brother, sister. A way must be found to overcome this
centripetal tendency with a centrifugal force. This way was found

in the definition and prohibition of incest. If persons were for-
bidden to marry their parents or siblings they would be compelled

to marry into some other family group— or remain celibate, which
is contrary to the nature of primates. The leap was taken; a way
was found to unite families with one another, and social evolution
as a human affair was launched upon its career. It would be

difficult to exaggerate the significance of this step. Unless some
way had been found to establish strong and enduring social ties
between families, social evolution could have gone no farther on

the human level than among the anthropoids.
r With the definition and prohibition of incest, hmilies became
I units in the co-operative process as well as individuals. Marriages
1 came to be contracts first between families, later between even
Llargcr groups. The individual lost much of his initiative in court-
ship and choice of mates for it was now a group affair. Among
many primitive peoples a youth may not even be acquainted with
his bride before marriage; in some cases he may not even have seen
her. Children may be betrothed in childhood or infancy— or even
before they are born. To be sure, there are tribes where one can
become acquainted or even intimate with his spouse before mar-
riage, but the group character of the contract is there nevertheless.
And in our own society today a marriage is still an alliance be-
tween families to a very considerable extent. Many a man has
expostulated, "But I am marrying her, not her family!" only to
discover his lack of realism later.
The widespread institutions of levirate and sororate are explain-
able by this theory also. In the levirate a man marries the wife or
wives of his deceased brother. When a man customarily marries
the unwed sister of his deceased wife the practice is called sororate.
In both cases the group character of marriage is manifest. Each
group of consanguinei supplies a member of the other group with
a spouse. If the spouse dies, the relatives of the deceased must
supply another to take his or her place. The alliance between
families is important and must be continued; even death cannot
part them.
The equally widespread institutions of bride-price and dowry
likewise find their significance in the prohibition of incest to
establish co-operation between family groups. The incest taboo
necessitates marriage between family groups. But it cannot guar-
antee a continuation of the mutual aid arrangement thus estab-
lished. This is where bride-price and dowry come in: they are
devices for making permanent the marriage tie that the prohi-
bition of incest has established. When a family or a group of
relatives has received articles of value as bride-price or dowry, they
distribute them as a rule among their various members. Should
the marriage tie be broken or dissolved, they may have to return
the wealth received at the time of the marriage. This is almost
certain to be the case if it can be shown that the spouse whose
relatives were the recipients of the bride-price or dowry was at
fault. It very often happens that the relatives are reluctant to

return the wealth if indeed they still have it. If it has already been
consumed they will have to dig into their own pockets. It may
already be earmarked for the marriage of one of their own group.
In any event, the return of dowry or bride-price would be an in-
convenience or a deprivation. Consequently they are likely to take
a keen interest in the marriage and to try to prevent their own
relative from doing anything to disrupt it.
. According to our theory the prohibition of incest has at bottom

an economic motivation— not that primitive peoples were aware of
I this motive, however, for they were not. Rules of exogamy origin-
ated as crystallizations of processes of a social system rather than
as products of individual psyches. Inbreeding was prohibited and
I
marriage between groups was made compulsory in order to obtain
the maximum benefits of co-operation. If this theory be sound,

'
we should find marriage and the family in primitive society wear-
j
ing a definite economic aspect. This is, in fact, precisely what we
do find. Let us turn for summary statements to two leading au-
thorities in social anthropology. Professor Robert H. Lowie writes
as follows:
Marriage, as we cannot too often or too vehemently insist, is
only to a limited extent based on sexual considerations. The

primary motive, so far as the individual mates are concerned,
is precisely the founding of a self-sufficient economic aggregate.
A Kai [of New Guinea] does not marry because of desires he
can readily gratify outside of wedlock without assuming any
responsibilities; he marries because he needs a woman to make
pots and to cook his meals, to manufacture nets and weed his
plantations, in return for which he provides the household with
game and fish and builds the dwelling.^^
And A. R. Radcliffe-Brown makes similar observations con-

cerning the aborigines of Australia:
The important function of the family is that
provides for the
it
feeding and bringing up of the children. based on the co-

It is
operation of man and wife, the former providing the flesh food
and the latter the vegetable food, so that quite apart from the
question of children a man without a wife is in an unsatis-
factory position since he has no one to supply him regularly
with vegetable food, to provide his firewood, and so on. This
economic aspect of the family is a most important one ... I
believe that in the minds of the natives themselves this aspect
of marriage, i.e., its relation to subsistence, is of greatly more
importance than the fact that man and wife are sexual
partners .^^
Turning to the colonial period in America we find the economic

character of the family equally pronounced. According to Professor
Wm. F. Ogburn:
In colonial times in America the family was a very important

economic Not infrequently it produced sub-
organization.
stantially all thatconsumed, with the exception of such
it
things as metal tools, utensils, salt and certain luxuries. The

home was, in short, a factory. Civilization was based on a
domestic system of production of which the family was the
center.
The economic power of the family produced certain corre-
sponding social conditions. In marrying, a man sought not
only a mate and companion but a business partner.* Husband
and wife each had specialized skills and contributed definite
services to the partnership. Children were regarded, as the laws
*We recall Benjamin Franklin's account of his proposal to marry a girl

providing her parents would give him "as much money with their daughter
as would pay off my remaining debt for the printing-house." He even sug-
gested that they "mortgage their house in the loan-office" if they did not
have the cash on hand. The parents, however, thought the printing business
a poor risk and declined to give both money and girl. "Therefore," says
Frankhn, "I was forbidden the house, and the daughter shut up," (Auto-
biography, Pocket Books, Inc., New York, 1940), p. 78.
of the time showed, not only as objects of affection but as

productive agents. The age of marriage, the birth rate and
the attitude toward divorce were all affected by the fact that
the home was an economic institution. Divorce or separation

not only broke a personal relationship but a business one as
well.2°
And in own society today, the economic basis of marriage

our
and the family is made clear by suits for breach of promise and
alienation of affections in which the law takes a very materialistic,
even monetary, view of love and romance.* Suits for non-support,

alimony, property settlements upon divorce, the financial obliga-
tions between parents and children, and so on, exhibit further the
economic function of the family. Marriage for many women today
means a greater economic return for unskilled labor than could
be obtained in any other occupation.
It is interesting to note, in this connection, that Freud who,
according to popular belief, "attributes everything to sex," never-
theless declares that "the motivating force of human society is
^^
fundamentally economic."
The notion that marriage is an institution brought into being
to provide individuals with a means of satisfying their sex hunger
i~is naive and anthropocentric. Marriage does provide an avenue of
sexual exercise and satisfaction, to be sure. But it was not sexual de-
. sire that produced the institution. Rather, it was the exigencies of
* Onecourt ruling observes that "the gist of the action for ahenation of
affections is the loss of consortium. 'This is a property right growing out of
the marriage relation' . . ." (Supreme Court of Connecticut, Case of Maggay

vs. Nikitko, 1933), quoted by Anthony M. Turano, "The Racket of Stolen
Love," (American Mercury, Vol. 33, p. 295, November, 1934).
Another legal statement says that "the law generally takes the rather worldly
view that marriage is a 'valuable' consideration; a thing not only possessing
value, but one the value of which may be estimated in money, and there-
fore, in a sense, marriage engagements are regarded as business transactions,
entered into with a view, in part, at least, to pecuniary advantage," (Ruling
Case Law, Vol. 4, p. 143), quoted by Anthony M. Turano, "Breach of
Promise: Still a Racket," (American Mercury, Vol. 32, p. 40, May, 1934).
a social system that was striving to make full use of its resources
for co-operative endeavor. Marriage, as an institution, finds its
explanation in terms of sociocultural process rather than individual

psychology. In primitive society there was frequently ample means
of sexual exercise outside of wedlock. And in our own society the
great extent of prostitution, the high incidence of venereal disease
as an index of promiscuity, as well as other evidence, show that
the exercise of sexual functions is not confined to one's own
spouse by any means. As a matter of fact, marriage very often
restricts the scope of one's sexual activity. Indeed, monogamy
ideally considered is the next thing to celibacy.
Nor is love the basis of marriage and the family, however
fondly this notion may be cherished. No culture could afford
to use such a fickle and ephemeral sentiment as love as the basis
of an important institution. Love is here today but it may be

gone tomorrow. But economic needs are with us always. Absence
of love is not sufficient grounds for divorce. Indeed, one may
despise and loathe, hate and fear, one's mate and still be unable
to obtain a divorce. Until very recently at least one state in the
Union would grant no divorce at all. And certain religious faiths

take the same position. Marriage and the family are society's first
and fundamental way of making provision for the economic
needs of the individual. And it was the definition and prohibition
of incest that initiated his whole course of social development.
But to return to the definitions and prohibitions themselves.
These vary, as we saw at the outset, from culture to culture. The
variations are to be explained in terms of the specific circumstances
under which co-operation is to take place. One set of circumstances
will require one definition of incest and one form of marriage;

another set will require differentcustoms. The habitat and the
technological adjustment to it, the mode of subsistence, cir-
cumstances of defense and offense, division of labor between the

sexes, and degree of cultural development, are factors which con-
dition the definition of incest and the formulation of rules to

prohibit it. No people known to modern science customarily
permits marriage between parent and child. Brother-sister marriage
has been permitted in certain cultures such as those of ancient

Egypt, Hawaii, and Peru under the Incas, but in each instance it
was restricted to the ruling household. But this was not incest
or "royal incest" as Lowie and Fortune call it respectively." Nor
was it "sanctioned incest" to use Kimball Young's phrase."
"Sanctioned incest" is of course a contradiction of terms; incest
is by definition something criminal and prohibited. These mar-

riages between siblings of royal families were not only not pro-
hibited, they were required. They are examples of endogamy, as

the prohibition of brother-sister marriages are examples of
exogamy. Solidarity is a source of strength and effective action in
society, as co-operation is a way of achieving security. And

endogamy promotes solidarity as exogamy fosters size and strength
of mutual aid groups.
In view of the fact that a sure clue to the reason of the origin
of prohibitions of incest was set forth by Tylor as early as 1888,
it is rather remarkable that we should find anthropologists and
sociologists today who juggle with "anti-incest responses" and
who look to psychoanalysis for ultimate understanding. As a
matter of fact, we find the reasons for exogamy set forth by Saint
Augustine in The City oi God (Bk. XV), more than 1400 years
before Tylor.
"For it is very reasonable and just/' Augustine says, "that men,
among whom concord is honorable and useful, should be bound
together by various relationships, and that one man should not
himself sustain many relationships, but that the various relation-
ships should be distributed among several, and should thus serve

to bind together the greatest number in the same social interests.
'Father' and 'father-in-law' are the names of two relationships.

When, therefore, a man has one person for his father, another for
his father-in-law, friendship extends itself to a larger number."
He comments upon the fact that Adam was both father and
father-in-law to his sons and daughters:
"So too Eve his wife was both mother and mother-in-law to
her children . . . while had there been two women, one the
mother, the other the mother-in-law, the family affection would
have had a wider field. Then the sister herself by becoming a wife
sustained in her single person two relationships which, had they
been distributed among individuals, one being sister, and an-
other being wife, the family tie would have embraced a greater
number of persons."
Saint Augustine does not, in these passages at least, make
explicit the advantages in security of life which would accrue to
the group as a consequence of exogamy. But he makes it quite
clear that community of social interest and "greater numbers of
persons" in the group are the reasons for the prohibition of incest.
If an understanding of incest and exogamy is as old in social
philosophy as Saint Augustine and as early in anthropological
science as Tylor, why is it that the subject is still so obscure and

so little understood among scholars today? We have already
suggested the answer: a preference for psychological rather than
culturological explanations. Anthropomorphism is an inveterate
habit in human thought. To explain institutions in terms of psy-
chology—of wish, desire, aversion, imagination, fear, etc.— has long
been popular. Explanations of human behavior in terms of psy-
chological determinants preceded therefore explanations in terms
of cultural determinants. But culturological problems cannot be
solved by psychology. Preoccupation with psychological explana-
tions has not only kept many scholars from finding the answer;
it has prevented them from recognizing the solution when it has
been reached by the science of culture. The sociological explana-
tion, such as Kimball Young's "social interaction," is no better.
As a scientific explanation it is not only inadequate; it is empty

and meaningless. The sociologist's fixation upon "social inter-
action" keeps him, too, from appreciating a scientific interpreta-

tion of culture as a distinct class of phenomena. Even men who

have made notable contributions to culturology, such as Kroeber,
Lowie, and Wissler, have failed to appreciate the full significance
of Tylor's early discussion of exogamy. The following incident is
remarkable and revealing. A. L. Kroeber and T. T. Waterman re-
printed Tylor's essay, "On the Method of Investigating the

Development of Institutions/' in their Source Book in Anthro-
pology in 1920. But in a subsequent edition, they cut the article

down apparently to conserve space, and omitted this highly
significant passage!
Important contributions to science are sometimes made "before

their time," that is, before the general level of scientific advance
has reached a point where widespread appreciation becomes pos-
sible. There was really very little that was novel in the work of
Darwin; most if not all of the ideas and facts had been presented
before. But the broad frcnt of the cultural process of biologic
thought had not advanced sufficiently prior to 1859 to make a

general acceptance of this point of view possible. So it is with the
problem of incest. An adequate explanation has been extant for
decades. But, because the problem is a culturological one, and
because the science of culture is still so young and so few scholars
even today are able to grasp and appreciate its nature and scope,
an understanding of incest and its prohibitions is still very
limited. As culturology develops and matures, however, this
understanding as well as that of a host of other supra-psychological

problems will become commonplace.
We do not wish to minimize the extent of this understanding
today. Despite the ignorance and confusion of many scholars,
there is a considerable number who do understand incest taboos.
Thus Reo Fortune states that:
"A separation of affinal relationship from consanguineous
relationship assures a wider recognition of social obligation, . . .
Any incestuous alliance between two persons within a single con-

sanguineous group is in so far a withdrawal of their consanguineous
group from the aUiance and so endangers the group's survival." ^*
Malinowski, too, has illuminated the problem of incest taboos.
Instead of emphasizing, however, the positive values that would
accrue from alliances formed as a consequence of compulsory
exogamy, he dwells upon the disruption and discord that the un~ ^
restricted exercise of sexual appetites would introduce into a small (
group of relatives or close associates. "The sexual impulse," he i
writes, "is in general a very upsetting and socially disruptive

force, cannot enter into a previously existing sentiment with-
[it]
out producing a revolutionary change in it. Sexual interest is

therefore incompatible with any family relationship, whether
parental or between brothers and sisters ... If erotic passion were
allowed to invade the precincts of the home it would not merely
establish jealousies and competitive elements and disorganize the
family but it would also subvert the most fundamental bonds of
kinship on which the further development of all social relations
is based ... A society which allowed incest could not develop a

stable family; it would therefore be deprived of the strongest
foundations for kinship, and this in a primitive community would
^s
mean absence of social order."
B. Z. Seligman expresses somewhat similar views— as well as
others that are less discerning. John Gillin has a fine statement on
the origin and function of incest taboos tucked away in a footnote
in a monograph on the Barama River Caribs. Raymond Firth
presents an illuminating "sociological" analysis of the problem in
We, the Tikopia. Wm. I. Thomas sees clearly the reasons for pro-
hibitions of incest: "the horror of incest is thus plainly of social
^^
derivation."
And Freud, apart from his drama of patricide, comes close to an
understanding of incest taboos and exogamy. The "incest pro-
hibition," he says, "had ... a strong practical foundation. Sexual
need does not unite men; it separates them . . . Thus there was
nothing left for the brothers [after they had killed their father],
if they wanted to live together, but to erect the incest pro-

hibition." -' In another work he observes that:
"The observance of this [incest] barrier is above all a demand of
cultural society,which must guard against the absorption by the

family of those interests which it needs for the production of
higher social units. Society, therefore, uses all means to loosen
^s
those family ties in every individual."
The cultural function, if not the genesis, of incest taboos and
of rules of exogamy seems to be very clearly seen and appreciated
here. It is interesting to note, too, that Freud holds substantially
the same view of the relationship between restrictions upon sexual
gratification and social evolution that has been set forth earlier in
this essay. One of the principal themes of Civilization and Its Dis-
contents is "the extent to which civilization is built up on re-
nunciation of instinctual gratifications . . . This 'cultural
privation' dominates the whole field of social relations between

human beings." He sees that "the first result of culture was that
a larger number of human beings could live together in common";
that "one of culture's principal endeavors is to cement men and
women together in larger units." ^^ Thus, although he proceeds
from different premises, Freud comes to essentially the same con-
clusion as ours.
There is, then, considerable understanding of incest and
exogamy extant in the literature today. Yet, in a comparatively
recent review of the whole problem a prominent anthropologist,

John M. Cooper, has concluded that "the desire to multiply the
social bonds [has] in all probability not been [an] important
factor" in the origin of incest prohibitions. How far he is from

an understanding of the problem is indicated by the two "chief
factors" which he cites: "(a) sex callousness, resulting from early
and intimate association . . .
;
(b) the distinctly social purpose
of preserving standards of sex decency within the family and kin-
ship circle." ^° The first factor is contrary to fact; intimacy fosters
incest rather than callousness. The second explains nothing at
all: what are standards of sex decency, why do they vary from
tribe to tribe, and why is it necessary to preserve them?
The culturological theory of incest receives support from a com-
parison of primitive cultures with our own. The crime of incest
is punished with greater severity in primitive societies than in
our own, as Freud, Fortune and others have observed. Among the
former the penalty of death is quite common; in our society
punishment seldom exceeds ten years imprisonment and is often
much less. The reason for this difference is not far to seek. In
primitive societies, personal and kinship ties between individuals
and families were more important than they are in highly
developed cultures. The small mutual aid group was a tremen-
dously important social unit in the struggle for security. The very
survival of the group depended to a considerable extent upon al-
liances formed by exogamy. In advanced cultures the situation is

different. Society is no longer based upon kinship ties, but upon
property relationships and territorial distinctions. The political
state has replaced the tribe and clan. Occupational groups and
economic organization become important bases of social life.
also
The importance of exogamy is thus much diminished and the

penalties for incest become less severe. It is not to be expected,
however, that restrictions upon inbreeding will ever be removed
entirely. Kinship is still an important, though relatively less im-
portant, feature of our social organization and will probably

remain so indefinitely. Rules of exogamy and endogamy will there-
fore continue to be needed to regulate and order this aspect of
our social life.
In the various interpretations, both sound and unsound, of the

definition and prohibition of incest we have a neat example of a
contrast between psychological explanations on the one hand and
culturological explanations on the other. The problem simply
does not yield to psychological solution. On the contrary, the
evidence, both clinical and ethnographic, indicates that the desire
to form sexual unions with an intimate associate is both powerful

and widespread. Indeed, Freud opines that "the prohibition
against incestuous object-choice [was] perhaps the most maim-
ing wound ever inflicted ... on the erotic life of man." ^^ Psy-
cholog}' discloses an "incestuous wish" therefore, not a motive for

its prevention. The problem yields very
readily, however, to cul-
turological interpretation. Man, as an animal species, lives in
groups as well as individually. Relationships between individuals

in the human species are determined by the culture of the group
—that is, by the ideas, sentiments, tools, techniques, and be-
havior patterns, that are dependent upon the use of symbols and
which are handed down from one generation to another by means
of this same faculty. These culture traits constitute a continuum,
a stream of interacting elements. In this interacting process, new
combinations and syntheses some traits become
are formed,
obsolete and drop out of the stream, some new ones enter it. The
stream of culture thus flows, changes, grows and develops in
accordance with laws of its own. Human behavior is but the re-
actions of the organism man to this stream of culture. Human

behavior— in the mass, or of a typical member of a group— is there-
fore culturally determined. A people has an aversion to drinking
cow's milk, avoids mothers-in-law, believes that exercise pro-
motes health, practices divination or vaccination, eats roasted
worms or grasshoppers, etc., because their culture contains trait-
stimuli that evoke such responses. These traits cannot be ac-

counted for psychologically.
And so it is From
with the definition and prohibition of incest.
psychology we learn that the human animal tends to unite sexually
with someone close to him. The institution of exogamy is not
only not explained by citing this tendency; it is contrary to it.
But when we turn to the cultures that determine the relations

between members of a group and regulate their social intercourse
we readily find the reason for the definition of incest and the
origin of exogamy. The struggle for existence is as vigorous in
the human species as elsewhere. Life is made more secure, for

group as well as individual, by co-operation. Articulate speech
makes co-operation possible, extensive, and varied in human
society. Incest was defined and exogamous rules were formulated
in order to make co-operation compulsory and extensive, to the
end that life be made more secure. These institutions were created
by social systems, not by neuro-sensory-muscular-glandular sys-
tems. They were syntheses of culture elements formed within the

interactive stream of culture traits. Variations of definition and
prohibition of incest are due to the great variety of situations. In
one situation, in one organization of culture traits— technological,
social, philosophic, etc.— we will find one type of definition of
incest and one set of rules of exogamy; in a different situation
we find another definition and other rules. Incest and exogamy are
thus defined in terms of the mode people— by the
of life of a
mode of subsistence, the means and circumstances of offense and
defense, the means of communication and transportation, customs
of residence, knowledge, techniques of thought, etc. And the
mode of life, in all its aspects, technological, sociological, and
philosophical, is culturally determined.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MAN'S CONTROL OVER CIVILIZATION:
An Anthropocentric Illusion
". . . numerous survivals of the anthropocentric bias still remain and

here [in sociology], as elsewhere, they bar the way to science. It dis-
pleases man to renounce the unlimited power over the social order he
has so long attributed to himself; and on the other hand, it seems to
him that, if collective forces really exist, he is necessarily obliged to
submit to them without being able to modify them. This makes him
inclined to deny their existence. In vain have repeated experiences
taught him that this omnipotence, the illusion of which he com-
placently entertains, has always been a cause of weakness in him; that
his power over things really began only when he recognized that they
have a nature of their own, and resigned himself to learning this nature
from them. Rejected by all other sciences, this deplorable prejudice
stubbornly maintains itself in sociology. Nothing is more urgent than to
liberate our science from it, and this is the principal purpose of our
efforts," —
Emile Durkheim i
". . it appears like a grandiose dream to think of controlling according
.
to the will of
2
man the course of social evolution . .
." —Wm. F. Og-
burn
-Ihe belief that man controls his civilization is widespread

and deeply rooted. Customs and institutions, tools and ma-
chines, science, art, and philosophy are but man's creations
and are therefore here only to do his bidding. It lies within man's
power, therefore, to chart his course as he pleases, to mold
civilization to his desires and needs. At least so he fondly believes.
Thus we find a distinguished British scientist, the late Sir
James Jeans, assuring us that:
330
^
MAN'S CONTROL OVER CIVILIZATION 331
We no longer believe that human destiny is a plaything for

spirits,good and evil, or for the machinations of the Devil.
There is nothing to prevent our making the earth a paradise
again— except ourselves. The scientific age has dawned, and we
recognize that man himself is the master of his fate, the captain
of his soul. He controls the course of his ship, and so, of course,
is free to navigate it into fair waters or foul, or even to run it
on the rocks.
Mr. Stanley Field, President of the Field Museum (now the

Chicago Natural History Museum), appeals to anthropologists in
espousing Free Will:
But if we listen to the anthropologists, who can scientifically

demonstrate that it is not color of skin, or type of hair or
features, or difference of religion, that creates problems between
peoples, but factors for which man is responsible and which he
can control or change we shall at least come
if he will, then
within sight of that better world which we now realize we must
achieve if we are not finally to perish as victims of our own
perversity.*
Professor Lewis G. Westgate, in an article in Scientific Monthly,

tells us that man can "take the problem of his future in hand and
solve it":
The mind that can weigh the infinitely distant stars track . . .
down the minute carriers of disease dig the Panama Canal . . .
. can solve its social problems when and if it decides to do

. .
so.=
It would thus seem that the salvation of an earlier era has be-
come the social reconstruction of today: we can achieve it if we
will; if we fail it is because of our "perversity."
Father Wilhelm Schmidt, the leader of the Kulturkreis school
of ethnology, and his disciples in America believe firmly in free
will; indeed, it appears to be one of their cardinal principles .« And

even V. Gordon Childe, whose work is for the most part infused
with the spirit of scientific materialism and determinism, says, in
a book significantly entitled Man Makes Himseli, that "changes
in culture ... can be initiated, controlled, or delayed by the con-
scious and deliberate choice of their human authors and

^
executors."
When, however, we look for examples of man's control over
culture we begin first to wonder, then to doubt. We will not
begin our inquiry by asking if two World Wars in one generation
are evidence of planning or perversity, or whether Germany and
Japan were crushed and Soviet Russia made dominant in Eurasia
in accordance with a farsighted plan or as a result of blindness
and folly. We will start with something much more modest.
During the last century we have witnessed attempts to control
tiny and relatively insignificant segments of our culture, such as
spelling, the calendar, the system of weights and measures, to

name but a few. There have been repeated and heroic attempts
to simplify spelling and make it more rational, to devise a more
rational calendar, and to adopt an ordered system of weights and
measures instead of the cumbersome, illogical agglomeration of
folk measurements we now use. But what successes can we point
to? Reform in spelling has been negligible. We have succeeded
to a considerable extent but not wholly in eliminating the u from
such words as honor. But to do away with silent letters, such as
the b in Iamb, is too big a mountain for us to move. And such
spellings-and-pronunciations as rough, cough, dough, and through
are much too strong to yield to our puny efforts. It usually takes a
great political and social upheaval to effect a significant change in

spelling or a calendrical system as the French and Bolshevik
revolutions have made clear. And as for the metric system, it has
found a place among the little band of esoterics in science, but
yards, ounces, rods, pints, and furlongs still serve— awkwardly and
inefficiently— the layman.
We begin to wonder. If we are not able to perform such tiny

and insignificant feats as eliminating the b from Iamb, or modify-
ing our calendar system, how can we hope to construct a new
social order on a worldwide scale?
Let us look about us further. Men and women are forever

contending with fashions. Man perennially rebels against his
attire. It is often uncomfortable, injurious to the health at times,
and, some men think, the ordinary costume is unesthetic, the
formal attire ridiculous. But what can he do? He must wear his
coat and tie no matter how hot the weather. He is not permitted
to wear pink or blue shoes. And as for "evening clothes"— he must
submit to them or stay home. Man's vaunted control over civiliza-
tion is not particularly conspicuous in this sector.

But if man is helpless, woman is an abject slave, in the grip of
fashion. She must submit to any change, no matter how fantastic
or ugly. To be sure, she may not realize that the new designs are
fantastic and ugly at the time; "the latest style" can becloud a
woman's judgment. But one has only to browse through an album
of old snapshots to realize that beauty, grace, and charm do not
dominate the course of fashion.
And as for women's skirts! First they are short; then they are
long. A distinguished anthropologist. Professor A. L. Kroeber of
the University of California, has made a very interesting and
revealing study of the dimensions of women's dresses over a con-
siderable period of time. He found that "the basic dimensions of
modern European feminine dress alternate with fair regularity
between maxima and minima which in most cases average about
fifty years apart so that the full-wave length of their periodicity
is around a century." ^ The rhythms are regular and uniform.
Women have nothing to say about it. Even the designers and
creators must conform to the curve of change. We find no control
by man— or woman— here, only an inexorable and impersonal
trend. When a maximum point on the curve is reached, the trend
is reversed and skirts lengthen or shorten as the case may be,
Women are helpless; they can do nothing but follow the trend.
When the curve ascends they must shorten their dresses; when it
descends, they must lengthen them. It may seem remarkable that
a great class of citizens who cannot even control the dimensions
of their own skirts will ne\ertheless organize themselves into clubs,
to administer the affairs of the world. We shall return to this
point later.
Few men would undertake to repair an automobile or a radio

without some understanding of its mechanism. We tend more
and more nowadays to leave medicine and surgery to those who
know how. Knowledge and skill are required even to make good
pies or home brew. But in matters of society and culture everyone
feels qualified to analyze, diagnose, and prescribe. It is one of the

premises of democracy that not only do the people rule, but they
have the requisite knowledge and understanding to do it
effectively. In matters political, one man's view is as good as
another's.
When, however, we examine the knowledge and understand^
ing with which the affairs of the nation are administered we begin
again to wonder. Wc find the most august authorities espousing
different and even contradictory views on such subjects as in-
flation, the function of labor leaders, the divorce rate, the

popularity of crooners, and so on. This is a picture of the anarchy
of ignorance, not of wisdom.
When we turn from matters of national proportions, such as
the cause of inflation, to lesser problems we are not always re-
assured. Does capital punishment diminish the number of mur-
ders? Does the use of alcohol affect the divorce rate? Why do
people keep dogs? They are noisy, dirty, unhealthful, useless, and
expensive. To say that they are kept because people like them is
merely to phrase the problem in a different form. Why don't they

"like" raccoons? They are cute, cleanly in their habits, and very
amiable.
AAAN'S CONTROL OVER CIVILIZATION 335
The fact is, we don't really know very much about the civiliza-
tion we live in. Let us take one of the simplest and most ele-
mentary questions imaginable: Why does our society prohibit
polygamy? Other societies permit plural mates, and Western
Europe once did, also. But now we feel very strongly about it.
We will put a man he takes unto himself

in a prison for years if
more than one wife at one time. His wives may be perfectly satis-
fied with the arrangement and he may have injured no one. Yet
we put him in gaol.* Why? Why not have one more wife and
one less schoolmarm?
There are, to be sure, ready answers to these questions:
polygamy is "wrong," "immoral," "undemocratic," etc. But
practices are not prohibited because they are "wrong"; they are
wrong because they have been prohibited. It is not wrong to buy
and sell whiskey now; it was while the Eighteenth Amendment
was on the books. And as for democracy and equality, we permit

a man to have two yachts if he can afford them, why not two
wives?
I know of no really adequate answer to this question in such
literature of social science as I am acquainted with. As a matter
of fact, the question is very seldom raised. I have looked for it
in a great number of treatises on sociology and anthropology

written during the last quarter century without finding it. Some
social scientists of the latter half of the nineteenth century tried
to explain the prohibition of polygamy but we cannot accept
their conclusions.
The fact is we are ignorant. We do not know the solution to
such an elementary problem as singular or plural mates. And in
* We which a man was sent to the penitentiary

recall a recent instance in
for marrying some twelve women without ever bothering with the ritual of
divorce. Had he been less honorable or chivalrous and lived with each woman
without the formality of marriage, his "crime" would have been much less.
This man served society well in a municipal railway system. His numerous
wives pressed no complaint. Why did society feel it necessary to incarcerate
him?
our day,we have not reached the point of asking such questions,
to say nothing of answering them. As Archibald McLeish has
said, "We know all the answers, but we have not yet asked the
questions." Over a half-century ago the great French savant, Emile

Durkheim, commented upon the immaturity of social science as
follows:
In the present state of the science we really do not even know

what are the principal social institutions, such as the state, or
the family; what is the right of property or contract are . . . We
almost completely ignorant of the factors on which they depend
. ; we are scarcely beginning to
. . shed even a glimmer of light
on some of these points. Yet one has only to glance through
the works on sociology to see how rare is the appreciation of
this ignorance and these difficulties.*
Despite the progress that has been made since The Rules was
written, this statement has a certain relevance today. If the
science of society and civilization is still so immature as to be
unable to solve such tiny and elementary problems as the pro-
hibition of polygamy, where are the knowledge and understand-
ing requisite to planning a new social system, to constructing a
new world order? One would not expect a savage craftsman, whose
best tools are made of chipped flint, to design and build a loco-
motive.
Let us have a look at this civilization man thinks he controls.

The first thing we notice is its antiquity. There is no part of it,
whether it be technology, institutions, science or philosophy, that
does not have its roots in the remote past. The lens of the new
200-inch telescope, for example, is made of glass. Glass emerged
from the manufacture of faience in ancient Egypt, which in turn
originated apparently as a by-product of burning bricks and
pottery, which followed the use of sun-dried brick, and, earlier.
mud daubs of Neolithic or even Paleolithic huts. The United Na-

tions can be traced back to primitive tribal councils and beyond.
Modern mathematics goes back to counting on one's fingers, and
so on. Culture is as old as man himself. It had its beginnings a
million odd years ago when man first started to use articulate
speech, and it has continued and developed to the present day.
Culture is a continuous, cumulative, and progressive affair.
Everyone— every individual, every generation, every group— has,

since the very earliest period of human been born into a
history,
culture, a civilization, of some sort. It might be simple, crude
and meager, or it might be highly developed. But all cultures,
whatever their respective degrees of development, have tech-
nologies (tools, machines), social systems (customs, institutions),
beliefs (lore, philosophy, science) and forms of art. This means
that when a baby is born into a cultural milieu, he will be in-
fluenced by it. As a matter of fact, his culture will determine

how he will think, feel, and act. It will determine what language
he will speak, what clothes, if any, he will wear, what gods he
will believe in, how he will marry, select and prepare his foods,
treat the sick,and dispose of the dead. What else could one do
but react to the culture that surrounds him from birth to death?
No people makes its own culture; it inherits it ready-made from
its ancestors or borrows it from its neighbors.
It is easy enough for man to believe that he has made his cul-
ture, each generation contributing its share, and that it is he who
controls and directs its course through the ages. Does he not chip
the arrowheads and stone-axes, build carts and dynamoes, coin
money and spend it, elect presidents and depose kings, compose
symphonies and carve statues, worship gods and wage war? But
one cannot always rely upon the obvious. It was once obvious
that the earth remained stationary while the sun moved; anyone
could see that for himself. We are now approaching a point in
modern thought where we are beginning to suspect that it is not
man who controls culture but the other way around. The feat of
Copernicus in dispelling the geocentric illusion over four hundred

years ago is being duplicated in our day by the culturologist who
is dissipating the anthropocentric illusion that man controls his
culture.
Although it is man who chips arrowheads, composes sym-
phonies,etc., we cannot explain culture merely by saying that
"man produced it." There is not a single question that we would

want to ask about culture that can be answered by saying "Man
did thus and so." We want to know why culture developed as it
did; why it assumed a great variety of forms while preserving at
the same time a certain uniformity, why the rate of cultural

change has accelerated. Wc want to know why some cultures have
money and slaves while others do not; why some have trial by
jury, others ordeal by magic; why some have kings, others chiefs
or presidents; why some use milk, others loathe it; why some
pcnnit, others prohibit, polygamy. To explain all these things by
saying, "Man wanted them that way" is of course absurd. A device
that explains everything explains nothing.
Before we go very far we discover that we must disregard man
entirely in our efforts to explain cultural growth and cultural
differences— in short, culture or civilization as a whole. Man may
be regarded as a constant so far as cultural change is concerned.
Man is one species and, despite differences of skin, eye, and hair
color, shape of head, lips, and nose, stature, etc., which after all
are superficial, he is highly uniform in such fundamental features
as brain, bone, muscle, glands, and sense organs. And he has
undergone no appreciable evolutionary change during the last
50,000 years at least. We may, therefore, regard man as a constant

both with regard to the races extant today, and with regard to
his ancestors during the last tens of thousands of years. Man has
a certain structure and certain functions; he has certain desires and
needs. Tlicse are related to culture, of course, but only in a
general, not a specific, way. We may say that culture as a whole
serves the needs of man as a species. But this does not and cannot
help us at all when we try to account for the variations of specific
cultures. You cannot explain variables by appeal to a constant.

You cannot explain the vast range of cultural variation by invok-
ing man, a biological constant. In England in a.d. 1500 there was
one type of culture; in Japan, another. Neither culture can be ex-
plained in terms of the physical type associated with it. Culture

underwent change in England between a.d. 1500 and 1900, as it
did in Japan. But these changes cannot be explained by pointing

to the inhabitants in each case; they did not change. Plainly, we
cannot explain cultures in terms of Man.
Nor can cultural differences be explained in terms of environ-
ment. Quite apart from the difficulty of accounting for differences
in musical styles, forms of writing, codes of etiquette, rules of
marriage, mortuary rites, etc., in terms of environment, we soon
discover that even economic, industrial, and social systems cannot
be so explained. The environment of Central Europe so far as
climate, flora, fauna, topography, and mineral resources are con-

cerned has remained constant for centuries. The culture of the
region, however, has varied enormously. Here again we see the
fallacy of explaining the variable by appeal to a constant.
If, then, we cannot explain cultures in terms of race or physical
type, or in terms of psychological processes, and if appeal to
environment is equally futile, how are they to be accounted for
and made intelligible to us?
There seems to be only one answer left and that is fairly plain
—after- one becomes used to it, at least. Cultures must be ex-
plained in terms of culture. As we have already noted, culture is
a continuum. Each trait or organization of traits, each stage of

development, grows out of an earlier cultural situation. The steam
engine can be traced back to the origins of metallurgy and fire.
International cartels have grown out of all the processes of ex-

change and distribution since the Old Stone Age and before. Our
science, philosophy, religion, and art have developed out of earlier
forms. Culture is a vast stream of tools, utensils, customs, beliefs

that are constantly interacting with each other, creating new com-
binations and syntheses. New elements are added constantly to the
stream; obsolete traits drop out. The culture of today is but
the cross-section of this stream at the present moment, the
resultant of the age-old process of interaction, selection, rejection,
and accumulation that has preceded us. And the culture of to-
morrow will be but the culture of today plus one more day's
growth. The numerical coefficient of today's culture may be said
to be 365,000,000 (i.e., a million years of days); that of tomorrow:
365,000,000 + 1. The culture of the present was determined by
the past and the culture of the future will be but a continuation
of the trend of the present. Thus, in a very real sense culture makes
itseU. At least, if one wishes to explain culture scientifically, he
must proceed as if culture made itself, as ii man had nothing to do
with the determination of its course or content. Man must be
there, of course, to make the existence of the culture process pos-
sible. But the nature and behavior of the process itself is self-
determined. It rests upon its own principles; it is governed by its
own laws.
Thus, culture makes man what he same time is and at the
makes itself. An Eskimo, Bantu, Tibetan, Swede, or American is
what he is, thinks, feels, and acts as he does, because his culture
influences— "stimulates"— him in such a way as to evoke these

responses. The Eskimo or American has had no part in pro-
ducing the culture into which he was thrust at birth. It was al-
ready there; he could not escape it; he could do nothing but react
to it, and that on its own terms. The English language, the
Christian religion, our political institutions, our mills, mines,
factories, railroads, telephones, armies, navies, race tracks, dance
halls, and all the other thousands of things that comprise our
They have weight, mass,
civilization are here in existence today.
and momentum. They cannot be made to disappear by waving a

wand, nor can their structure and behavior be altered by an act
of will. We must come to terms with them as we find them today.
:
x\nd they will be tomorrow what their trend of development in

the past dictates. We can only trot along with them, hoping to
keep up.
Man has long cherished the illusion of omnipotence. It is
flattering and comforting to his ego. In days gone by, man has
believed that he could control the weather; countless primitive
peoples have had rituals for making rain, stilling high winds, or
averting storms. Many have had ceremonies by means of which
the course of the sun in the heavens could be "controlled."
With the advance of science, however, man's faith in his omnipo-
tence has diminished. But he still believes that he can control
his civilization.
The philosophy of science— of cause and effect relationships,
of determinism— has been firmly established in the study of physi-
cal phenomena. It is well entrenched in the biological field, also.
Psychology may have demonstrated the operation of the principle
of cause and effect, of determinism, in mental processes, and may
have dispelled the notion of free will for the individual. But social
science is still so immature as to permit one to find refuge in a
collective free will. As Professor A. L. Kroeber has recently

observed
I suspect that the resistance [to the thesis of cultural determin-

ism] goes "back to the common and deeply implanted assump-
tion that our wills are free. As this assumption has had to yield
ground elsewhere, it has taken refuge in the collective, social,
and historical sphere. Since the chemists, physiologists, and
psychologists have unlimbered their artillery, the personal free-
dom of the will is thankless terrain to maintain. Culture they
have not yet attacked; so that becomes a refuge. Whatever the
degree to which we have ceased to assert being free agents as
individuals, in the social realm we can still claim to shape our
destinies. The theologian is piping pretty small, but the social
reformer very loud. We are renouncing the kingdom of heaven.
but going to establish a near-millenium on earth. Our personal

wills may be determined, but by collectivizing them we can still
have social freedom.^"
Primitive man could believe that he could control the weather

only because he was ignorant; he knew virtually nothing of
meteorolog)'. And today, it is only our profound and compre-
hensive ignorance of the nature of culture that makes it possible
for us to believe that we direct and control it. As man's knowl-

edge and understanding grew in meteorology, his illusion of power
and control dissipated. And as our understanding of culture in-
creases, our illusion of control will languish and disappear. As
Durkheim once observed, "as far as social facts are concerned, we
still have the mentality of primitives." "
Needless to say, this is not the view taken by many today who
look to science for our salvation. Far from expecting belief in
our ability to control to diminish with the advance of social
science, many people expect just the reverse. It has become the
fashion these days to declare that if only our social sciences were
as advanced as the physical sciences, then we could control our
culture as we now control the physical forces of nature. The fol-
lowing quotation from a letter published in Science recently is a

conservative statement of this point of view:
For if, by employing the scientific method, men can come to

understand and control the atom, there is reasonable likelihood
that they can in the same way learn to understand and control
human group behavior .... It is quite within reasonable prob-
ability that social science can provide these techniques [i.e.,
for "keeping the peace"] if it is given anything like the amount

of support afforded to physical science in developing the atomic
bomb.^2
In similar vein Professor Gordon W. Allport of Harvard

observes that "the United States spent two billion dollars on the
invention of the atomic bomb" and asks "What is there absurd

in spending an equivalent sum, if necessary, on the discovery of
^^
means for its control?"
The premise underlying this view is unsound. It assumes that
wars are caused, or at least made possible, by ignorance and the
lack of social control that goes with ignorance. It assumes that,
given understanding through generous grants of funds to social
scientists, wars could be prevented— the "peace could be kept."
The lack of understanding and realism displayed here is pathetic.
The instinct of self-preservation of a society that subsidized atom
bomb inventors rather than social scientists holding views such
as these is a sure one. Wars are not caused by ignorance, nor
can "the peace be kept" by the findings of social scientists. Wars

are struggles between social organisms— called nations— for sur-
vival, struggles for the possession and use of the resources of the
earth, for fe'rtile fields; coal, oil, and iron deposits; for uranium
mines; for seaports and waterways; for markets and trade routes;
for military bases. No amount of understanding will alter or
remove the basis of this stmggle, any more than an understanding
of the ocean's tides will diminish or terminate their flow.
But the fallacy of assuming that we can increase and perfect
our control over civilization through social science is even more
egregious than we have indicated. To call upon science, the
essence of which is" acceptance of the principles of cause and effect
and determinism, to support a philosophy of Free Will, is fairly
close to the height of absurdity. Verily, Science has become the

modern magic! The belief that man can work his will upon nature
and man alike ii only he had the light formulas once flourished
in primitive society as magic. It is still with us today, but we now
call it Science.
No amount of development of the social sciences would increase

or perfect man's control over civilization by one iota. In the
man-culture system, man is the dependent, culture the inde-
pendent, variable. What man thinlcs, feels, and does is determined
by his culture. And culture behaves in accordance with its own

laws. A mature development of social science would only make
this fact clear.
The philosophy of Free Will and omnipotence is rampant in

the field of education (see p. 107). "Educators," high school
principals, commencement orators, and others never seem to tire
of telling the world that its salvation lies in education. An eminent

anthropologist, the late Clark Wissler, looking at our civilization
as he would at other cultures of mankind— of the Blackfoot
Indians, the Bantu tribes of Africa, or the aborigines of Australia
—finds that a faith in education and its efficacy to cure all ills is
a characteristic trait of our culture. "The fact is," he says, "that

we seek to solve every difficulty by education. No matter what . . ,
it may be, the combating of disease, the inauguration of a new
public service, the appreciation of art, dress reform, or anything

of that kind, we look to education to make it universal and
popular." Our faith in education has, in fact, become our religion,
as Dr. Wissler sees it:
"Our culture is characterized by an overruling belief in some-

thing we call education— a kind of mechanism to propitiate the
intent of nature in the manifestation of culture. Our implicit
faith that this formula, or method, will cause this purpose to be
more happily fulfilled, is our real religion." ^*
Dr. Wissler compares our education formula with the magical

formulas of primitive tribes:
We often find among peoples we choose to call less civilized, a

class of men whom we designate as shamans, medicine men,
conjurors, etc. Where such men flourish they are called
. . .
upon whenever the course of events goes wrong, sickness,

famine, love, war, no matter what the nature of the trouble
may be, and they always proceed in one way: i.e., recite or
demonstrate a formula of some kind. They may sing it, they
may dance it, or theymay merely act it out— no matter, the
idea is that if you go through with the correct formula the
forces of nature will right the wrong. ... In every culture
formulae are used to propitiate nature in whatever form of gods
or powers she is conceived, and cultures differ not in this, . . .
for so far they are all alike, but as to the kinds of formulae into
which they put their faith. Our great formula for bringing
about the realization of our leading ideals is education. . . .
It is a kind of grand over-formula by which we hope to perpet-

uate and perfect our culture . .
."
The faith of primitive man in his formulas and rituals, his

medicine men and conjurors, was not shaken by a perpetual
repetition of the ills they were supposed to prevent or cure. Lack
of success did not prove to him that his formulas and rituals were
inefficacious; it only convinced him that he needed more and
better magic. And we who look to education for our "salvation"
are not shaken in our faith by the spectacle of tragedy piled upon
disaster. What we need, we say, is more education.
To primitive man, magic was a means, available to mankind,
to exert influence upon the external world and so to shape it to
his needs and desires. We think of education as an instrument
with which we can transform society and mould it to our will.
But education is not a force or instrument outside of society, but
a process within it. It is", so to speak, a physiologic process of the
j
social organism. Education is a means employed by society in '
carrying on its own activities, in striving for its own objectives.

Thus, during peacetime, society educates for peace, but when the
nation is at war, it educates for war. In times of peace, munitions-
makers are "Merchants of Death"; in wartime, "Victory is Their
Business." In peacetime. He is the Prince of Peace, but when war
comes it's "Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition." It is not
people who control their culture through education; it is rather
the other way around: education, formal and informal, is the >
process of bringing each new generation under the control of a
system of culture. It is unrealistic in the extreme, therefore, to
think of education reforming society from the outside. No one

has stated the relationshipbetween education and society better
than the great French social scientist, Emile Durkheim:
But this is to attribute to education a power which it does not

possess. It only the image, the reflection of society. Education
is
imitates society and reproduces it in abridged form, but it does

not create it. Education is healthy when the nation itself is in
a healthy state, but, not having the power of self modification,

it becomes corrupted when the nation decays. If the moral
milieu as it is experienced by the teachers themselves is corrupt,
they cannot fail to be affected by it; how then can they impress
upon those whom they train an outlook that differs from the
one that they have received? Each generation is brought up by
the previous generation and it is necessary therefore to reform
the latter if it is to improve the one which follows it. We go
around in circles. At long intervals it may well happen that
someone may come along whose ideas and aspirations are in
advance of those of his contemporaries, but the moral con-
stitution of a people is not made over by these isolated indi-
\ viduals. No doubt it pleases us to believe that one eloquent
voice is sufficient to transform the social fabric as if by magic,
but, here as elsewhere, something is not produced from noth-

ing. The strongest wills cannot create out of nothing forces
which do not exist, and failures in experience always come to
dispel these easy illusions. Besides,even though a pedagogical
system could succeed by an incomprehensible miracle in estab-
lishing itself in antagonism to the social system, it would have
no effect by reason of this very antagonism. If the collective
organization (society) is maintained from which the moral
state that one wishes to combat is derived, then the child can-
not fail to be influenced by it from the moment he comes into
contact with it. The artificial milieu of the school can only
protect him for a time and then but feebly. In proportion as

the real world takes greater hold of him, it will destroy the work
of the educator. Thus education cannot reform itself unless
society itself is reformed. And in order to do that we must go
to the causes of the malady from which it suffers.^^
The position taken here will of course be vigorously denied and

opposed. People do not give up their illusions easily. As A. L.
Kroeber has put it:
Our minds instinctively resist the first shock of the recognition

of a thing [cultural determinism] so intimately woven into us
and yet above and so uncontrollable by our wills.
so far feel We
driven to deny its reality, to deny even the validity of dealing
with it as an entity; just as men at large have long and bitterly
resented admitting the existence of purely automatic forces
and system in the realm that underlies and carries and makes
possible the existence of our personalities: the realm of
nature.^^
A common reaction— verbal reflex— to the theory of cultural

determinism is to brand it "fatalistic" or "defeatist." Long ago
William James branded as "the most pernicious and immoral of
fatalisms" the philosophy of "the contemporary sociological
school" that espoused "general laws and predetermined tenden-

cies," and "denied the vital importance of individual initiative"
and Free Will ("I believe in free-will myself," he says).^^ And

today another student of philosophy. Dr. David Bidney, writing
in the American Anthropologist, has repeatedly called the deter-
ministic point of view of culturology "fatalistic." The choice of
words is significant. Why is it that when one employs the prin-
ciple of cause and effect in the realm of physical and chemical
phenomena no one cries "fatalism," but the instant one applies
it to human cultural phenomena this accusation leaps forth?
Why is it that an admission of our inability to control the weather

brings forth no charge of "defeatism"' whereas this reproach is

promptly levelled against anyone who recognizes man's inability
to control the course of civilization?
The reason is fairly plain. "Fatalism" implies Free Will;
"defeatism," omnipotence. When atoms, cells, or tissues behave
in accordance with their nature and properties no one calls it

fatalistic because no one expects freedom of choice and action
of them. But when one asserts that cultural phenomena have a
nature of their own and consequently must behave in terms of
their nature, the response is not an acceptance of the principle
of cause and effect but a charge of "fatalism." "To many edu-
cated minds/' the great English anthropologist, E. B. Tylor,
wrote many years ago, "there seems something presumptuous and
repulsive in the view that the history of mankind is part and
parcel of the history of nature, that our thoughts, wills,
and actions accord with laws as definite as those which govern the
motion of the waves, the combination of acids and bases, and
the growth of plants ... If law is anywhere it is everywhere." "
We have combined "a scientific realism, based on mechanism,"
says Alfred North Whitehead, with "an unwavering belief in the
world of men and of the higher animals as being composed of

self-determining organisms" ^^ (emphasis ours). He feels that this
"radical inconsistency" is responsible for "much that is half-
hearted and wavering in our civilization. It . . . enfeebles . . .
[thought] by reason of the inconsistency lurking in the back-

ground."
Implicit in the charge of "fatalism" and "defeatism" is the
further notion of refutation. To brand a view "fatalistic" is, to
many minds, to call it false as well. "Cultural determinism is
fatalistic and therefore false," is about the way the reasoning

would go if it were made explicit. "How can determmism pos-
sibly exist?" is the question that is imphed but unspoken. "Deter-
minism is unthinkable." And so it is to one possessed by 2
philosophy of free will.* We find this point of view rather well
expressed by Lawrence K. Frank in a recent article, "What is
Social Order?"
Perhaps the major obstacle we face today, therefore, is this

essentially defeatist tradition expressed in the various con-
ceptions of social order described earlier, as above and beyond
allhuman control ... In this situation, therefore, we can and
we must find the courage to view social order as that which
must be achieved by man himself.^^
Of course man can "find the courage" to view social order as

something "that must be achieved by himself." It does not take
courage to do this, however; what is required is ignorance and
hope. "Must find the courage," "must be achieved by man him-
self," is hardly the language of science. It is, rather, exhortation
and rhetoric— of a type with which we have long been familiar:
."
"if we will but purpose in our hearts . .
No doubt the first to question man's control over the weather,

the first to claim that the winds will blow, the rain and snow
fall, the seasons come and go, in accordance with their own nature
rather than in obedience to man's wish and will expressed in spell
and ritual, were accused of "fatalism" and "defeatism," if, indeed,

they were not dealt with more harshly. But, in time, we have
come to accept our impotence in this regard and to become re-
conciled to it. If it be argued that man cannot control the

weather because that is a part of the external world whereas
* Note that we have said possessed by, rather than "believes in." Philoso-
phies possess, hold, animate, guide and direct the articulate, protoplasmic
—
mechanisms that are men. Whether a man an average man, typical of his
—
group "believes in" Christ or Buddha, Genesis or Geology, Determinism or
Free Will, is not a matter of his own choosing. His philosophy is merely the
response of his neuro-sensory-muscular-glandular system to the streams of
cultural stimuli impingingupon him from the outside. What is called "phi-
losophizing" merely the interaction of these cultural elements within his
is
organism. His "choice" of philosophic beliefs is merely a neurological expres-

sion of the superior strength of some of these extra-somatic cultural forces.
culture, being man-made, is subject to his control, it must be

pointed out that the exact opposite is the case. It is precisely in
the realm of the external world that man's control is possible. He

can harness the energies of rivers, fuels, and atoms because he, as
one of the forces of nature, lies outside their respective systems

and can therefore act upon them. But man, as an animal organ-
ism, as a species, lies within the man-culture system, and there he
is the dependent, not the independent, variable; his behavior is
merely the function of his culture, not its determinant. Both

theoretically and practically, therefore, it is possible for man to
exert more control over the weather than over culture, for he
can exert some control over the former even now and he may in-
crease this control in the future. But he exerts no control what-
ever over his culture and theoretically there is no possibility of
his ever doing so.
The usual reactions to this manifesto of cultural determinism

are as unwarranted as are the assumptions of Free Will, from
which, of course, these responses flow. After expostulating on the
theme of "fatalism" and "defeatism" the conventional protest
goes on to demand, "What is the use then of our efforts? Why
should we try to do anything to improve our lot if we have no
control over our culture? Why not just sit back and let the
evolutionary process take care of everything? Of what use could
a science of culture possibly be to us if control lies beyond our
grasp? What good is an understanding of culture if there is noth-
ing we can do about it?"
These questions are naive and betray a lack of understanding

of what the cultural determinist— the culturologist— is trying to
say. The determinist does not assert that man is irrelevant to the
culture process. He knows full well that the contrary is the case;
that man is an absolute prerequisite to it, that without man there
could be no culture. He realizes very clearly the essential role
that man plays in the systen?. that is man-and-culture. What the
culturologist contends is that in this system the human organism

is not the determinant; that the behavior of the culture process
cannot be explained in terms of this organism but only in terms
of the culture itself; that the growth and changes among the
Indo-European languages, for example, cannot be accounted for
in terms of man's nerves, muscles, senses, or organs of speech;
or in terms of his hopes, needs, fears, or imagination. Language
must be explained in terms of language.
But to turn to some of the specific questions with which dis-
satisfaction with the philosophy of determinism is expressed. In
the first place, we cannot "just sit back" and let the evolutionary
process take care of all our problems. While we live we are con-
fronted by our culture and we must come to terms with it. Even
just sitting back, incubating a case of dementia praecox, is "doing
something about it." So is committing suicide; as a matter of fact,
suicide rates for various societies provide excellent indexes of

cultural determinism. In some societies the rate is high; in others
suicide is virtually non-existent. This is not because suicide deter-
minants are more abundant in the chromosomes of some popula-
tions than of others. It is due to the fact that the cultural
determinants vary: hara-kiri is something that a culture does to
an organism that, of its own nature, tends to persevere in that
form of motion we call "Life." It is obvious that we cannot avoid
reacting to our culture.
To assume that the process of cultural evolution will take care
of everything without effort on our part is of course absurd, and
constitutesno part of the determinist's philosophy. Of course we
must exert ourselves while we live; we cannot do otherwise. But
the question is not "Who does the work, ourselves or cultural
evolution?" It is obvious that the energy is expended by or
through human beings. The question is. What determines the
nature, the form and content of this expression of energy in the
culture process, the human organism or the extra-somatic culture?
The answer is of course fairly obvious— after a small amount of
reflection. Let us consider two groups of human organisms, A

and B. Group A raises taro, catches fish, carver wood, makes no
pottery, speaks a Polynesian language, has chiefs but no currency,
is non-literate, drinks kava, is greatly concerned with genealogy,
and so on. Group B mines coal and iron, talks Welsh, imports
its food from the outside, uses money, is literate, drinks ale, etc.
Now the question is. Why does each group behave as it does?
Is it one group of organisms possesses traits or character-

that
istics—genes, instincts, or psychological tendencies— that cause
them to drink kava rather than ale? This is, of course, ridiculous;
the one group of organisms is fundamentally like the other bio-

logically. It is obvious that each group of organisms behaves as
it does because each is reacting to a particular set of cultural
stimuli. It is obvious also that a consideration of the human
organism is totally irrelevant to the question. Why is one group
stimulated by one set of stimuli rather than by another? This is
a cultural historical question, not a biological or psychological

one. So, one is not so silly as to say, "Why should we mine coal
or catch fish? Let our culture do it." The question is not who
mines the coal, but what is the determinant of this behavior?
And, the culturologist points out the obvious: the culture is the
determinant.
The of many sincere, altruistic and conscientious
reaction
people, upon being told that it is not they who control their
culture and direct its course, is "Why then should we try to do
good, to better our lot and that of mankind?" We have answered
this question in part already. In the first place one cannot avoid
\
trying to do something. As long as one accepts life and is willing
to continue with it he must exert himself. "Trying" is merely
the name we give to the effort exerted in the process of living.
To strive for this or that, therefore, is inseparable from our lives.
But what one strives for and how his effort is expressed is de-
termined by his culture. For example, the goal of one people
may be eternal life in heaven for which their terrestrial existence
is but a preparation. The goal of another might be the good Hfe

*'here below." One group may deny the reality of sickness; another
may admit its existence and try to combat it. One group may
use charms and incantations; another, clinics and laboratories.
Whatever the goal and whatever the means employed to reach it,
is a matter determined by the culture of the group.

But, it should be pointed out with emphasis, this
is not a
philosophy of defeatism or hopelessness by any means. Least of

all does it declare that one's efforts do not count. The fact that
one's efforts to stamp out tuberculosis are culturally determined

in no way minimizes the effort or the result. A life saved is a life
saved. A letter written to a congressman has an effect, too, no
matter what kind or how much. A resolution on world affairs
passed by a woman's club has a real function in society, although

it may be a very different one from that imagined by the good
ladies. The question we raise is not one of the value of effort
or whether effort has consequences. Human effort is just as real
as anything in the realm of the geologist. And effort is followed
by consequences just as effect follows cause in physics or geology.
Living human beings cannot help but exert themselves, and every-
thing they do counts for something in one way or another. Far
from wishing to deny or ignore this, we wish to emphasize it.
But this is not the question raised by the culturologist, the cul-
tural determinist. What he claims is, not that it is futile to try
because what one does counts for nought, but that what one
does, how he does it, and the end and purpose for which it is
done is culturally determined, is determined by the culture of the

group rather than by the free will of the individual or of the
group. More than that, what a person or group desires is de-

termined or at least defined by the culture, not by them. What
constitutes the "good life" for any people is always culturally
defined.
From the cultural determinist's point of view, human beings
are merely the instruments through which cultures express them-
selves. A physician, saving lives each day, is an instrument through

which certain cultural forces express themselves; if they were not
there, or if they were different, the organism in question would
not be practicing medicine or he would practice it in a different
way. The gangster, evangelist, revolutionist, reformer, policeman,
impoverished beggar, wealthy parasite, teacher, soldier, and sha-

man are likewise instruments of cultural action and expression;
each is a type of primate organism grasped and wielded by a
certain set of culture traits. It is only the inveterate habit of
thinking anthropocentrically that makes this point of view seem

strange or ridiculous.
But, granting that what we do counts even though it is cul-
turally determined, of what use is it to develop a science of culture
if we cannot control civilization or direct its course? We have a

science of pathology in order to combat disease, sciences of physics
and chemistry to control the external world. But if we do not

control our culture and cannot ever hope to control it, of what
use would a science of culture be? We might begin our reply
to this question by asking, of what value is it to know the
temperature of a away? Questions such
star a million light years
as these betray a limited understanding of science. Science is not

\
primarily a matter of control in the sense of harnessing rivers
with hydroelectric plants or constructing uranium piles. Science
is a means of adjustment; control is but one aspect of adjustment.
Man finds himself in a universe to which he must adjust if he
is to continue to live in it. Mythology and science are means of
adjustment; they are interpretations of the world in terms of
which man behaves. There is, of course, a vast difference in terms
of adjustment between a philosophy that interprets stars as a
flock of snow birds lost in the sky, and one that measures their
masses, distances, dimensions, and temperatures. This difference
is a very practical one, too, in terms of the contribution that each
philosophy makes to the security of life.
Our ancestors once thought they could control the weather as

contemporary savages still do. They finally outgrew this illusion,
even going so far as to outgrov^ calling the new view "fatalistic"
and But we do not think a knowledge and an under-
"defeatist."
standing of weather and climate useless. On the contrary, we are

devoting more time and money to meteorology now than ever
before. Here again we see the situation in terms of adjustment
rather than contwh We
may not be able to control the weather
but adjust to it we must. And knowledge and understanding make
for more effective and satisfying adjustments. It would be ad-
vantageous if we couJd control the weather. But if we cannot,
then weather prediction is the next best thing. And for prediction
we must have knowledge and understanding.
So it is with culture. We cannot control its course but we can
learn to predict it. As a matter of fact, we make predictions all
the time and many of them are quite accurate: wheat production,
traffic fatalities, freight car loadings, births, exhaustion of oil
reserves, and many other matters are already within the reach
of limited but nevertheless valuable prediction. If our ability to
predict were greatly increased by the development and matura-
tion of a science of culture the possibilities of a rational, effective,
and humane adjustment between man and culture and between
one cultural segment and another would be increased accordingly.
If, for example, a science of culture could demonstrate that the
trend of social evolution is toward larger political groupings, then
the chances of making the futile attempt to restore or maintain
the independence of small nations would be lessened. If the
trend of cultural evolution is away from private property and free
enterprise why strive to perpetuate them? If it could be shown

that international wars will continue as long as independent,
sovereign nations exist, then certain delusions now popular would
find less nourishment and support. The fact is that culture has
been evolving as an unconscious, blind, bloody, brutal, tropis-
matic process so far. It has not yet reached the point where
intelligence, self-consciousness, and understanding are very con-
spicuous. Our ignorance is still deep-rooted and widespread. We

do not understand even some of the most elementary things— the
prohibition of polygamy for example. In short, we are so ignorant
that we can still believe that it is we who make our culture and
control its course.
This ignorance is not surprising however. It has not been very
long since we gave up burning witches, cudgelling hysterics to

drive out demons, and other savage practices. Even in technology,
which tends to outstrip the social and ideological sectors, we have
surpassed the savage at two points— fire-making and the use of
the bow and arrow— only within the last century or two. Chemical
matches are but a little more than a century old and the bow and
arrow was used in bison hunting on the American plains in pref-
erence to the best firearms available at the time within the last
hundred years. It is only yesterday, culturologically speaking, that
a small portion of mankind began to emerge from a condition of
savagery. For most of his career thus far man has subsisted wholly
upon wild foods; less than two per cent of human history, as a
matter of fact, has elapsed since the origin of agriculture. Other

significant indexes: some 0.7 per cent of culture history since the
beginning of metallurgy, 0.35% since the first alphabet, 0.033%
since Galileo, 0.009% since the publication of Darwin's The
Origin of Species, and only 0.002% since William Jennings Bryan
and the Scopes trial. A mature, urbane, and rational civilization
is not to be achieved in a mere million years from the anthropoid
level.
It should be made clear that if an adequate understanding

should come about as a consequence of a science of culture it
would not have been "us" who achieved it but our culture. In
the interaction of elements in the culture process, those traits less
effective in providing adequate adjustment in terms of under-

standing and control are gradually relinquished and replaced by
more effective traits. Thus, bronze axes replace stone axes, ikons
and spells give way to laboratories and clinics, and finally, a science
of human culture begins to challenge the primitive philosophy of

omnipotence and Free Will. The new science will of course have
to prove its superiority over the older view just as astronomy,
chemistry, and medicine have in other sectors of experience. The
success of science— the philosophy of materialism, of cause and
effect, of determinism— in the physical and biological sectors of
experience encourages us greatly in the belief that this point of
view and these techniques of interpretation will prove effective
in the social sphere also.
Our role in this process is a modest one. Neither as groups
nor as individuals do we have a choice of roles or of fates. Swedes
are born into their culture just as Zulus, Tibetans, and Yankees
are born into theirs. And each individual is thrust by birth into
some particular place in the "magnetic field" of his culture, there
to be molded by the particular organization of cultural influences
that play upon him. Thus he may have the belief that typhoid
exists only in the mind, or is caused by witches or bacilli, thrust
upon him— or "into his mind." He may be endowed with a belief

in personal immortality, the efficacy of prayer, or the Periodic
Law of Mindeleyev. He may be inspired to preach the only true

faith to the heathen in distant lands, or to wear out his life in a
genetics laboratory, or to believe that "only saps work." To be
sure, the response of the human organism to cultural stimulation
will vary with the quality of the organism. Some will be silk
purses; others, sows' ears. The order in which an organism under-

goes experiences is important, too; the influence of events a, b, c,
will not be the same as a, c, b. An experience will have one effect

at fifteen; quite another at There is room, therefore, for
fifty.
almost infinite variety of permutation and combination in the

experience of individual organisms.
Man discovers his place in the cosmos slowly and accepts it
with extreme reluctance. Time was when his solid earth was
planted in the center, the sun and stars spread upon the vault of
heaven, and men and gods together acted out the drama of life
and death. It was all so compact, so familiar, so secure. Then it

was that man, like God, could cry "Let there be light" and there
was light. Like God, too, man was "omnipotent," if, however,
to a lesser degree. With his magic formulas, his spells, prayers,
charms, and rituals, mighty man could control the weather, the
seasons, and even enlist the gods in the service of man. Now it
is different. Man finds himself but one of innumerable animal

species crawling about on an insignificant planetary speck, fight-
ing, feeding, breeding, dying. Once the child of God, he now

find himself an ex-ape. But he has acquired a new faculty, one
unknown among all other species: articulate speech. As a con-
sequence of this, a new way of life has been developed: culture.
But this culture, this mass of extra-somatic tools, institutions
and philosophies, has a life and laws of its own. Man is just
beginning to understand this.
Man is wholly at the mercy of external forces, astronomic

and geologic. As a matter of fact, it is rather disconcerting to
think of how narrow is the margin within which man lives.
Change the temperature, velocity, amount of water, or atmos-

phere of the earth but a little and would
life cease. It is a curious,
and from a cosmic viewpoint, momentary, concatenation of cir-
cumstances that has made life possible. Man did long rebel against
his dependence upon these outside forces; to be wholly at their
mercy was unendurable. As a matter of fact, man has employed
his precious and unique gift of speech more to deny the facts of
his existence than to improve upon them. But a certain portion
of the human race has come at last to accept our dependence
upon nature and to try to make the most of it.
And so it is with culture. Belief in our omnipotence has, as

Durkheim says, always been a source of weakness to us. But we are
now discovering the true nature of culture and we can in time
reconcile ourselves to this extra-somatic order as we have to the
astronomic, geologic, and meteorologic orders. To give up magic
and mythology which promised much but yielded nothing— noth-
ing but the soothing comfort of illusion— was a painful experience.

But to receive and accept a science and a technology which
promises less but achieves a great deal is to reach a goal most
men are loathe to lose. We may believe that knowledge and
understanding of culture will make for a more satisfactory life
just as these traits have been of value in physics and biology.
To be sure, understanding culture will not, as we have argued
here, alter its course or change the "fate" that it has in store for
us, any more than understanding the weather or the tides will
change them. But as long as man remains an inquiring primate he
will crave understanding. And a growing Science of Culture will
provide him with it.
PART III ENERGY AND CIVILIZATION
Introduction
1n the preceding chapters we have dealt with various aspects
of the culture process. We now encompass it in its entirety.
The development of human culture as a whole is here in-
terpreted upon the culturological level. And, in addition to further
demonstration, we provide, in this Part, a dynamic interpretation

of culture growth in terms of its most fundamental factor, namely,
energy. Cultures are dynamic systems; they require energy for their
activation. The history of civilization is the story of the control
over the forces of nature by cultural means. But the story of
energy control may provide the epitaph of civilization, also. In
its infancy or youth, culture achieved control over fire. Plants and
animals were brought within the orbit of cultural control in
Neolithic times through the arts of agriculture and animal hus-
bandry. Coal and oil and water power were harnessed, and culture
became of age. And now culture has succeeded in penetrating to
the core of matter itself and has learned how to create energy,
even as the Sun, our Father in Heaven, has created it since the
dawn of time. And this advance may possibly be the last. In the
S}Tnbolism of an ancient m)i:h, it may indeed be hazardous to
eat of the fruit of every tree in the garden. The mastery of ter-
restrial fire was tolerable, but to create energy by the transforma-
tion of matter is to play with celestial fire. Whether it can be
done with impunity remains to be seen. The new Prometheus may

also be the executioner.
|i
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ENERGY AND THE EVOLUTION OF
CULTURE
"The degree of civilization of any epoch, people, or group of peoples,

is measured by ability to utilize energy for human advancement or
needs .
.". —
George Grant MacCurdy, Human Origins ^
"... the history of civilization becomes the history of man's advanc-
ing control over energy
^
."
. . —
Wilhelm Ostwald, The Modern Theory
of Energetics
H.aving examined the culture process in a number of its
aspects, we now turn to a consideration of it as a whole.

As we have already seen, "culture" is the name of a distinct
order, or class, of phenomena, namely, those things and events
that are dependent upon the exercise of a mental ability, peculiar
to the human species, that we have termed "symbolling." To be

more specific, culture consists of material objects— tools, utensils,
ornaments, amulets, etc.— acts, beliefs, and attitudes that function

in contexts characterized by symbolling. It is an elaborate mecha-
nism, an organization of exosomatic ways and means employed
by a particular animal species, man, in the struggle for existence
and survival.
One of the significant attributes of culture is its transmissibility
by non-biological means. Culture in all its aspects, material, social,

and ideological, is easily and readily transmitted from one indi-
vidual, one generation, one age, one people, or one region, to
another by social mechanisms. Culture is, so to speak, a form of
social heredity. We thus view culture as a continuum, a supra-

363
biological, extra-somatic order of things and events, that flows

down through time from one age to the next.
We have seen also, in preceding chapters, that since culture
constitutes a distinct order of phenomena, it can be described and
interpreted in terms of principles and laws of its own. Cultural
elements act and react upon one another in their own way. We
can discover the principles of behavior of various sub-classes of
cultural elements and of cultural systems as a whole; and we can
formulate the laws of cultural phenomena and systems.
We now propose to sketch the evolution of culture from its
beginning upon an anthropoid level to the present time. We may

regard the human race— man— as a one. We may likewise think
of all of the various cultures, or cultural traditions, as constituting

a single entity: the culture of mankind. We may, therefore, ad-
dress ourselves to the task of tracing the course of the develop-
ment of this culture from its source to the present day.
Let us return for a moment to a further consideration of the
structure and function of the organization of things and processes,

the system, that we call culture. Culture is an organized, integrated
system. But we may distinguish subdivisions within, or aspects
of, this system. For our purpose, we shall distinguish three sub-
systems of culture, namely, technological, sociological, and ideo-
logical systems. The technological system is composed of the
material, mechanical, physical, and chemical instruments, together
with the techniques of their use, by means of which man, as an
animal species, is articulated with his natural habitat. Here we find
the tools of production, the means of subsistence, the materials
of shelter, the instruments of offense and defense. The sociological
system is made up of interpersonal relations expressed in patterns
of behavior, collective as well as individual. In this category we
find social, kinship, economic, ethical, political, military, ecclesi-
astical, occupational and professional, recreational, etc., systems.
The ideological system is composed of ideas, beliefs, knowledge,
exjpressed in articulate speech or other symbolic form. Mythologies
ENERGY AND THE EVOLUTION OF CULTURE 365
and theologies, legend, literature, philosophy, science, folk wis-

dom and common sense knowledge, make up this category.
These three categories comprise the system of culture as a

whole. They are, of course, interrelated; each reacts
\ ] upon the
others and is affected by them in turn. But the influence of this
mutual interaction is not equal in all directions. The roles played
by the several sub-systems in the culture process as a whole are

not equal by any means. The primary role is played by the tech-
nological system. This is, of course, as we would expect it to be;
it could not be otherwise. Man as an animal species, and conse-

qu ently c ulture as a whole, is dependent upon the material,
mechanical means of adjustment to the natural environment. Man
must have food. He must be protected from the elements. And
he must defend himself from his enemies. These three things he
'
must do if he is to continue to live, and these objectives are
attained only by technological means. The technological system
is therefore both primary and basic in importance; all human life
and culture rest and depend upon it.
Social systems are in a very real sense secondary and subsidiary

to technological systems. In fact a social system may be defined
realistically as the organized effort of human beings in the use
of the instruments of subsistence, offense and defense, and protec-
tion. A social system is a function of a technological system. A
ship, says Childe, "and the tools employed in its production
symbolize a whole economic system." The technology is the in-
dependent variable, the social system the dependent variable.

Social systems are therefore determined by systems of technology;
as the latter change, so do the former. "The bronze axe which
replaces . . . [the stone axe]," again to quote Childe, "is not
only a superior implement, it also presupposes a more complex
^
economic and social structure."
Ideological, or philosophical, systems are organizations of beliefs

in which human experience finds its interpretation. But experience
and interpretations thereof are powerfully conditioned by tech-

nologies. There is a type of philosophy proper to every type of
technology. The interpretation of a system of experience in which
a coup de poing is a characteristic feature will, as it must, reflect
this kind of experience. It would not be improper to speak of a
coup de poiiig type of philosophy as well as of technology. A

pastoral, agricultural, metallurgical, industrial, or military tech-
nology will each find its corresponding expression in philosophy.

One type of technology will find expression in the philosophy of
totemism, another in astrology or quantum mechanics.
But experience of the external world is not felt and interpreted
merely at the point of technological articulation; it is filtered
through the prism of social systems also. The qualities and features
of social, political, ecclesiastical, economic, military, etc., systems

are therefore reflected in philosophies.
We may view a cultural system as a series of three horizontal
strata: the technological layer on the bottom, the philosophical

on the top, the sociological stratum in between. These positions
express their respective roles in the culture process. The techno-
logical system is basic and primary. Social systems are functions of
technologies; and philosophies express technological forces and re-
flect social systems. The technological factor is therefore the deter-

minant of a cultural system as a whole. It determines the form of
social systems, and technology and society together determine
the content and orientation of philosophy. This is not to say,
of course, that social systems do not condition the operation of

technologies, or that social and technological systems are not
affected by philosophies. They do and are. But to condition is
one thing; to determine, quite another.

We
are now in possession of a key to an understanding of the
growth and development of culture: technology. A human being is
a material body; the species, a material system. The planet earth
is a material body; the cosmos, a material system. Technology
is the mechanical means of articulation of these two material

systems, man and cosmos. But these systems are dynamic, not
static; energy as well as matter is involved. Everything— the cosmos,
man, culture— may be described in terms of matter and energy.
The Second Law of Thermodynamics tells us that the cosmos as
a whole is breaking down structurally and running down dy-
namically; matter is becoming less organized and energy more
uniformly diffused. But in a tiny sector of the cosmos, namely
in living material systems, the direction of the cosmic process
is reversed: matter becomes more highly organized and energy
more concentrated. Life is a building up process. But in order to
run counter to the cosmic current, biological organisms must

draw upon free energy in non-living systems, capture it and put it
to work in the maintenance of the vital process. All life is a

struggle for free energy. Biological evolution is simply an expres-
sion of the thermodynamic process that moves in a direction
opposite to that specified for the cosmos as a whole by the Second
Law. It is a movement toward greater organization, greater dif-
ferentiation of structure, increased specialization of function,
higher levels of integration, and greater degrees of energy con-
centration. ^^^
From a zoological standpoint, culture is but a means of carrying \
on the life process of a particular species. Homo sapiens. It is a I
mechanism for providing man with subsistence, protection, olfense /
and defense, social regulation, cosmic adjustment, and recreation.

But to serve these needs of man energy is required. It becomes
the primary function of culture, therefore, to harness and control
energy so that it may be put to work in man's service. Culture
thus confronts us as an elaborate thermodynamic, mechanical
system. By means of technological instruments energy is harnessed
and put to work. Social and philosophic systems are both adjuncts
and expressions of this technologic process. The functioning of
culture as a whole therefore rests upon and is determined by the
amount of energy harnessed and by the way in which it is put

to work.*
But "the way in which it is put to work" introduces another
factor besides energy. Energy by itself is meaningless. To be
significant in cultural systems, energy must be harnessed, directed,
and controlled. This is of course accomplished by technological
means, by means of tools of one kind or another. The efficiency
of technological means varies; some are better than others. The
amount of food, clothing, or other goods produced by the ex-
penditure of a given amount of energy will be proportional to

the efficiency of the technological means with which the energy
is put to work, other factors remaining constant.
We may therefore distinguish three factors in any cultural
situation or system: (i) the amount of energy harnessed per
capita per year; (2) the efficiency of the technological means with
which energy is harnessed and put to work; and, (3) the magni-
tude of human need-serving goods and services produced. Assum-
ing the factor of habitat to be a constant, the degree of cultural
development, measured in terms of amount of human need-
serving goods and services produced per capita, is determined by
the amount of energy harnessed per capita and by the efficiency
of the technologicalmeans with which it is put to work. We may

express this conciselyand succinctly with the following formula:
EX T > C, in which C represents the degree of cultural de-
velopment, E the amount of energy harnessed per capita per year,

and T, the quality or efficiency of the tools employed in the
expenditure of the energy. We can now formulate the basic law
of cultural evolution: Other factors remaining constant, culture
evolves as the amount of energy harnessed per capita per year
is increased, or as the efficiency of the instrumental means oi put-
* The
functioning of any particular culture will of course be conditioned
by environmental conditions. But in a consideration of culture as a
local
whole, we may average all environments together to form a constant factor
which may be excluded from our formula of cultural development.
\
ting the energy to work is increased. Both factors may increase

simultaneously of course. We may now sketch the history of
cultural development from this standpoint.
If culturemechanism for harnessing energy, it must find

is a
this energy somewhere; it must lay hold of natural forces in some
form or other if they are to be put to work in the service of

man's needs. The first source of energy exploited by the earliest
cultural systems was, of course, the energy of the human organism
itself. The original cultures were activated by human energy and
by this source and form alone. The amount of power that an
average adult man can generate is small, about %oth of one
horsepower. When women and children, the sick, aged, and feeble
are considered, the average power resources of the earliest cultural
systems might be reckoned at about K»oth horsepower per capita.

Since the degree of cultural development— the amount of human
need-serving goods and services produced per capita— is propor-
tional to the amount of energy harnessed and put to work per
capita per year, other factors remaining constant, these earliest
cultures of mankind, dependent as they were upon the meager
energy resources of the human body, were simple, meager, and
crude, as indeed they had to be. No cultural system, activated by
human energy alone, can develop very far. Some progress can of
course be made by increasing the efficiency of the technological
means of putting energy to work, but there is a limit to the extent
of cultural advance on this basis. We can form a realistic picture
of cultural development within the limits of human energy re-
sources by looking at such modern cultures as those of the Tas-
manians, Fuegians, or Andamanese; or the Paleolithic cultures of

Europe.
If culture is to advance beyond the limits of maximum tech-
and the energy resources of the human body,

nological efficiency
it must devise new ways to harness additional amounts of energy
by tapping natural resources in some new form. In some pre-

literate cultural systems, fire, wind or water was exploited as a
source of energy, but only occasionally and to a very insignificant

extent. The conquest of fire was a very early cultural achievement,
but it was not until the invention of a practical steam engine
that fire became important as a form of energy. Fire was im-
portant in early cultures in cooking, providing warmth, frighten-
ing wild beasts, and as a symbol, but not as a form of energy.
In more advanced cultures, fire was important or essential in
the ceramic and metallurgical arts, but here also it is not function-
ing as a form of energy: i.e., we cannot equate, or substitute,
muscle power for fire in any of these contexts. There is one

context, however, in which fire functions as energy in some
primitive cultures: in hollowing out tree trunks in the manu-
facture of dugout canoes. Here fire is substituted for muscle
power. And there may be a few more similar uses of fire.
But, all in all, prior to the invention of the steam engine in

modern times, cultural systems made very little use of fire as a
form and source of energy which could be substituted for human
muscle power.
Primitive peoples could float freight down a flowing stream,
but until the invention of the water wheel shortly before the
era, there was no other way in which
beginning of the Christian
moving water could be used as a source of energy for culture
building. Wind was not employed as a source of energy until
comparatively recent times, and it never has been an important
source of power.
Thus, we see that fire, water and wind were utilized as sources
of energy only to a very limited and insignificant extent during
the first hundreds of thousands of years of culture history. But
there is still another source of energy that was available to primi-
tive man, and eventually we find his cultural systems harnessing
it: the energy of plants and animals.
Plants are, of course, forms and magnitudes of energy. Energy
from the sun is captured by the process of photosynthesis and
stored up in the form of plant tissue. All animal life is dependent,
in the last analysis, upon this solar energy stored up in plants. All
life, therefore, is dependent upon photosynthesis.
The first men subsisted upon plants and animals as, of course,
their pre-human ancestors did before them. The earliest culture

systems developed techniques of hunting, fishing, trapping, col-
lecting, gathering, etc., as means of exploiting the plant and animal

resources of nature. But merely appropriating natural resources
is one thing; harnessing and controlling them is quite another.
After some 985,000 years of cultural development, certain plants
were brought under the control of domestication and cultivation^
and various animal species were brought under control through
domestication. The energy resources for culture building were
greatly increased as a consequence of this increase in control over
the forces of nature. The yield of plant food and other useful
plant materials per unit of human labor was greatly increased by
the substitution of plant cultivation for wild plant gathering.
Improved strains were developed through selective breeding. Cul-
tivation, fertilization and irrigation served to increase the yield
per unit of human energy, or labor. Among the plants brought

under cultivation, the cereals have been especially important.
Tylor has called them "the great moving power of civilization."
All of the great civilizations of antiquity were brought into being
by the cultivation of cereals; no great culture has ever been
achieved independently of the cultivation of cereals.
The domestication of animals, too, increased the energy re-
sources for culture building as a consequence of the increase in

control over these forms of energy. Their yield in food and other
useful animal products per unit of human labor was greatly in-
creased by the substitution of domestication for hunting. In a
hunting economy animals had to be killed before they could be
used, and when they were consumed more had to be found and
killed. By means of domestication a people could subsist upon
its herds and flocks without diminishing their numbers at all;
they could even be increased. Animals, like plants, were improved

through selective breeding, and, in addition to supplying milk,

meat, wool, and hides, some species could be used as motive
power, either to carry burdens or to draw plows or vehicles. The
domestication of animals thus greatly increased the amount of
energy under cultural control and available for culture building.

A great advance in cultural development would be expected,
therefore, as a consequence of the great increase in the amount
of energy harnessed and controlled per capita per year by means
of the agricultural and pastoral arts. And this is exactly what took
place. The archeological record bears out our theory fully at this
point. In a few thousand years after the inauguration of the arts
of domestication and cultivation, the great civilizations of an-
tiquit}', of Egypt, Mesopotamia, India, China, and, in the New
World, in Mexico, Middle America, and the Andean Highlands,
came quickly into being. After hundreds of thousands of years of
relatively slow and meager development during the Old Stone
Ages, culture suddenly shot forward under the impetus of aug-
mented energy resources achieved by agriculture and animal hus-
bandry. Great cities, nations, and empires took the place of
villages, tribes, and confederacies as a consequence of the Agri-
cultural Revolution. Rapid progress was made, especially in the
Old World, in all of the arts— industrial, esthetic and intellectual.
Great engineering projects were undertaken and executed; huge

architectural edifices erected. The ceramic, textile and metal-
lurgical arts expanded and flourished. Astronomy, writing, and
mathematics were developed. Beginnings were made in a rational
science of medicine. Impressive works of art were produced, in
relief, sculpture, and even in painting. Development and progress
took place in all aspects of culture.
But culture did not advance continuously and indefinitely as
a consequence of increased energy resources won by the tech-
niques of agriculture and animal husbandry. After a period of
rapid growth, the upward curve of progress levelled off onto a
plateau. The peaks of cultural development in Egypt, Mesopo-
tamia, India, and China were reached prior to looo b.c, in some
cases considerably earher, and from that time until the beginning
of the Fuel Age, about a.d. 1800, no culture of the Old World
surpassed, in any profound and comprehensive way, the highest
levels achieved in the Bronze Age. This is not to say, of course,
that there was no progress at all from 1,000 b.c. to a.d. 1789.
There were innovations here and there and many refinements of
already existing traits. But, taking cultures as wholes, and measur-
ing them by such yardsticks as size of political unit, size of city,
magnitude of architectural edifices and engineering works, density
of population, production and accumulation of wealth, etc., the
cultures of Europe between the disintegration of the Roman
Empire and the rise of the Power Age were in general inferior
to those of the ancient oriental civilizations. The reason why

cultures did not continue indefinitely to advance under the im-
petus of an agricultural and stockraising technology is a matter
that we shall consider presently.
It appears then that culture had developed about as far as it
could on an agricultural and animal husbandry basis before the

^beginning of the Christian era, at least in the Old World; the
New World lagged somewhat behind. And it is reasonable to
suppose that culture never would have exceeded the peaks al-
ready achieved by this time had not some way been devised to
harness additional amounts of energy per capita per year by tapping
the forces of nature in a new form. A way was found, however,
to do this: energy in the form of coal, and, later, oil and gas,
was harnessed by means of steam and internal combustion engines.

By tapping the vast deposits of coal, oil and natural gas, a tre-
mendous increase in the amount of energy available for culture
building was quickly effected. The consequences of the Fuel
Revolution were in general much like those of the Agricultural
Revolution: an increase in population, larger political units, bigger
cities, an accumulation of wealth, a rapid development of the arts
and sciences, in short, a rapid and extensive advance of culture as
a whole.
But, again, after a very rapid rise, the curve of cultural develop-
ment began to show some signs of levelling off. We do not wish
to intimate that culture had already gone as far as it could on a
Fuel basis, for we do not believe it had; we merely believe that
we can detect signs of a slowing down of the advance. But before

the question of how far cultural development could advance on
a Fuel-Agricultural-Animal-Husbandry-Human-Energy basis could
become anything like a matter of immediate concern, a tre-
mendously significant technological event took place: the energy

resources of atomic nuclei were harnessed. For the first time in
culture history energy in a form other than solar had been
harnessed. No cultural advance has as yet been effected by the
utilization of this new form of energy as a source of industrial
power. And before it becomes significant in this respect, another
fateful question will have to be met and answered, namely, the

consequences of the use of atomic energy in warfare.
( Thus we trace the development of culture from anthropoid
levels to the present time as a consequence of periodic increases in
(the amount of energy harnessed per capita per year effected by
Itapping new sources of power. There is, however, another tech-
nological factor involved which we have merely mentioned in-
cidentally so far; we must now consider it more fully, namely^

the role of tools in the culture process.
Energy is of course neither created nor annihilated, at least
not within cultural systems; it is merely transformed. It is harnessed
and it is put to work or expended. But this requires tools and
machines. The amount of energy harnessed may, and the amount
of human need-serving goods produced per unit of energy does,
depend upon the efficiency of the tools employed. So far, we have
been holding the tool factor constant and varying the energy
factor. We now hold the energy factor constant and vary that
of tools. We get, then, the following generalization: the degree of
;

cultural development varies diiecily as the efficiency of the tools .
employed, other factors remaining constant. If, for example, one

is engaged in chopping wood, the amount chopped per unit of
energy expended will vary with the efficiency of the axe; the
amount will increase with the improvement of axes from the Old i
Stone Age, through the Neolithic, Bronze, and Iron ages up to

the finest axe of alloyed steel of the present day. And so it is
with other instrumental means, such as saws, looms, plows,

harnesses, wheeled vehicles, boats, etc. Cultural advance is ef-,
fected, therefore, by an improvement of tools as well as by in-
creases in the amount of energy harnessed.

But the efficiency of a tool cannot be increased indefinitely;
there is a point beyond which improvement of any given tool
is impossible. Thus, a canoe paddle can be too long or too short,
too narrow or too wide, too heavy or too light, etc. We may
therefore both imagine and realize a canoe paddle of such size
and shape as to make any alteration of either result in a decrease
of efficiency. Similarly, we may improve bows and arrows, hoes,
plows, saws, etc., up to but not beyond a certain point. Perfection,
as a practical matter, is either reached or at least closely approxi-
mated. No significant improvement has been made in violins in
decades. The steam locomotive has apparently come close to

its limits of size and speed. To be sure, improvements may be
continued for a time by the use of new materials or alloys and
by the application of new mechanical principles. But even so,
the improvement of any tool or machine approaches closely, if
it does not reach, a limit. We cannot expect locomotives or ocean

liners a mile long; they would fall apart of their own weight.
In the culture process therefore, we find that progress and
development are effected by the improvement of the mechanical
means with which energy is harnessed and put to work as well as
by increasing the amounts of energy employed. But this does not
mean that the tool and energy factors are of equal weight and
significance. The energy factor is the primary and basic one; it
is the prime mover, the active agent. Tools are merely the means
that serve this power. The energy factor may be increased indefi-
nitely; the efficiency of the tool only within limits. With a given
amount of energy, cultural development can progress only so

far: to the limits of the efficiency of the tools. When these limits
have been reached, no further increases in efficiency can make up

for a lack of increase in amount of energy harnessed. But in-
creases in the amount of energy harnessed result in technological

Drogress all along the line, in the invention of new tools and in
the improvement of old ones should further improvement be
possible. We see, therefore, that important though the tool factor
may be, it is merely secondary to the primary and basic factor

of energy. And, since increases of energy foster improvement of
tools, one may say that it is energy that, at bottom, carries the
culture process onward and upward. The general statement that,
the environmental factor being constant, the degree of cultural

development is proportional to the amount of energy harnessed
per capita per year is therefore sound and illuminating.
We turn now to a consideration of social systems in the process
of cultural development. A social system is, as we have seen it
must be, closely related to its underlying technological system.

If a people are nomadic hunters— i.e., use certain technological
instruments in certain ways in order to obtain food, furs, hides,
and other need-serving materials— they will have one type of social
system. If they lead a sedentary life, feeding upon rich beds of
shellfish, or if they are pastoralists or intensive agriculturalists, or
maritime traders, or industrialists, etc., they will have other types
of social systems. The process of military offense and defense and
the technological means with which it is exercised also acts as a
determinant of social organization, sometimes a very powerful
one. Thus we see that the social system of a people is at bottom
determined by the use of the technological means of subsistence
and of oflfense and defense. Those social institutions not directly
related to the technology are related indirectly; they serve to co-
ordinate the various sectors of society with one another and to
integrate them into a coherent whole.
The social systems of primitive peoples vary tremendously in
detail because the specific circumstances of natural habitat and
technology vary. But all social systems resting upon a human
energy (i.e., pre-pastoral, pre-agricultural ) basis belong to a com-
mon type. They are all relatively small and manifest a minimum
of structural differentiation and specialization of function. We
find no highly developed societies upon the primitive foundation
of a technology powered by human energy alone.
The societies of pastoralists and agriculturalists in the early
stages of these technological developments are likewise relatively
simple, undifferentiated systems. As a matter of fact we may char-

acterize all human social systems up to a certain point in the
development of the agricultural, or farming-and-animal-husbandry,
technology as primitive society: tribes based upon kinship ties,
free access to the resources of nature for all, relatively little social
differentiation and specialization, and a high degree of social
equality. When, however, a certain point in the development of

agriculture was reached, a profound change in social systems took
place. This was the social aspect of the Agricultural Revolution.
Let us trace the course of this social revolution in its main out-
lines at least.
Agriculture and animal husbandry are means of producing more

food and other useful materials per unit of human energy than
ca-n be obtained by hunting, fishing, or gathering. When agri-
culture is combined with stock raising the energy resources for

culture building are of course greater than when the cultivation
of plants alone is practiced. Not only do flocks and herds supply
meat, milk, wool or hides, but their muscle power may be used
to carry burdens, draw plows and carts, etc. All of the great
civilizations of the Old World grew up on the basis of agriculture
and animal husbandry. Since, however, it is the cultivation of

cereals that is the basic factor in the new agriculture-and-animal-
husbandry technology, we may for the sake of brevity speak of
"the social consequences of a developing agricultural technology."

As the agricultural arts developed and matured, as plants were
improved through selective breeding, as new techniques of cul-
tivation, irrigation, drainage, rotation of crops, fertilization, etc.,
were introduced and improved, the amount of food produced in-

creased. As the food supply was enlarged the population increased.
Small tribes grew into large tribes and these into nations and
empires; villages grew into towns and towns into cities.
Not only was more food produced by agricultural techniques
than by hunting, fishing, and gathering, but more food per capita,
more per unit of human labor expended. And, as the agricultural
arts developed, the productivity of human labor in this field in-
creased. It gradually became possible for a portion of the popula-
tion to produce food for all. This meant that a portion of the
population could be diverted from agriculture and turned into
other channels, such as the industrial and esthetic arts. As the agri-
cultural technology advanced, more and more of the population

could thus be withdrawn from the fields and put to work at other
tasks and occupations. Society thus became divided along occupa-
tional lines, differentiated structurally and specialized functionally.

This led to further social developments as we shall see in a
moment.
The mere increase in population had important consequences in
another direction also. Tribes and clans were organized upon a
basis of kinship ties; social relations were largely exercised in this
form. Tliis mechanism worked very well as long as the social
units were relatively small; a clan or tribe could be effective as a
mechanism of social organization and intercourse as long as its
members were not exceedingly numerous, as long as social relations
could be personal. But when, under the impetus of a developing
agricultural technology and an increasing food supply, clan and
tribal units grew to huge size, they tended to fall apart of their
own weight. Primitive society tended therefore to disintegrate as a

consequence of sheer increase of numbers. A new type of social
organization was therefore required if chaos was to be averted.
This new organization was found in the State. This was another
consequence of the Agricultural Revolution.
The developing agricultural technology brought about a pro-
found change in economic organization, also. In tribal society
production, exchange, and consumption of wealth took place upon
a personal, kinship basis; the economic organization was virtually
identified with the kinship system. This type of economic or-
ganization worked well in a small society with a minimum of

division of labor and with little differentiation of social structure
along occupational lines. But as society became extensively dif-
ferentiated, as a consequence of the increase in productivity of
human labor in agriculture, a new type of economic system was
required; a way of relating classes economically to one another
must be devised. This can be done either in a feudal or a mone-
tar}'-market system. In either case, however, we have a system in
which property relations form the basis of social relations rathei
than the reverse, as was the case in tribal, kinship, society.
On preliterate cultural levels there was of course some fighting

between tribal groups. Competition for favored hunting and fish-
ing grounds or other natural resources, vengeance for real or

fancied (e.g., magical) injuries, led to a certain amount of inter-
tribal conflict. But the factors necessary for large scale and sys-
tematic and sustained warfare wêre lacking. These were supplied,

however, as a consequence of the Agricultural Revolution. A high
degree of development of the agricultural, metallurgical, ceramic,
and other arts resulted in the production and accumulation of vast
amounts of wealth. A rich nation's possessions together with the
natural and human resources that made the wealth possible would
constitute a rich prize to any people who could conquer it. War-
fare became a profitable occupation. Thus we find, especially in
Mesopotamia, a condition of almost chronic warfare: nations con-

,
tending with one another for. rich, fertile river valleys, the treasures
of palace and temple, one nation conquering and looting another,

new empires rising upon the ruins of old.
The social consequences of systematic and chroijic warfare are
significant: the formation of a professional military class, which

in collaboration with political rulers and sometimes even
autonomously, may become a powerful political force; the reduc-
tion of peoples of conquered nations to the status of slavery or
serfdom; and the subordination of the masses at home to the im-
peratives of prolonged military conflict. Thus warfare tended
powerfully to divide society into two major social classes: a
relatively small ruling group who organized and directed the
campaigns and to whom the overwhelming proportion of the
wealth taken as booty went, and a large class who provided
the "sinews of war"— the peasants, serfs, the common soldiers,
etc. There was often but little difference between the lot of the
masses at home and that of the masses of the vanquished nation

after conquest and subjugation had been accomplished.
Warfare was not, however, the only means, or social process,
that operated to divide societies of the post-Agricultural Revolu-

tionary era into a small, wealthy, powerful, ruling class on the one
hand, and a large class of peasants, serfs, or slaves on the other.
The peaceful process of commerce, and especially the use of
money, operated also to bring about the same end. Trade and
commerce are means of concentrating wealth. In this competitive
process the big merchants grew at the expense of the small ones.
Wealth tended to gravitate into a few hands. Money lending is a
particularly rapid and effective means of making the poor poorer
and the wealthy richer. When interest rates range from say thirty
to one hundred percent or even more, as they did in ancient
times, the small borrowers rapidly sink into economic bondage to
the money-lenders. It was not at all uncommon in Greece be-
fore the reforms of Solon or Kleisthenes for a small farmer to sell
his children into slavery in order to pay merely the interest on his
loan, let alone the principal. Taxes levied by the ruling class
through the mechanism of the state and exorbitant rents levied
upon small tenants by large landlords also tended to reduce the
masses to a condition of economic bondage and impotence.
Thus we see that the social, political and economic effects of
the technological revolution in agriculture were: the dissolution

of the old social system of primitive society, the obsolescence of
tribe and clan; the division of society into various occupational
groups— guilds of artisans and craftsmen; the division of society

horizontally into two major classes: a small, powerful, wealthy,
ruling class and a large class, governed and exploited by the

ruling class and held in bondage in one form or another by them.
Civil society based upon property relations took the place of
primitive society based upon kinship; the State replaced tribe and
clan. The technological revolution in agriculture precipitated and
carried through a revolution in the social, political, and economic
sectors of culture. As the amount of energy harnessed and put to
work per capita per year was increased by the development of the
agricultural technology, society became more and more differen-
tiated structurally and increasingly specialized functionally. Con-
comitant with this trend was the emergence of a special social
mechanism of co-ordination of functions and correlation of struc-

tures, a mechanism of integration and regulation. This political
mechanism had two aspects, secular and ecclesiastic, sometimes

closely related, sometimes distinct, but always present. We call
this special mechanism of co-ordination, integration and regulation

the State-Church. The evolution of civil society from the early
metallurgical era to the present day, passing through a variety

of forms of the state and class relations, is a story that we shall
turn to presently. At this point we wish to return to a matter

touched upon earlier.
If culture evolves when and as the amount of energy harnessed

per capita per year increases, why did not culture continue to
advance indefinitely as a consequence of the technological revolu-
tion in agriculture? As we have already seen, it did not. On the

contrar}', after attaining certain levels it ceased to advance and
thereafter continued on a plateau until a new and powerful

impetus came from the Fuel Revolution. Yet, agriculture as a
technological process, as a mechanism of harnessing solar energy,
was not developed to its technological limits by any means; it
has not even yet reached those limits or even approached them
very closely according to agronomists. Why, then, did techno-
logical progress in agriculture eventually slow down and virtually
stop after so rapid a rise?

The answer seems to lie in the relationship between socio-
economic system and technological system established by the
Agricultural Revolution. As we have noted, every social system
rests upon and is determined by a technological system. But every
technological system functions within a social system and is there-
fore conditioned by it. The social system created by the Agri-

cultural Revolution affected the technological process so as
eventually to "contain it" and to bring further progress in culture
as a whole virtually to a standstill. This how it was done.

is
The social system of civil society was, as we have seen, divided

into a ruling class and an exploited class. The latter produced the
wealth; the former appropriated so large a portion of it as to leave

the latter with but minimum means of subsistence. No advantage
would accrue to the producing class if they enlarged their pro-
duction through increased efficiency; the increment would only be
appropriated by the ruling class. On the other hand, the ruling
class were not likely to resort to a long range plan to improve
the techniques of agricultural production. If they needed more
than they were obtaining at the moment the need was immediate
and a long range plan would have been of no use. They would
therefore resort to greater exactions from the producing class. But
in many, if not most, instances, it would seem, the ruling class
had ample for their needs. As a matter of fact, a great deal of
evidence indicates that one of the problems they had to contend
with was that of overproduction rather than of insufEciency.
Thus we see, especially in Eg\'pt but also in Mesopotamia and
elsewhere, the ruling class engaging in "conspicuous waste and con-
sumption" and that on a grand scale. Palaces and temples were
loaded with wealth and vast treasures were deposited with the
dead in tombs. In addition to this, great public works programs-
pyramids, monuments, temples, tombs and palaces— were con-
tinually being built. It would appear that the ruling class was
frequently confronted with the problem of over-production and
the threat of technological unemployment or a surplus of popula-
tion among the lower classes. Their great public works programs,
the wholesale disposition of wealth in mortuary customs, etc.,
enabled them to solve both these problems with one stroke. Thus
the social system tended to act as a damper on further increase in /
technological progress once a certain stage of development had

been reached. In addition to the factors mentioned above, Childe
has pointed out that the social system operated not only to con-
centrate wealth in the hands of the ruling minority but effectively
prevented the fruits of technological progress from being dis-
tributed among the masses of the population. There was, con-

sequently, no chance for the technology of production to expand
quantitatively or to improve qualitatively.
We see, then, that the new agricultural technology resulted in a
tremendous growth of culture in its initial stages. But in effecting
this advance a social system was created that eventually curbed and
contained the technological system in such a way as to bring
progress virtually to a stop, despite the fact that the technological
limits of agricultural development had not been even closely ap-
proximated. We may reasonably conclude, therefore, that human

culture would never have gone substantially beyond the peaks
achieved prior to the beginning of the Christian era had not the
amount of energy harnessed per capita per year been considerably
enlarged by tapping the forces of nature in a new form.
384
Fuel Revolution was the culmination and synthesis

of a
The
number of streams of cultural elements that had been in progress
some time just as the Agricultural Revolution
of development for
was the organized florescence of trends of earlier ages.
And, like
its predecessor, the Fuel Revolution
brought about great social,
political and economic changes as a consequence of greatly aug-
menting the energy resources for culture building by harnessing

solar energy in a new form, this time in coal, oil and natural gas.
As in the case of the Agricultural Revolution, the new fuel

technology resulted in a great increase in population. The popula^
tion of Europe prior to the Coal Age grew only from 100,000,000
in 1650 to 187,000,000 in 1800. From 1800 to 1900, however, it
increased to over 400,000,000. The population of England, to cite
the country in which the Industrial Revolution got under way
and in which it developed to a very great extent, increased 50 per-
cent between 1700 and 1800. But during the nineteenth century,
it increased 260 percent. In the two centuries prior to 1850, the
populatio nof Japan increased but 41 percent. In the fifty years
following 1872— about the time industrialization began— however,

the population increased over 80 percent. Urban development was
powerfully stimulated and acceleiated by the new technology as
it had been by the developing agricultural technology in the

Bronze Age. The European feudal system— a rural, aristocratic,
agricultural production for use economy—was rendered obsolete

and replaced by an urban, parliamentary, industrial, production-
for-sale-at-a-profit economy. Social structure became ever more

differentiated and functions more specialized. The productivity of
human labor increased as technology advanced. Farm populations
decreased relatively and in some instances absolutely.
Changes occurred in the class structure of society also. The
basic dichotomy— a minority ruling class and the majority of the
population in a position of subordination and exploitation— re-
mained, but the composition of these classes underwent radical
change. Industrial lords and financial barons replaced the landed
aristocracy of feudalism as the dominant element in the ruling
class, and an urban, industrial proletariat took the place of serfs,
peasants, or slaves as the basic element in the subordinate class.
Industrial strife took the place of peasant revolts and uprisings
of slaves and serfs of earlier days. And, in a new form, the State-
Church functioned as a co-ordinative and regulative mechanism
to maintain the integrity of society by containing these class
antagonisms and by mobilizing the resources of society for offense
and defense.
We may pause at this point to take note of an interesting
feature of the process of cultural evolution: as culture evolves the
rate oi growth is accelerated.As we have already seen, the rate of
growth in late Neolithic and Bronze times was much greater
early
than in the Paleolithic and Eolithic Ages, The Agricultural
Revolution required but a few thousand years to run its course.
But the Fuel Revolution is only a century and a half or two
centuries old at most, and already greater changes have been
effected by it perhaps than by all earlier ages put together. The
change is so rapid and we are so much in the midst of it that it
is difficult to grasp the situation and to realize the profound and

radical nature of the revolution, social and political as well as
technological, through which we are passing. Twenty-seven years
ago in New Viewpoints in American History, Professor A. M.
Schlesinger compared the culture of the United States of Lincoln's
day with that of Benjamin Franklin's on the one hand, and with
the culture of 1922 on the other. He remarked that the daily
life with which Lincoln was familiar was in most respects like
that known to George Washington and Franklin. But our culture
in 1922 would have been strange and bewildering to Lincoln had
he returned to the American scene:
Buildingsmore than three or four stories high would be new.

The plate-glass show windows of the stores, the electric street-
lighting, the moving-picture theaters, the electric elevators in
3g^
stores would be
the buildings and especially the big department
things in his day unknown. The smooth-paved streets and
cement sidewalks would be new to him. The fast-moving elec-
tric street-cars and motor vehicles would
fill him with wonder.
Even a boy on a bicycle would be a curiosity. Entering the
White House, someone would have to explain to him such
commonplaces of modern life as sanitary plumbing, steam heat-
ing, friction matches, telephones, electric lights, the Victrola,
and even the fountain pen. In Lincoln's day, plumbing was in
its beginnings, coal-oil lamps and gas-jets were coming into
use, and the steel pen had only recently superseded the quill
pen. The steel rail, the steel bridge, high-powered locomotives,
refrigerator cars, artificial ice, the cream separator, the tv^dne
binder, the caterpillar tractor, money orders, the parcels post,
rural free delivery, the cable, the wireless, gasoline engines, re-
peating rifles, dynamite, submarines, airplanes— these and
hundreds of other inventions now in common use were all alike
unknown.^
But consider the changes that have taken place— in transporta-

tion, medicine, communication, and in technology in general—
since Schlesinger wrote in 1922! In warfare perhaps better than in

other areas of our culture, is the dizzying rate of technological
progress made dramatically apparent. The technology of the first
World War looks quaint today, and some of the weapons and
techniques introduced for the first time in World War II are
already obsolete. One hardly dares to picture the next great mili-
tary conflict; novelties already unveiled and others only intimated
suggest all too vividly the distance that technological progress has
gone since the days of Pearl Harbor. And behind the scenes in
the theater of Mars are the great research laboratories and prov-
ing grounds, working under forced draft to develop and perfect
new tools and techniques in all phases of our technology. The
rate of cultural advance is now greater than ever before. "Our
life," wrotQ the distinguished physicist, Arthur Holly Compton in
1940, "differs from that of two generations ago more than Ameri-
can life of that day differed from the civihzed hfe at the dawn of
written history." And, since Compton wrote these words, a
*
profound and awful revolution— perhaps the most significant in all

human history— has taken place: the harnessing of atomic energy.
But, even as in the case of the Agricultural Revolution and its
aftermath, so in the Power Age the social system created by the

new fuel technology came eventually to act as a brake upon further
cultural advance. The price and profit system stimulated produc-
tion and technological progress as long as the output could find
a market. But, like the socio-economic system of the Bronze Age,
the new commercialism of the Fuel era had its inherent limita-
tions. No industrial nation had or could have purchasing power
sufficient to keep and absorb its own output; the very basis of the
industrial profit system was an excess in value of product over
the cost of production in terms of wages paid to the industrial
workers. Export of surplus was therefore essential; "we must export
or die" is a cry of desperation heard from more than one nation
in recent years. For a time new markets could be found abroad.
But as the output of industrial nations increased with advances in
technology, and as non-European nations such as Japan became
industrialized and hence competitors for foreign markets, the
international profit system began to bog down. The world market
diminished as the industrial output increased. When goods could
no longer be sold profitably abroad, production wâs curtailed at
home. Entrepreneurs are disinclined to produce goods that cannot

be sold at a profit. Factories, mills and mines were closed. Millions
of workers were thrown out of employment. Surplus goods were
destroyed, agricultural production reduced. The awful plague of
overproduction and unemployment, "star\'ation in the midst of
plenty," settled upon the land. The social system was strangling
the great technological machine of industry and paralyzing the
body politic as a whole. The alternatives were stagnation and
death or war and revolution. If the social system were able to
contain the Fuel technology and the commercial rivalries and class
conflicts engendered by it, society would become stabilized in a
more or less stagnant form of industrial feudalism. Should, how-

ever, the forces inherent in the new technology be able to
surmount and overcome the restrictions of the price and parlia-
mentary system, then culture could advance toward higher levels.

There is evidence aplenty that culture, powered by the mighty
forces of Fuel technology, is embarking upon the latter course.
The first phase of the second great Cultural Revolution— the

Industrial Revolution— has run its course and we are now entered
upon the second phase, that of social, political and economic
revolution. And, as in the past, war is proving to be an effective
means of profound political change. The system of free and
individual enterprise in business and commerce is now virtually
extinct. The gold standard is merely a memory of an era that is
closed. The parliamentary system of government, a device designed
to permit the greatest freedom for the growth of industrial and

financial enterprise, is practically obsolete also. Private right is no
longer significant chiefly as a means of freedom for growth as it
was in the early days of commercialism. It now leads toward com-

petitive rivalry, internecine strife, chaos, and paralysis. Concen-
trations of power without public responsibility among those who
own or control vast wealth, or in the ranks of organized labor, are
no longer compatible with the degree of unity, integrity and
strength that a nation must have if it is to compete successfully
with its rivals in the international arena. The exigencies of na-
tional survival require the subordination of private right to general
welfare, of part to whole. In short, the State, as the integrativeand
regulative mechanism of civil society, is destined to acquire ever
greater power and to wield more and more control. Social evolu-
tion is moving inexorably toward higher levels of integration,
toward greater concentrations of political power and control.
'
On the international level, too, an interesting trend of social
evolution can be discerned: movement toward ever larger and
\
larger political units. The Agricultural technology replaced villages
with cities, tribes with nations and empires. The modern Fuel
technology also is working toward larger political groupings, fewer
concentrations of political power. The relatively recent trend
toward amalgamation can be seen in the unification of Germany
and Italy in the nineteenth century. The Treaty of Versailles
attempted, with the "Balkanization of Europe," to oppose the
age-old trend of social evolution by breaking the continent up into
little pieces. One of the conspicuous and significant aspects of the
Second World War in its initial phase was a movement toward
the unification of Europe. A half-dozen or so World Powers
engaged in the First World War; only two great powers emerged
from the second. The competition for power narrows as con-
testants are eliminated. The logical conclusion is, however, not
simply the domination of the world by a single nation— this would
be but a transitional stage—but a single political organization that
will embrace the entire planet and the whole human race. Toward
such a denouement is our mighty Power technology rapidly
moving us.
But a new and ominous element has recently entered the pic-
ture: nuclear atomic energy for military purposes. Here again the
significance of this new factor derives from the fact that a new
source of energy has been harnessed and in awful form. Once
more we are upon the threshold of a technological revolution.
But the consequences of this new technological advance may
possibly differ radically from those of the Agricultural and the
Fuel Revolutions. New technologies in the past have rendered old
social systems obsolete but they have replaced them with new
systems. The new nuclear technology however threatens to destroy
civilization itself, or at least to cripple it to such an extent that it
might require a century, a thousand, or ten thousand, years to

regain its present status. At least this is what eminent scientists
and military men tell us; as laymen we are in a child's world of

ignorance, with almost all the significant facts kept beyond our
reach. The destruction of a few score of centers of science and

industry in Europe and the United States would just about do for
Western civihzation and, authorities assure us that this is well
within the realm of possibility, not to say probability. The hope

of the future therefore, and the salvation of mankind and civiliza-
tion would seem to lie in the emergence from the next war of a
victor— not merely a survivor— and one with sufficient power and
resources to organize the whole planet and the entire human
species within a single social system.
We have thus presented a sketch of the evolution of the culture

of mankind from the horizon of our prehuman forebears to the
present time. It is a fascinating story of adventure and progress;
of a species lifting itself up by its cultural bootstraps from the

status of a mere animal to a radically new way of life, a way
destined to win mastery over most other species and to exert a
powerful and extensive control over the natural habitat. The origin
of culture elevated the evolutionary process to a new plane. No

longer was it necessary for the human animal to acquire new
powers and techniques through the slow process of biological
change; he now had an extra-somatic mechanism of adjustment
and control that could grow freely of itself. Moreover, advances in
one stream of cultural development could diffuse readily to other
traditions so that all might share in the progress of each. Thus
the story of man becomes an account of his culture.
Technology is the hero of our piece. This is a world of rocks
and rivers, sticks and steel, of sun, air and starlight, of galaxies,
atoms and molecules. Man is but a particular kind of material

body who must do certain things to maintain his status in a
cosmic material system. The means of adjustment and control, of
security and survival, are of course technological. Culture thus
becomes primarily a mechanism for harnessing energy and of
putting it to work in the service of man, and, secondarily, of
channelling and regulating his behavior not directly concerned
with subsistence and offense and defense. Social systems are

therefore determined by technological systems, and philosophies
and the arts express experience as it is defined by technology and
refracted by social systems. Cultural systems like those of the bio-
logical level are capable of growth. That is, the power to capture
any energy is also the ability to harness more and still more of it.
Thus cultural systems, like biological organisms, develop, multiply,
and extend themselves. The sun is the prime mover; culture, a

thermodynamic system operated by it. At least, solar energy has
activated all cultural systems of history up to now, and it will
continue to do so after terrestrial supplies of fissionable fuels have
been exhausted— if civilization should survive and reach this
point. But technology is still the leading character in our play,

even though it may turn out to be a villain instead of the hero.
Technology builds but it may also destroy. The belief and faith
that civilization, won at such great cost in pain and labor, simply
cannot go down in destruction because such an end would be too

monstrous and senseless, is but a naive and anthropocentric
whimper. The cosmos does little know nor will it long remember
what man has done here on this tiny planet. The eventual extinc-
tion of the human race— for come it will sometime— will not be
the first time that a species has died out. Nor will it be an event
of very great terrestrial significance.
But man may survive the coming holocaust of radioactivity even
though his culture is tumbled to the level of Neolithic times,
only to begin the long climb over again, this time perhaps by a
somewhat different route; culture too may be able to profit from
experience. But culture may not destroy or even critically wound
itself with its new powers. Destruction is no more inevitable than
salvation. Great though the devastation may— and will—be in the

next test of strength in the international arena, the creative
powers of the new technology may be sufficiently great to rise up
from the ruins and to enclose the whole world in a single political
embrace. Then and only then will the curse of war be lifted and
the way made free and open for a fuller and richer life.
Our sketch of the evolution of culture is, it will be noted,

wholly culturological. It does not resort to race, physical type,
intelligence, a moral sense, the dignity of man, the spirit of
progress or democracy, the individual— genius or otherwise— the

rejection of the father, consciousness of kind, a set of instincts or
"drives," social interaction, a basic personality structure, toilet
training in infancy, or breast vs. bottle feeding and weaning, to

account for the behavior and growth of this great extra-somatic
tradition. We explain it in terms of culture itself. A thunder-
shower or a tornado is explained in terms of antecedent and con-
comitant meteorological events; a clan or a constitution is likewise
accounted for by citing its cultural antecedents and concomitants.

Culture is, as we have pointed out repeatedly, a stream of inter-
upon others and is affected by
acting elements; one trait reacts
them in return. Some elements become obsolete and are elimin-
ated from the stream; new elements are incorporated into it.
New permutations, combinations, and syntheses are continually
being formed. Whether we deal with a restricted portion of the
cultural continuum such as the evolution of mathematics or the
genealogy of the steam engine, or whether we encompass culture
in its entirety, the principle of interpretation is the same: cul-
ture grows out of culture. In our sketch of the evolution of culture
as a whole we deal with large categories: technology, social sys-
tems, and philosophies. We break technology down into energy

and tool factors. We observe the action of each class of elements,
their impact upon others, the effect of technology upon social
systems, and the influence of economic and political institutions
upon agriculture and steam-driven factories. We note the role

that war as a culture process has played in the course of political
change. And, finally, we see the fate of civilization delicately
balanced in a scales to be tipped this way or that, we know not
how, by the modern miracles of nuclear technology.
Culturology the newest venture of science. After centuries of
is
cultivation in the fields of astronomy, physics, and chemistry;

after scores of years of tillage in physiology and psychology,
science has at last turned to the most immediate and powerful
determinant of man's human behavior: his culture. After re-
peated trials and as many failures it was discovered that culture

cannot be explained psychologically; such interpretations are
merely anthropomorphisms in scientific clothing. The explanation
of culture is and must be culturological. The science of culture is
young but full of promise. It is destined to do great things— if only

the subject of its study will continue its age-old course: onward
and upward.
PART IV CULTUROLOGY
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"During the last hundred

it has become increasingly clear that
years,
culture . . . represents ...
a distinct domain . that demands for . .
its investigation a distinct science . ." . —

R. H. Lowie, Cultural
Anthropology; a Science
"TTiese specifically human peculiarities which differentiate the race of
the homo sapiens from all other species of animals is comprehended in
the name culture; therefore the science of specifically human activities
may be most suitably called culturology ." Wilhelm Ostwald,
. . —
Principles oi the Theory oi Education
E.'very living organism must effect a certain minimum

adjustment to its environment in order to live and to repro-
duce its kind. "Understanding" is the name we give to one
aspect of this process of adjustment. We do not as a rule use
this term in speaking of the lower forms of life, such as plants
for example. But plants do the same kind of thing— and, if any-
thing, more surely— that human beings do in contexts to which
we apply the word "understanding." Scientific observations and
experiments on apes make it quite clear that their behavior
possesses qualities that we can only call "insight" and "under-
standing"; and it is more than likely that other sub-human mam-
mals share these attributes also. But it is in the human species and
here alone that we find understanding as a process of adjust-

ment carried on by symbolic means. In the symbol the process of
biological evolution attained a metasensory mechanism of adjust-
ment. All sub-human species must effect their adjustments in
terms of meanings grasped and interpreted with the senses. But
397
—
man can go beyond the reach of sense impressions; he can grasp

and interpret world with symhoh. Thanks to this abihty, he
his
may acquire understandings and effect adjustments on a higher

level than any other animal. His' understandings may
be incom-
parably richer than those of the highest apes, and he can share
them readily with his fellows. Thus a new type of understanding
and adjustment has come into existence in the zoological world.
The use of the neuro-sensory-symbolic faculty in the process

of adjustment finds expression in verbal formulas that we may
call beliefs. The sum total of beliefs of a people we term their
philosophy. A philosophy, therefore, is an elaborate mechanism

by means of which a certain kind of animal, man, adjusts him-
self to the earth beneath him and to the cosmos around him.
A philosophy is of course closely related to other aspects of the

cultural system of which it is itself a part: to technology, to social
organization, and to forms of art. But our concern here is with

philosophy as such, as a technique of interpretation, as a way of
rendering the world intelligible so that articulation with this
world can be effected to the greatest advantage to man.
Philosophy, like culture as a whole, has grown and developed
through all the ages that have elapsed since man began to symbol.
Philosophy is an instrument devised and used for a purpose. In

this respect it is exactly like an axe. One philosophy may be
better— a better instrument of interpretation and adjustment
than another, just as one axe may be a better chopping instru-
ment than another. There has been a progressive development of

philosophies just as there has been development and progress
of axes or of culture as a whole. The preceding chapters under-
take to tell, or at least to exhibit, some of the story of this
development.
The first men interpreted things and events in terms of their
own psyches. They were not aware of their standpoint of inter-
pretation, however; on the contrary, they insisted emphatically
that the minds to which the events of their experience were at-
THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE 399
tributed were not their own, but those of spirits, of gods or

demons. They were, however, merely the projection of the human
ego into the external world. Thus the whole cosmos, the entire
range of experience, was interpreted as the expression of mind
and spirit, of desire, will and purpose. This was the philosophy
of animism and supernaturalism, but above all, of anthro-
pomorphism.
It took time for the human primate to acquire skill and com-
petence in the use of his newly acquired faculty, the symbol.
Hundreds of thousands of years elapsed before any advance was
made beyond the original— and self-deceptive— premise that the
cosmos was and could be only the expression of an ego like
man's. In his philosophies primordial man simply created the
world in his own image. Nor have we outgrown this point of
view even today as the prevalence, vigor and respectability of
theologies clearly show.
But after eons of explaining the world of things and events
in terms of the desires, wills and plans of supernatural beings,
an advance was made to a new level, a new set of premises.
Instead of invoking spirits and minds to account for events,
entities, essences, principles, etc., were called upon. Instead of
saying, for example, that fossils were fashioned by a god, it was
now said that they were formed by "stone-making forces," or that
they were "the congelation of lapidific juices." This type of ex-
planation, empty and senseless as it may seem today, was never-
theless a great advance over the animistic, supernaturalistic
interpretation that had prevailed before. The answers of super-
naturalism were complete and final: God did it; it was God's
will, and that was that; there was nothing left to say. Actually,
of course, these answers told one nothing; they were as empty as
they were final. And, worst of all, they shut the door to anything
better; what else could one ask or learn after being told that an
event was but an act of God? The metaphysical— to use Comte's
term— type of interpretation at least freed one from the bondage
of anthropomorphism. If fossils were formed by "stone-making

forces," one was, by impHcation, invited to inquire into the nature
of such forces and thus come into direct contact with the real
world— instead of one's own image reflected therein— and to
learn something about it as a consequence. The metaphysical
explanations though empty in themselves were nevertheless pro-
gressive; they opened the way to something better: science.

We have not yet outgrown the metaphysical type of inter-
pretation even in social science. We still find events explained in
terms of "the separatism of the natives," "tendencies of the hu-

man mind," "the principle of the equivalence of brothers," "the
essential democracy of the Plains tribes," etc. (see p. 65). But
we are making progress.
If one accepted the invitation implicit in the metaphysical type
of explanation, if, in an endeavor to find out what "stone-making

forces" really are, one "went to nature, took the facts into one's
own hands, and saw for himself" (Agassiz), he would stand a

good chance of achieving the point of view and the techniques
of science. At any rate, this is a type of interpretation that grew
out of and eventually superseded metaphysical explanations.
Things and events were no longer explained in terms of the pur-
pose or plan of spirits, nor yet as caused by principles or essences;
they were explained in terms of other things and events. Thus, an
earthquake is not merely an expression of divine wrath, an act of
punishment for our sins; nor is it merely the expression of a
"principle of vulcanism." It is a geologic event that is to be ex-
plained in terms of other geologic events.
In science the human primate has come at last to a realistic
and upon the external world to which he must
effective grasp
adjust if he As an explanatory device, animistic,

is to survive.
anthropomorphic and supematuralistic philosophies were worse
than worthless, for false knowledge is often worse than none at
all. One has only to think of all the men and women who have
been put to death as witches and heretics to get some notion of
the magnitude of the disadvantages imposed by this type of

philosophy. To be sure, primitive philosophies had other func-
tions than explanatory; they sustained man with illusions, they
provided him with courage, comfort, consolation, and confidence,
all of which had a biological survival value. But as explanatory
techniques, primitive philosophies were a total loss.
Metaphysical philosophies did not really explain the external

world either, but they paved the way for a realistic and effective
interpretation in the point of view and with the intellectual tech-
niques that we call "science." A profile of modern philosophy dis-
closes its genealogy as well as its structure and composition: a

new, vigorous and growing component of science; an old, primitive
supernaturalism, strong in certain sectors but declining as its field
contracts and its nourishment dwindles; a rather lush growth of

anthropomorphism and free will in certain sectors, but this, too,
giving way to a more virile flora; and odds and ends of meta-
physical reasoning here and there.
If philosophy is a mechanism of adjustment of the human

animal to his cosmic setting, then man is at the bottom of philo-
sophic concern. As we pointed out in our chapter on "The
Expansion of the Scope of Science," we can trace the history and
the growth of science from the standpoint of determinants of
human behavior. Astrology was an attempt to appraise the role
of heavenly bodies in human affairs and to predict the course of
human events as determined by the stars. The philosophy of
science found its first expression in astronomy because the

heavenly bodies, being the least significant of determinants of
human behavior, could be dislodged most easily from the anthro-
pomorphic tradition in which self was confused with not-self.
The point of view and the techniques of science, once established

began to spread to other areas. The
in the sector of the celestial,
course of expansion of the scope of science was determined by
this law: science will advance and develop in inverse ratio to the
significance of phenomena as determinants of human behavior.

Tenestrial physics and mechanics followed astronomy. The physi-
cal sciences took form before the biological because physical
phenomena are less significant as determinants of human behavior
than are biological phenomena. Within the biological realm,
anatomy develops first, then physiology and psychology. The point
upon which these three sciences focused was the individual
organism. But it came eventually to be realized that there is a
class of phenomena outside and beyond the individual that is
nevertheless powerful and significant in the determination of his
behavior. Sociology and social psychology were the organizations

of scientific techniques to grapple with this class of meta-indi-
vidual determinants. In the organization of these sciences it was
assumed that the categories of determinants of human behavior
had now been exhausted. Astronomy and terrestrial physics would
take care of the inanimate determinants; anatomy, physiology,
and psychology would encompass the individual determinants;
and sociology, the science of society, would deal with the supra-
individual determinants: what other determinants were there to
be reckoned with?
As we have already shown, the assumption of the founders of
sociology was far from adequate. True enough, a man behaves
differently in the company of his fellows than when alone, just
as roosters, dogs, ducks, and apes do. A sociology of man— or ape,
rat, dog, or duck— is in order, therefore, in addition to a psy-
chology. But to go no further would be to overlook a fundamental
difference between man and all other species. A monkey, dog, or
rat, as we have just noted, behaves differently when in the com-
pany of his fellows than when alone. We distinguish therefore
individual and social aspects of this individual's behavior. We can
go farther and recognize a social system of behavior in which the
system as such is the focus of attention and interpretation. Thus
we distinguish both individual and social systems. But—and here
we come to the fundamental difference between man as a human

being and all other species— whether we consider rat, dog, or ape
behavior in its individual or its social aspects, whether we regard
it in the form of individual systems or social systems, the deter-
minant is the biological organism. We find one type of social

system or behavior in one species of animal, another type in an-
other species; ducks will have one type of social system or be-
havior, eagles another; lions one type, bison another; sharks one
kind, herring another, etc. Among the lower species, social sys-
tems are functions oi their respective biological organisms:

S = f(0). But in the human species, on the level of symbolic
behavior, this is not the case. Human behavior, either in its
average individual or its social aspects, is nowhere a function of

the organism. Human behavior does not vary as the organism
varies; it varies with the extra-somatic factor of culture. Human
behavior is a function oi culture: B = i{C). As the culture varies
so will the behavior.

Thus it is not society, or the group, that constitutes the last of
a series of categories of determinants of human behavior. Among

the lower species, the group is properly regarded as a deter-
minant of the behavior of any one of its members. But in the
human species, the group is itself determined by the cultural
tradition: whether we find a guild of artisans, a clan, a polyandrous
household, or an order of knights in a human society will depend
upon its culture. The discovery of this class of determinants and
the isolation, in logical analysis, of these extra-somatic cultural
determinants from the biological — in their group aspect as well as
individual —has been one of the most significant advances in

science in recent times. This assertion will no doubt strike some
as extravagant. We are so accustomed to being regaled with
accounts of the marvels of modern science— meaning physics,
chemistry, and medicine—and so used to disparagements of social
science, that to claim that the achievement of the concept of cul-
ture is one of the most significant advances in modern science may

well seem preposterous to some. We have no desire whatever to
minimize the significance of recent advances in physics, chemistry,
genetics, or medicine. Some of them, such as quantum mechanics
in physics and genetics in biology, may quite properly be called
revolutionary. But such advances have taken place in fields that
have been cultivated by science for generations or even centuries.

But with the achievement of the concept of culture a whole new
fieldwas opened to science. The lack of significant achievement
so far in the new science of culture is therefore not an indica-
tion of extravagance of claim on our part. The very newness of
our science, the fact that this new sector of experience was dis-
covered, isolated and defined only yesterday, in itself means that

there has not yet been time for much accomplishment. It is the
discovery of a new world that is so significant, not the relative
magnitude or value of achievements won so far in this new
world. We are so impressed with the achievements of physics
and astronomy that it is hard for some to believe that the lowly
"social" sciences can ever match them. This point of view is of
course understandable in a day when science can map the dis-
tribution of galaxies in the cosmos and measure the mass and

temperature of stars a million of light years away, whereas in an-
other field, science has no adequate answer to the question of
the prohibition of polygamy in certain societies. But the lot and
destiny of man on this planet embrace more than measuring
galaxies, splitting atoms, or discovering a new wonder drug. The
socio-political-economic systems— in short, the cultures— within
which the human species lives and breathes and propagates have
much to do with the future of Man. We are just beginning to
realize this. And we may look forward to a time when the scien-
tific comprehension of such cultural processes as polygamy and
inflation will be considered quite as significant as the measure-
ment of distant stars, the splitting of atoms, or the synthesis of
organic compounds. The may one day
"discovery" of culture
rank in importance in the history of science with the hehocentric
theory of Copernicus or the discovery of the cellular basis of all
hving forms.
This is not to say, as v^ê have tried to make clear earlier, that
man is going to win control over the course of cultural develop-
ment through a scientific comprehension of its structure and
processes, any more than we have won control over the sun or
distant galaxies by coming to a considerable understanding of
them. Understanding, scientific understanding, is itsdi a cultural
process. The growth of science is a culture process just as the
development of a musical style, a type of architecture, or forms
of corporate organization in business are culture processes. The

development of understanding in astronomy, in medicine, and in
culturology alike will make possible a more realistic and effective
adjustment of the human species to the earth and cosmos.
Profound advances in science make their way slowly. It took

many years for mankind, even the educated stratum of society,
to accept the heliocentric theory of the solar system and to

exploit the resources of this point of view. It took considerable
time also for the idea of the biological evolution of man to win
its way against older conceptions. The discovery and exploration
of the unconscious by psychoanalysis met with hostility and
resistance. It is not particularly surprising, therefore, to discover
that the present advance of science into the new field of culture
is meeting with considerable resistance and opposition.
We discover a common basis for all of these resistances and
oppositions to the advances of science. Scientific interpretation *s
non-anthropomorphic, non-anthropocentric. Opposition to the

theories of Copernicus, Galileo and Darwin proceeded from an
anthropomorphic and anthropocentric as well as a supernatural-
istic conception of man and the cosmos: man was the chief work
of the Creator of all; he w^s created in God's image; the world

was made for him; it was motionless and in the center of the uni-
verse; everything revolved about the earth; everything was
inter-
preted in terms of man. Scientific interpretation is deterministic,
and as such evokes the hostility of all who are activated or directed
by a philosophy of Free Will.

The social sciences of man have been purged of super-
naturalism to a very great degree— but not wholly as the existence

and respectability of the anthropological school of Father Wil-
helm Schmidt, to mention but one example, proves. But they are
still anthropomorphically and anthropocentrically oriented to a
very high degree. They are furthermore animated by the philos-
ophy of Free Will to a considerable extent. Opposition to the

science of culture is thus readily understood. An anthropocentric
point of view cannot, of course, tolerate the thesis that it is
culture, not man, that determines the form and content of hu-
man behavior. The philosophy of Free Will cannot accept a
theory of cultural determinism. To many sociologists and cul-
tural anthropologists the notion that culture constitutes a distinct
order of phenomena, that it behaves in accordance with its own

principles and laws, and is, therefore, explainable only in cul-
turological terms, is a "mystical metaphysics."

Those who oppose the culturological point of view feel how-
ever that their position is thoroughly realistic. It is so plain, so
obvious, to them that culture could not exist without man, and
that it is people, real flesh and blood human beings —not a
reified entity called "culture"— who do things; anyone can see
this for himself.
As we have previously tried to make clear, one cannot always

rely in science upon the "self-evident" features of common sense
observation and reasoning. Of course culture could not exist with-
out human beings. Obviously men cast votes, drink or loathe
milk, speak English or some other language, believe in witches or
THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE 4O7
other causative agents, build ships, make war, play pinochle, etc.
The anti-culturologists confuse the existence of things with a
scientific interpretation of things. To say that a man loathes or
prizes milk as a beverage is merely to recognize an event, not to
it. The culturologist knows full
explain well that man,
it is a
human organism— and not "a rarefied or reified entity called
'culture' "—that drinks the milk or rejects it as loathsome. But he
knows also that observation of an event is not the same thing as
an explanation thereof. Why does the man prize or loathe the
milk, believe in witches or bacteria, etc.? The culturologist explains
the behavior of the human organism in terms of external, extra-
somatic cultural elements that function as stimuli to evoke the
response and give it its form and content. And the culturologist
knows also that the culture process is explainable in terms of itself;
the human organism, collectively and individually, is irrelevant—

not to the culture process itself— but to an explanation of the cul-
ture process. We need not consider the neuro-sensory-muscular-
glandular-etcetera organization that is man in interpretations of
such things as clans, codes of law, grammars, philosophies, etc.
From the standpoint of an explanation of human behavior, we

proceed as though culture had a life of its own, even as if it had
an existence of its own independently of the human species.
"This is Lowie observed long ago, "but sound
not mysticism" as
scientific method"; a procedure, we might add, that is taken for
granted in the more mature fields of science such as physics. The

law of falling bodies treats them as if they pass through a perfect
vacuum. Physicists frequently attack and solve problems by con-
sidering vehicles that move without friction. In my physics text-
book I read: "A rigid body is one whose shape is not altered by
any forces that are applied to it." But the next sentence goes on
to say: "Such a body is only an ideal conception, for rigid bodies
do not exist" A person with the philosophic outlook of our anti-
culturologists would find these physicists "unrealistic," too. They
408 THE SCIENCE OF CULT3K,
the law of falling bodies because it describes .'
would reject
event that never actually occurs.* They would dismiss frictioi.ie^
vehicles as "mystical" and reject rigid bodies as "abstractions."
The point of view of the anti-culturologist simply cannot realize

that it is precisely because he works in this way that the physicist
is able to achieve significant results. It is precisely because the law
of falling bodies does not describe any particular event that it
has universal significance and validity. "The paradox is now fully
established/' says Whitehead, "that the utmost abstractions are

the true weapon with which to control our thought of concrete
'
fact."
The culturologist proceeds along the same lines, with the same
outlook and the same techniques of interpretation, as the physicist.
Cultures can no more exist without men than vehicles can move
without friction. But one may regard culture as if it were inde-
pendent of man just as the physicist may consider vehicles as if
they were independent of friction, or deals with bodies as if they

actually were rigid. These are effective techniques of interpreta-
tion. The realism of those to whom the sun obviously moves

around the earth, for whom falling bodies must pass through an
atmosphere, for whom frictionless vehicles and rigid bodies do
not exist; the realism of those who insist that it is people not
* We have, in a recent work by R. H. Lowie, a good example of the con-

fusion of thought that results from a failure to understand one of the ele-
mentary techniques of science due to this attitude of pseudo-realism. In a
consideration of laws of cultural evolution he says that "there are bound to
be so many 'deviations from uniformity produced by special causes [quot-
. . .
ing Lewis H. Morgan]' that a law, if operative, could hardly be discovered by

human reason" (Social Organization, p. 53). The significance of Newton's
work finds no appreciation here. No two bodies fall alike; the "deviations
from uniformity" are as numerous as the falling bodies themselves. Yet the
human mind was quite able to discover a principle common to all particular
events and to express it in the form of a thoroughly adequate scientific law.
Of course, a law of cultural evolution would describe no actual series of
events any more than the law of Newton describes any particular falling body.
But infinite variety of particulars does not preclude universals; on the contrary,
particulars imply and presuppose universaJs. How quaint then to expect a sci-
entific law, a statement of the universal, to describe this and that particular.
SCIENCE OF CULTURE 409
ire who vote, speak English, enamel their nails, loathe milk,
etc., is a pathetic form of pseudo-realism that has no place in
science.
"During the last hundred years," writes Lowie, "it has become
increasingly clear that culture . . . [is] a distinct domain . . , that
demands for its investigation a distinct science." ^ But what are
we to call our new science? We have taken much pains to demon-
strate the fundamental difference between a science of culture and
the sciences of psychology and sociology; these terms are there-

fore quite unsuitable. 'Anthropology' also is unsuitable for many
reasons. The term is used to designate so many things as to be
almost meaningless. It includes Physical Anthropology, which in
turn embraces human paleontology, comparative morphology of
primates, human genetics, physiology and psychology, etc. Cul-
tural anthropology is variously conceived as psychology, psycho-
analysis, psychiatry, sociology, applied anthropology, history, and
so on. It would not be facetious at all to define anthropology as
the activity that a person, bearing the professional label "anthro-

pologist," engages in. As a matter of fact, the late Franz Boas once
suggested that "the whole group of anthropological phenomena
may be evanescent, that they may be at bottom biological and
psychological problems, and that the whole field of anthropology
belongs either to the one or to the other of these sciences." Thus,
Boas not only failed to recognize a science of culture but even
suggested that anthropology itself "will become more and more
a method that may be applied by a great number of sciences, rather
than a science by itself." ^ The term "anthropology" is therefore
quite unsuited to our purpose.
But is not the answer to our problem obvious? Does not the
solution lie right before our eyes? What else could one call a
science of culture but culturology? If a science of mammals is
mammalogy, of music, musicology, of bacteria, bacteriology, etc.,

why should not a science of culture be culturology? Our reasoning
seems perfectly legitimate and proper, our conclusion sensible and

sound. Yet, so conservative, timid, or indifferent are many of the
workers in the sciences of man that so radical and revolutionary
an innovation as a new suffix for an old familiar word seems pre-
tentious, absurd, or objectionable in some other way. We recall
the objections that were raised to Spencer's use of the term "soci-
ology." As he tells us in the introduction to his Principles of
Sociology, his friends tried to dissuade him from using the word
on the ground that it was a "barbarism." Similarly today, some
scholars find that culturology grates harshly upon their ears. Thus,
V. Gordon Childe writes that "the prejudices engendered by
Literae Humanioies are too strong to allow [him] to adopt White's
term 'culturology'." * Similarly J.
L. Myres, in a review of "The
Expansion of the Scope of Science," calls "culturology" a "bar-
°
barous name."
It appears that those who condemned Spencer's use of "soci-
ology" as a "barbarism" did so on etymological grounds: it is
derived from both Latin and Greek. This, it seems, is enough to

make a purist's flesh crawl. But, for better or for worse, the trends
and processes of living languages have little regard for such sen-
sibilities. The Anglo-American language readily absorbs words
from foreign languages— taboo, shaman, coyote, tobacco— and
createsnew words ("kodak") or new forms ("trust-buster") rather
easily.Nor does it hesitate to resort to hybridizations and other
improvisations upon occasion, such as numerology, thermocouple,
thermopile, automobile, etc., as well as sociology. "Television" is
one of the most recent offspring of linguistic miscegenation. Al-
though Professor Childe does not like "culturology" he remarks

that "such hybrids seem to accord with the general tendency of
linguistic progress." H. L. Mencken, the distinguished authority
on the American language, finds "culturology" a "rather clumsy
word, but nevertheless logical," and he feels that we have "estab-
lished the fact that it ought to be used." * We feel as did Spencer
that "the convenience and suggestiveness of our symbols are of

more importance than the legitimacy of their derivation."
We may call attention, in this connection, to the fact that the
departments of anthropology at the University of Chicago and at
the Chicago Natural History Museum have been using the term
"museology" for some time to designate the art of museum or-
ganization, equipment, and management. If "-ology" is interpreted
in the sense of "science of," then museology is a misnomer, for
"museum science" is no more a science than "library science,"
"military science," or "domestic science" are sciences; they are
arts, not sciences. If "museology" can become respectable, why not
"culturology," for which there is more justification on etymological
grounds?
The concept of a science of culture is, as the preceding pages
have made clear, an old one; it goes back at least to Tylor's first
chapter of Pnmitive Culture in 1871. The term "culturology" has

been used relatively very little, but it was employed in the exact
and specific sense in which we use it, over a third of a century

ago, and today it is being used on at least three continents.
In his address, "The System of the Sciences," delivered in 1915
(see p. 116), the distinguished German chemist and Nobel prize
winner, Wilhelm Ostwald, said "I proposed, therefore, a long
while ago [emphasis ours] to call the field in question the science
of civilization or culturology (Kulturologie)." ^ We have not been
able as yet to discover this earlier use, or uses, of this term by him.
Fourteen years after the publication of Ostwald's "The System
of the Sciences," Read Bain, a sociologist, speaks of "culturology"
in a chapter written for Trends in American Sociology, edited by
Geo. A. Lundberg and others.^ The sense in which he used the
term is not wholly clear, however; he seems to equate "culturology"
with sociology in one place and with human ecology in another.
He also speaks of the "close kinship between social psychology
and culturology." I used "culturology" in print in 1939, I
first
believe, in "A Problem in Kinship Terminology," ^ although I had

employed it in my courses for years prior to this time. Dr. Cheng

Che-Yu subtitled his Oriental and Occidental Cultures Con-
trasted, published in Berkeley in 1943, "An Introduction to Cul-
turology." He has written me that he had previously used not

only "culturology," but "culturosophy," in publications in Chinese.
Professor Huang Wen Shan, of the Institute of Anthropology,
National Sun Yat Sen University, Canton, has published a num-
ber of articles on culturology in Chinese, and he has informed
me that he has a book on culturology now in progress. I have re-
cently seen an advertisement for a book entitled Epitome de Cul-

turologia, by }. Imbelloni, published in Buenos Aires. And, of
course, there may be other instances that have not come to my
attention.
The Chinese language is apparently more congenial to such
innovations as "culturology" than is English. ''Culturology" in

Chinese is wen wha (culture) hsueh (science of). Both words are
common Chinese terms and their combination seems not to
grate upon the ears of Chinese scholars or to wound their sen-
sibilities.
But the objections to "culturology" are not wholly philologic by

any means. Linguistic objections come readily to the surface; but
deep down underneath lie views and values that will oppose the
adoption and use of this term even more strongly than will the
classicist nourished in the Literae Humaniores. "Culturology"
specifies a sector of reality and defines a science. In so doing it
trespasses upon the prior claims of psychology and sociology. It

does more than trespass, of course; it expropriates as well. Tliat is,
it makes it clear that the solution of certain scientific problems

does not properly lie within the provinces of psychology and soci-
ology as previously supposed, but belong to— i.e., can be solved
only by— a science of culture. Psychologists and sociologists alike
are loath to admit that there are problems pertaining to the be-
havior of man that lie outside their domains; and they arA
inclined to resent and oppose an upstart science that claims them
for itself.
But most of perhaps, culturology repudiates and rejects a
all,
philosophy that has been dear to the hearts of men for ages, and
still inspires and nourishes many a social scientist as well as lay-
man. This is the ancient and still respectable philosophy of
anthropocentrism and Free Will. "What nonsense to say that
culture does this or that! What is culture but an abstraction? It
is not culture that does things; it is people, real flesh and blood
human beings. It is always the individual who really thinks, and
feels, and acts. Anyone can see this for himself! How absurd then
to talk of a science of culture; what a distortion of reality!" As
the preceding pages have shown, this view is all too prevalent
and vigorous in American anthropology today,
Culturology means determinism, also. The principle of cause
and effect operates in the realm of cultural phenomena as it does
everywhere else in our experience of the cosmos. Any given cul-
tural situation has been determined by other cultural events. If
certain cultural factors are operative, a certain result will eventuate.

Contrariwise, certain cultural consummations cannot be realized,
however devoutly they may be wished, unless the factors requisite
to the consummation are present and operative. This is self-
evident in meteorology and geology, but in the interpretation of

human behavior it is still called "fatalism" and "defeatism"; or,
it is regarded as immoral-and-therefore-false.
The sweet soothing illusion of omnipotence still finds a ready
market and a great demand. We can lay hold of our own destiny
and shape it as we will. "Mankind under God controls his own
cultural destiny and is free to choose and realize the ends . .
/'
Educators can control the culture process by "establishing cer-
tain value systems in his pupils." Psychologists will "study scien-

tifically the sources of , . . [war] in men's minds and scientifically
remove them," Social scientists will perfect formulas for con-

trolling cultural forces and the mastery of our destiny if only the
federal government them anything like the financial sup-

will give
port given the makers of the atomic bomb, etc., etc. Science, it
appears, is to become the handmaiden of a species of modern
magic; the social scientist, to assume the role of a super-shaman.
It is against the weight and force of this passion of free will,
this premise of anthropocentrism, that a science of culture must

make its way.^°
But these non-linguistic objections to "culturology" serve also
effectively to emphasize the need for a special term with which to
designate our new science and to reveal the peculiar fitness of

"culturology" for this purpose. The "distinct domain" that is cul-
ture "demands for its investigation a distinct science," as Lowie

has argued for over two decades. Durkheim, too, saw the "need to
formulate entirely new concepts . . , [and to express them] in an
appropriate terminoJogy." We think and work in science only by
means of concepts made explicit in symbolic form. To think
effectively, to make fundamental distinctions, without which
science is impossible, we must have precision tools, exact con-
cepts."
"Psychology" labels a distinct class of phenomena the
: reactions
of organisms to external stimuli. But it does not distinguish cul-.
tural phenomena from non-cultural, and the interpretation of the
interaction of extra-somatic elements in the culture process lies
beyond its proper boundaries. "Sociology," too, suffers from the
"fatal defect" of failure to distinguish the cultural from the social,
as Ostwald and Kroeber pointed out long ago. It assimilates cul-
ture to its basic concept of interaction, making culture an aspect,

or a by-product, of the social process of interaction whereas the
structures and processes of human society are functions of culture.
As a matter of fact, we have in "sociology" a good example of
the confusion of thought that flows from the use of an ambiguous
and equivocal terminology.^^
The term "anthropology" has been used to designate so many
different kinds of activities— measuring crania, excavating pot-
sherds, observing ceremonies, studying clans, psychoanalyzing
natives, psychoanalyzing whole civilizations, tracing histories of
arts and crafts— that it could not well be restricted now to the
and particular task of interpreting the culture process and
specific
that alone. "Cultural anthropology" also has been used to

designate a great variety of kinds of interpretation. And "social
anthropology" is virtually indistinguishable from "sociology."

With the expansion of the scope of science, a class of phe-
nomena was distinguished from the psychological and the social.
It was named "culture" by those who discovered and isolated it.
The analysis and interpretation of this distinct class of events has
been called the science oi culture by numerous anthropologists—

Kroeber, Lowie, Murdock, and others— since Tylor first coined
the phrase in 1871.
And what is a science of culture but culturology? With this
termwe shall make it plain, to even the least discerning mind,
that the extra-somatic continuum of symbol-borne events is not
the same thing at all as a class of reactions of human organisms
considered individually or collectively; that the interaction of
cultural elements is not the same thing as the reactions, or inter-
action, of human organisms. We may seem to exaggerate when

we claim that a change in terminology can and will produce a
profound change in thinking and point of view. But, as Poincare
pointed out, until the distinction between "heat" and "tempera-
ture" was made clear, it was impossible to think effectively of
thermal phenomena. "The true discoverer," says Poincare, "will

not be the workman who has patiently built up some of these com-
binations, but the man who has brought out their relations . . .
The invention of a new word will often he sufficient to bring out

the relation, and the word will be creative." ^^ This is, of course,
the significance of "culturology": it brings out the relation between

the human organism, on the one hand, and the extra-somatic
tradition that is culture on the other. It is creative; it establishes
and defines a new science.

CHAPTER REFERENCES
CHAPTER 1. SCIENCE IS SCIENCING
1. Shapley, 1920, 1924.

2. Douglass, 1929.
3. Einstein, 1929, p. 107.
4. Minkowski, p. 75.
5. Einstein, 1936, p. 350
ff.; 1934, p. 33.
6. Kroeber, 1931.
7. J. Jeans et ah, 1931a; Russell, 1929.
CHAPTER 2. THE SYMBOL

1. Hankins, pp. 56, 327; Linton, 1936, pp. 79, 68, 60; Goldenweiser,
1937, p. 39.
2. Descartes, p. 189.
3. Carlson, pp. 477-79.
4. Locke, Book III, Ch. 9.
5. ibid.. Book IV, Ch. 11.
- Kellogg, p. 289.
6.
Locke, Book II, Chs. 11, 10.
7.
8. Tylor, 1881, pp. 54, 123.
9. Carlson, p, 477; Bernard, L. L., 1927a, p. 399; Yerkes, p. 301; Hooton,

1931, p. 167.
10. Hooton, 1931, p. 153.
11. Cf. Thomas, pp. 50-54, 776-777.
12. Keller, 23-24, 303-317, passim.
CHAPTER 3. ON THE USE OF TOOLS BY PRIMATES
1. Argyll, p. 147.
2. Clodd, p. 217.
3. Schmidt, 1934, p. 41.
4. Schnierla, 1948.
5. Hooton, 1931, pp. 138-39.
6. Lowie, 1929, p. 5.
7. Yerkes, p. 347.
8. Tylor, 1881, p. 51.
9. Hooton, 1931, pp. 139, 136.
10. Kohler, p. 295.
11. ibid., p. 277.
416
REFERENCES 417
12. Dewey, p. i.
13. Kroeber, 1928, p. 340.
CHAPTER 4. MIND IS MINDING

1. Newman, p. 164.
2. Case, p. 3.
3. Huxley, p. 35.
CHAPTER 5. THE EXPANSION OF THE SCOPE OF SCIENCE
1. Gumplowicz, p. 74.
2. Giddings, 1896, pp. 24, 25.
3. Cattell, p. 597; Baldwin, p. 621.
4. Allport, F. H., pp. 12, 4; Washburn, 1946; Gault, 1927.

5. Blackmar, p. 786; Ward, 1903, p. 59; Giddings, 1906, pp. 788, 794
and 1896, Preface; Hobhouse, p. 130; Salomon, p. 140; Ellwood, 1906, p.
859; Small, pp. 35, 622; Giddings, 1932, p. 402; Bernard, L. L., 1927b,
p. 348.
6. Ross, p. 869; Maclver, 1937, p. vii.
7. Young, 1934, p. 19; Bain, 1942, p. 87 and 1929, p. 110; Ogburn and
NimkoflF, p. 63; Ellwood, 1944, p. 6.
8. Groves, p. 23; Groves and Moore, pp. 13-14; Young, 1942, p. 36.
9. Lynd, pp. 72, 186 et passim; Bernard, J., p. 68.
10. Simmel, p. 665; Spykman, p. 27.
11. Gary, p. 182.
12. Ellwood, 1944, pp. 6, 14, 13; Willey, p. 208; Willey and Herskovits,
p. 191.
13. Maclver, 1930, p. 181 and 1934, p. 243; Lynd, pp. 22, 27; Bernard,
L. L., 1942, p. 800.
14. Kroeber, 1936, pp. 331, 333.
15. Tylor, 1871, pp. 5, 8.
16. Durkheim, 1938, p. Ivi and 1915, p. 16.
17. Durkheim, 1897, p. 354.
18. Durkheim, 1938, p. li.
19. Durkheim, 1915, p. 16 and 1938, pp. 110, 102.

20. Kroeber, 1917, pp. 192, 206.
21. Kroeber, 1919, p. 263 and 1928, p. 325.
22. Kroeber, 1923, p. 325.
23. Kroeber, 1936, pp. 338, 337.
24. Lowie, 1917, pp. 17, 66, 95 and 1936, pp. 301, 307.
25. Wissler, 1923, pp. 99, 247, 363 and 1927, pp. 75, 87.
26. Wissler, 1927, pp. 62-63, 73' ^4-
27. Wissler, 1923, pp. 333-334.
28. Durkheim, 1933, pp. 285-286.
29. Goldenweiser, 1927, pp. 85, 86.
30. Boas, 1928, p. 235; Benedict, 1934, p. 251 and 1943, p. 31.
31. Schmidt, 1939, p. 7.

32. Bidney, 1944, p- 42.
10-11 and 1937, pp. 21, 71.
33. Radcliffe-Brown, 1940, pp.
34. Hallowell, pp. 175, 174.
35. Linton, 1936, pp. 288-89, 363.
36. Herskovits, 1945, pp- 150, 158.
37. Hooton, 1937, pp. 272, 223; 1939, p. 370 and 1943a, p. 5.
38. Hart, 1938.

39. Meggers, pp. 195-97.
40. Gillin, 1939, p. 45.
41. Goldenweiser, 1933, p. 59; Boas, 1936, p. 137 and 1932, p. 612; Sapir,
1917, p. 442; Benedict, 1939, p. 467; Hallowell, p. 174; Linton, 1936, p. 464.
42. See, especially, 1937, pp. 16, 154, 269-70, 294-95,
43. Kroeber, 1944, pp. vii, 763.
44. Tylor, 1871, p. 2.
45. Durkheim, 1938, p. Iviii.
46. Kroeber, 1919, p. 263.
47. Mead, p. 13.
CHAPTER 6. CULTUROLOGICAL VS. PSYCHOLOGICAL

INTERPRETATIONS OF HUMAN BEHAVIOR
1. Durkheim, 1893, p. 390; 1938, p. 104.
2. Seligman, p. 238.
3. Havens, pp. 21-22.
4. Rivers, p. 2.
5. Williams, p. 83.
6. Morgan, p. 505.
7. Allport, G. W., p. 22.
8. Sheen, 1948.
9. Breasted, 1909, pp. 516, 449.
10. Boas, 1945, p. 101.
11. Benedict, 1942, p. 763.
12. Boas, 1945, pp. 77-78.
13. Kroeber, 1936, pp. 331, 333.
CHAPTER 7. CULTURAL DETERMINANTS OF MIND
1. Durkheim, 1938, pp. 1-2; Radcliffe-Brown, 1934, p. 531.

2. Kroeber, 1944, p. 224.
3. Linton, 1945, p. 5.
4. Goldenweiser, 1933, p. 59.
5. Sapir, 1916, p. 43.
6. Benedict, 1934, p. 253.
7. Wissler, 1927, p. 87.
8. Linton, 1938, p. 248.
9. Hallowell, p. 174.
REFERENCES 4^9
10. Goldenweiser, 1935, p. 75; Malinowski, 1939, p.
964.
11. Sapir, 1917, p. 442.
12. James, 1880.
13. Newton, p. 544.
14. Breasted, 1909, p. 357.
15. White, L. A., 1942, p. 82.
16. Tylor, 1871, pp. 306-07.
17. quoted by Gumplowicz, p. 45,
18. Gumplowicz, pp. 156-57.
19. NovicoflF, pp. 2 10-2 n.
CHAPTER 8. GENIUS: Its Causes and Incidence
1. Galton, p. 40.
2. Galton, p. 342.
3. Spencer, 1873, p. 28 ff.
4. James, 1880, p. 453.

5. ibid., p. 449.
6. Hewett, p. 140; Hooton, 1943b, p. 4; Frank, p. 476; Millikan, p. 214;
Goldenweiser, 1922, p. 26; Boas, 1945, p. 76; Wissler, 1923, p. 331; Linton^,
1936, p. 95.
7. James, 1880, p. 453.
8. ibid., pp. 445, 457, 453.
9. Cooley, p. 346.
10. James, 1880, p. 454.
11. Kroeber, 1917, p. 200.
12. idem.
13. Bell, 1937, p. 532.
14. Hecht, pp. 98-99.
15. Quoted in Shapley, 1943, p. 147.
16. Cooley, pp. 352-53.
17. Ostwald, 1910, p. 185.
18. White, L. A., 1945.
19. Kroeber, 1917; Sapir, 1917.
CHAPTER 9. IKHNATON: The Great Man Vs. the

Culture Process
1. Kroeber, 1944, p. 839; 1923, p. 133.

2. Breasted, 1909, p. 357.
3. Breasted, 1912, p. 339.
4. Breasted, 1909, p. 362; 1912, p. 342; 1929, p. 78; Weigall, p. 68;
Hall, p. 58; Breasted, 1912, p. 342; Gardiner, p. 858; Moret, 1912, p. 45,
5. Budge, pp. 106, 77-78; Baikie, p. 315; Steindorff and Seele, pp. 201,.
80; Pendlebury, p. xiv.
6. Breasted, 1929, pp. 79, 78.
7. Breasted, 1929, p. 80; Weigall, pp. 46, 51, 91.

8. Moret, 1927, p. 441.

9. Moret, 1927, p. 319.
10. Weigall, pp. 6g, 70; Moret, 1927, p. 319.
11. Roosevelt, p. 114.
12. Harrington, p. 413.
13. Breasted, 1909, p. 62.
14. ibid., p. 171.
15. ibid., p. 247.
16. idem.
17. Breasted, 1909, p. 272.
18. Glanville, p. 135; Feet, 1926, pp. 202-03.
19. Breasted, 1909, p. 362; Peet, 1926, pp. 202-03.
20. Budge, p. 76; Glanville, p. 124; Steindorff and Seele, pp. 77-80.
21. Steindorff and Seele, p. 221; Glanville, pp. 134-36.
22. Steindorff and Seele, pp. 223-26.
23. ihid., p. 242.
24. Baikie, pp. 426-27.
25. Scharff, p. 144.
26. Breasted, 1909, p. 401.
27. ibid., pp. 402, 403.
28. ihid., pp. 475, 489, 490.
29. ibid., pp. 491-92.
30. ibid., p. 494.
31. ibid., p. 496; Steindorff and Seele, p. 254.
32. Steindorff and Seele, pp. 256, 269; Breasted, 1909, pp. 506-07.
33. Steindorff and Seele, p. 270; cf. Edgerton, p. 153, who alludes to a
tiew and different interpretation of Hrihor's role in this political drama.
34. Breasted, 1909, p. 359.
35. ibid., pp. 170-71.
36. Breasted, 1933, p. 145.
37. Breasted, 1912, pp. 312, 315.
38. Breasted, 1933, p. 296; Peet, "Akhenaten, Ty, etc.," pp. 93, 96-97,
102; Peet, 1926, p. 205.
39. Breasted, 1909, p. 362; Moret, 1912, p. 45.
40. Moret, 1927, p. 324.
41. Peet, 1926, p. 203.
42. Peet, "Akhenaten, Ty, etc."
43. Peet, 1926, p. 207.
44. Budge, p. 152.
45. ibid., p. 41.
46. Peet, "Akhenaten, Ty, etc.," p. 86; see, also, Derry, p. 115, and Engel-
bach, p. 99.
47. Peet, "Akhenaten, Ty, etc.," p. 86.
48. Newberry, p. 51; Steindorff and Seele, p. 223; Pendlebury, p. 29.
49. Breasted, 1909, p. 272.
50. Breasted, 1909, pp. 367, 399; Weigall, pp. 71, 144, 139.
51. Weigall, p. 71; Breasted, 1909, p. 369.
REFERENCES 42i
52. Weigall, p. 98.
53. ibid., pp. 46, 51, 91.
54. Moret, 1927, p. 319; Ruffer, pp. 168, 170, 336; Gardiner, p. 858.
55. Weigall, p. xvii; Smith, 1912, pp. 51, 54; Sethe, pp. 127-28; Engel-
bach, 1931; Derry, 1931; Peet, "Akhenaten, Ty, etc."; Pendlebury, p.
9.
56. Smith, 1923, p. 84; 1912, pp. 54-55; Derry, p. 117,
57. Weigall, p. 69; Ruffer, p. 332; Breasted, 1909, p, 329.
58. Smith, 1912, p. 55.
59. Ruffer, pp. 332-333.
60. Ruffer, pp. 170, 333.
61. Newberry, pp. 51, 50; Steindorff and Seele, p. 222.
62. Weigall, p. 52.
63. Peet, 1926, p. 205.
64. Baikie, pp. 304, 311, 313-14.
65. Pendlebury, pp. xiv, 7, 148, 126; Frankfort, p. 29.
66. Weigall, p. io6.
67. Breasted, 1912, p. 334; 1909, p. 377.
68. Breasted, 1929, p. 80; 1912, p. 342.
69. Weigall, p. 175.
70. Breasted, 1909, pp. 356, 385; Peet, "Akhenaten," pp. 106-07.
71. Weigall, pp. 196, 202, 207.
72. Breasted, 1909, p. 377; 1933, p. 296.
73. Weigall, p. 101.
74. Hyvernat, p. 339.
75. Pohle, p. 410.
76. Hyvernat, p. 345.
77. Slochower, p. 46.
78. Mann, 1942, p. 13.
79. Freud, 1939.
CHAPTER 10. THE LOCUS OF MATHEMATICAL REALITY
1. Somerville, pp. 140-41.

2. Somerville, p. 375; White, A. D., I, p. 225, ftn.
3. Quoted by Bell, 1931, p. 20.
4. Hardy, 1941, pp. 63-64.

5. Bridgman, p. 60.
6. Kasner and Newman, p. 359.
7. Descartes, Pt. I, Sec. XVIII, p. 308.
8. N. Altshiller-Court refers to Durkheim's treatment of this point in
"Geometry and Experience," (Scientific Monthly, January, 1945).
9. White, L. A., 1943.
10. Einstein, 1929.
11. Kasner and Newman, p. 359.
12. Schrodinger, p.143.
13. "On the Nature of Axioms," in Science and Hypothesis, Poincar^,
1913.
14. Quoted by Bell, 1937, p. 16.
15. Durkheim, 1938, p. Ivi.

16. Durkheim, 1915, p. 424; see, also, 1938, p. li.
17. Einstein, 1934, pp- 58, 69, 57.

18. Hadamard, p. 50.
19 "Mathematical Creation," in Science and Method, in Poincar^, 1913,
20. ibid., p. 393.

21. Quoted by Leuba, p. 240.
22. Goncourt, p. 98.
23. Leuba, p. 241.
24. Hardy, 1941, p. 63.
25. Hardy, 1929, p. 4.
26. Hardy, 1941, pp. 62-63, 65.
CHAPTER 11. THE DEFINITION AND PROHIBITION

OF INCEST
1. Tylor, 1888, p. 267.
2. Lowie, 1920, p. 15.
3. Goldenweiser, 1937, p. 303.
4. Morgan, pp. 69, 378, 424.
5. Mahaffy, p. 1.
6. Cf. Montagu for discussion of this point as well as for extensive bibli-
ography.
7. Malinowski, 1929a, pp. 153 ff., 3, 171.
8. Freud, 1931, p. 247.
9. Westermarck, table of contents for Chapter XX,
10. Durkheim, 1898, p. 50 ff.
11. Linton,1936, pp. 125-26.
12. Goldenweiser, 1922, p. 242; 1937, p. 303.
13. Young, 1942, p. 406.
14. Wissler, 1929, p. 145.
15. Goldenweiser, 1922, p. 242; 1937, p. 303.
16. Lowie, 1920, p. 15.
17. Wissler, 1927.
18. Lowie, 1920, pp. 65-66.
19. Radcliffe-Brown, 1930, p. 435.
20. Ogburn, 1933, pp. 661-62.
21. Freud, 1920, p. 269.
22. Lowie, 1940, p. 233; Fortune, 1932, p. 622.
23. Young, 1942, p. 406.
24. Fortune, p. 620.
25. Malinowski, 1931, p. 630; 1929b, p. 407.
26. Scligman, pp. 243-44, ^47, 268-69; Gillin,
1936, p. 93; Firth, p. 324
ct seq.; Thomas, p. 197.
27. Freud, 1931, pp. 250-51.
REFERENCES 423
28. Freud, "Contributions to the Theory of Sex," in 1938, pp. 616-17.
29. Freud, 1930, pp. 63, 68, 72.
30. Cooper, p. 20.
31. Freud, 1930, p. 74.
CHAPTER 12. MAN'S CONTROL OVER CIVILIZATION
1. Durkheim, 1938, p. Iviii.

2. Ogburn, 1922, p. 346.
3. Jeans, 1931b, p. 109.
4. Field, p. 9.
5. Westgate, p. 165.
6. Schmidt, 1939, p. 8; Sieber and Mueller, pp. 119-120.
7. Childe, 1936, p. 19.
8. Kroeber and Richardson, p. 148; Kroeber, 1919.
9. Durkheim, 1938, p. xlvi.
10. Kroeber and Richardson, p. 152.
11. Durkheim, 1915, p. 27.
12. Bassett, pp. 25-26.
13. G. W. Allport, p. 23.
14. Wissler, 1923, p. 8.
15. ibid., pp. 8-10.
16. Durkheim, 1897, pp. 427-28.
17. Kroeber, 1919, p. 263.
18. James, 1890, p. 2439; 1880, p. 442.
19. Tylor, 1871, pp. 2, 24.
20. Whitehead, p. 94.
21. Frank, p. 475.
CHAPTER 13. ENERGY AND THE EVOLUTION OF

CULTURE
1. MacCurdy, II, p. 134; Ostwald, 1907, p. 511.
2. Childe, 1936, pp. 7, 9.

3. Schlesinger, pp. 247-48.
4. Compton, p. 576.
CHAPTER 14. THE SCIENCE OF CULTURE

1. Lowie, 1936, p. 301 and 1917, p. 17; Ostwald, 1915b, p. 192; White-
head, p. 48.
2. Lowie, 1936, p. 301; 1917, p. 17.
3. Boas, 1908, pp. 7, 10.

4. Childe, 1946, p. 251.
5. Myres, p. 11.
6. Mencken, personal communication.
7. Ostwald, 1915a, p. 167; see, also, pp. 168-69; 1915b, pp. 192-94, 205.
8. Bain, 1929, pp. 108, 110-11.
9. White, L. A., 1939, p. 571

•
. ^ ... ... .
10. Bidney, 1946, p. 541; Linton, 1941, pp. 9, 16-17; G. W. Allport,
p 22.
'
11. Lowie, 1917, p. 17; 1936, PP- 301' 307;

Durkheim, 1938, p. 37.
Kroeber, 1918, p. 641.
12. Ostwald, 1915a, p. 167; 1915b, p. 192;
13. Poincar6, 1913, p. 371.
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The Science

B)> Leslie A. White ^.

GROVE PRESS, INC. NEW YORK

PREF ACE xvii

PART 1 SCIENCE AND SYMBOLS

PART II MAN AND CULTURE

PART III ENERGY AND CIVILIZATION

The author wishes to thank the following publishers for per-

Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc., for excerpts from Ralph Linton,

Cambridge University Press (England), for excerpts from G.

Geo. E. G. Catlin, for excerpts from Emile Durkheim, The

The University of Chicago Press, for excerpts from The Nature

Thomas Y. Crowell Co., for excerpts from Clark Wissler, Man

Crown Publishers, for excerpts from A. Einstein, The World As

Eyre and Spottiswoode, Ltd., for excerpts from Arthur Weigall^

Harper and Brothers, for an excerpt from Thomas Wolfe, You

Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., for excerpts from A. A. Moret, The Nile

McGraw-Hill Book Co., Inc., for excerpts from Wm. I. Thomas,

The Macmillan Co., for excerpts from E. A. Hooton, Up From

W. W. Norton and Co., Inc., for an excerpt from Erwin

The Science Press, for excerpts from H. Poincare, Foundations

Charles Scribner's Sons, for excerpts from James H. Breasted,

Simon and Schuster, Inc., for an excerpt from Living Philoso-

Stechert-Hafner, Inc., for excerpts from E. T. Bell, The Queen

The Viking Press, Inc., for excerpts from Wm. F. Ogburn,

Oome time ago Mr. Arthur Orrmont, formerly a student

of mine that have appeared in various journals might well be re-

printed in a single volume. This book has grown out of his

pp. 369-389, 1938).

5. "The Expansion of the Scope of Science," (Journal of the

Washington Academy of Sciences, Vol. 37, pp. 181-210, 1947).

lusion," (The Scientific Monthly, Vol. 66, pp. 235-247, 1948).

9. "Ikhnaton: The Great Man vs. the Culture Process,"

(Journal of the American Oriental Society, Vol. 68, pp. 91-114,

was never published in a journal * but was printed in its entirety

some newspapers, including: The Baltimore Sun,

E. U. Condon, Director, National Bureau of Standards, in an address to the

No report on progress toward such inventions has appeared as yet.

talks on science in The Scientists Speak, Warren Weaver, editor

originally appeared for their kind permission to reprint them here.

Two of the articles republished here were reprinted some time

pp. 86-88, 1943-44). 'The Symbol" was rewritten at the request

replied briefly {ihid., pp. 365-66). "The Expansion of the Scope

1948). And it received brief comment in Science (Vol. 106, p. 84,

1947) from Mr. Alden A. Potter.

To the above list of articles Ihave added the following chapters,

pologist, Vol. 45, pp. 335-356, 1943. Material from "Cultural

in Science, Vol. 108, pp. 585-86, Nov. 26, 1948.

Since each of the articles reprinted here was originally written

exceptions, each chapter was originally an independent article

and will be correspondingly indulgent. We might add, however,

The articles as originally published have undergone revision in

have changed considerably, others very httle. In every case, how-

mained substantially the same.

encouragement and assistance tendered me in the labors repre-

sented by the material in the present volume, written during a

and encouragement from a warm friendship of many years with

Dr. Harry Elmer Barnes. My colleague, Professor Volney H. Jones,

hope, therefore, that they will accept this simple statement of

cannot find words to express the