by Morton Hunt
The signs of change were even stronger in Greece, where poets and sages began to view their thoughts and emotions in wholly new terms.7 Sappho, for one, described the inner torment of jealousy in realistic terms rather than as an emotion inflicted on her by a god:
Peer of gods he seemeth to me, the blissful
Man who sits and gazes at thee before him,
Close beside thee sits, and in silence hears thee
Silverly speaking,
Laughing love’s low laughter. Oh, this, this only
Stirs the troubled heart in my breast to tremble!
For should I but see thee a little moment,
Straight is my voice hushed;
Yea, my tongue is broken, and through and through me
’Neath the flesh, impalpable fire runs tingling;
Nothing see mine eyes, and a voice of roaring
Waves in my ears sounds.
—“Ode to Atthis”
Solon, poet and lawgiver, used the word nous not in the Homeric sense but to mean something like rational mind. He declared that at about age forty “a man’s nous is trained in all things” and in the fifties he is “at his best in nous and tongue.” He or the philosopher Thales— sources differ—sounded a note totally different from that of Homeric times in one of Western civilization’s briefest and most famous pieces of advice, inscribed on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi: “Know thyself.”
Within a few decades there began a sudden and astonishing efflorescence of Greek thought, science, and art. George Sarton, the historian of science, once estimated that in the Hellenic era, human knowledge increased something like forty-fold in less than three centuries.8
One of the most notable aspects of this intellectual outburst was the abrupt appearance and burgeoning of a new area of knowledge, philosophy. In the Greek city-states of the fifth and fourth centuries B.C., a small number of reflective upper-class men, who had neither scientific equipment nor hard data but were driven by a passion to understand the world and themselves, managed by pure speculation and reasoning to conceive of, and offer answers to, many of the enduring questions of cosmogony, cosmology, physics, metaphysics, ethics, aesthetics, and psychology.
The philosophers themselves did not use the term “psychology” (which did not exist until A.D. 1520) or regard it as a distinct area of knowledge, and they were less interested in the subject than in more fundamental ones like the structure of matter and the nature of causality. Nonetheless, they identified and offered hypotheses about nearly all the significant problems of psychology that have concerned scholars and scientists ever since. Among them:
—Is there only one substance, or is “mind” something different from “matter”?
—Do we have souls? Do they exist after the body dies?
—How are mind and body connected? Is mind part of soul, and if so can it exist apart from the body?
—Is human nature the product of inborn tendencies or of experience and upbringing?
—How do we know what we know? Are our ideas built into our minds, or do we develop them from our perceptions and experiences?
—How does perception work? Are our impressions of the world around us true representations of what is out there? How can we know whether they are or not?
—Which is the right road to true knowledge—pure reasoning or data gathered by observation?
—What are the principles of valid thinking?
—What are the causes of invalid thinking?
—Does the mind rule the emotions, or vice versa?
There is scarcely a major topic in today’s textbooks of introductory psychology that was not anticipated, at least in rudimentary form, by the Greek philosophers. What is even more impressive, their goal was the same as that of contemporary psychologists: to discover the true causes of human behavior—those unseen processes of the mind which take place in response to external events and other stimuli.
This quest launched the Greek philosophers on an intellectual voyage into the invisible world of the mind—the universe within, one might call it. From their day to ours, explorers of the mind have been pressing ever deeper into its terra incognita and uncharted wilderness. It has been and continues to be a voyage as challenging and enlightening as any expedition across unknown seas or lands, any space mission to faroff planets, any astronomical probe of the rim of the world and the border of time.
What kind of men (and, in recent decades, women) have felt compelled to find out what lies in the vast and invisible cosmos of the mind? All kinds, as we will see: solitary ascetics and convivial sybarites, feverish mystics and hardheaded realists, reactionaries and liberals, true believers and convinced atheists—the list of antinomies is endless. But they are alike in one way, these Magellans of the mind: All of them, in various ways, are interesting, impressive, even awesome human beings. Time and again I felt, after reading the biography and writings of one of these people, that I was fortunate to have come to know him, privileged to have lived with him vicariously, and greatly enriched by having shared his adventures.
The explorations of the interior world conducted by such people have surely been more important to human development than the explorations of the external one. Historians are wont to name technological advances as the great milestones of culture, among them the development of the plow, the discovery of smelting and metalworking, the invention of the clock, printing press, steam power, electric engine, lightbulb, semiconductor, and computer. But possibly even more transforming than any of these was the recognition by Greek philosophers and their intellectual descendants that human beings could examine, comprehend, and eventually even guide or control their own thought processes, emotions, and resulting behavior.
With that realization we became something new and different on earth: the only animal that, by examining its own cerebration and behavior, could alter them. This, surely, was a giant step in evolution. Although we are physically little different from the people of three thousand years ago, we are culturally a different species. We are the psychologizing animal.
This inward voyage of the past twenty-five hundred years, this search for the true causes of behavior, this most liberating of all human inquiries, is the subject of The Story of Psychology.
ONE
The
Conjecturers
The Glory That Was Greece
“In all history,” the philosopher Bertrand Russell has said, “nothing is so surprising or so difficult to account for as the sudden rise of civilization in Greece.”1
Until the sixth century B.C., the Greeks borrowed much of their culture from Egypt, Mesopotamia, and neighboring countries, but from the sixth to the fourth centuries they generated a stupendous body of new and distinctive cultural materials.* Among other things, they created sophisticated new forms of literature, art, and architecture, wrote the first real histories (as opposed to mere annals), invented mathematics and science, developed schools and gymnasiums, and originated democratic government. Much of subsequent Western culture has been the lineal descendant of theirs; in particular, much of philosophy and science during the past twenty-five hundred years has been the outgrowth of the Greek philosophers’ attempts to understand the nature of the world. Above all, the story of psychology is the narrative of a continuing effort to answer the questions they first asked about the human mind.
It is mystifying that the Greek philosophers so suddenly began to theorize about human mental processes in psychological, or at least quasi-psychological, terms. For while the 150 or so Greek city-states around the Mediterranean had noble temples, elegant statues and fountains, and bustling marketplaces, living conditions in them were in many respects primitive and not, one would suppose, conducive to subtle psychological inquiry.
Few people could read or write; those who could had to scratch laboriously on wax tablets or, for permanent records, on strips of papyrus or parchment twenty to thirty feet long wrapped around a stick. Books— actually, hand-copied scrolls—were costly, rare,
and awkward to use.
The Greeks, possessing neither clocks nor watches, had but a rudimentary sense of time. Sundials offered only approximations, were not transportable, and were of no help in cloudy weather; the water clocks used to limit oratory in court were merely bowls filled with water that emptied through a hole in about six minutes.
Lighting, such as it was, was provided by flickering oil lamps. A few of the well-to-do had bathrooms with running water, but most people, lacking water to wash with, cleansed themselves by rubbing their bodies with oil and then scraping it off with a crescent-shaped stick. (Fortunately, some three hundred days a year were sunny, and Athenians lived out of doors most of the time.) Few city streets were paved; most were dirt roads, dusty in dry weather and muddy in wet. Transport consisted of pack mules or springless, bone-bruising horse-drawn wagons. News was sometimes conveyed by fire beacons or carrier pigeons, but most often by human runners.
Illustrious Athens, the center of Greek culture, could not feed itself; the surrounding plains had poor soil, the hills and mountains were stony and infertile. The Athenians obtained much of their food through maritime commerce and conquest. (Athens established a number of colonies, and at times dominated the Aegean, receiving tribute from other city-states.) But while their ships had sails, the Athenians knew only how to rig them to be driven by a following wind; to proceed cross-wind or into the wind or in a calm, they forced slaves to strain hour after hour at banks of oars, driving the ships at most eight miles per hour. The armies thus borne to far shores to advance Athenian interests fought much like their primitive ancestors, with spears, swords, and bows and arrows.
Slaves also provided most of the power in Greek workshops and silver mines; human muscles, feeble as they are compared to modern machinery, were, aside from beasts of burden, the only source of kinetic energy. Slavery was, in fact, the economic foundation of the Greek city-states; men, women, and children captured abroad by Greek armies made up much of the population of many cities. Even in democratic Athens and the neighboring associated towns of Attica, at least 115,000 of the 315,000 inhabitants were slaves. Of the 200,000 free Athenians only the forty-three thousand men who had been born to two Athenian parents possessed all civil rights, including the right to vote.
All in all, it was not a way of life in which one would expect reflective and searching philosophy, or its subdiscipline, psychology, to flourish.
What, then, accounts for the Greeks’ astonishing intellectual accomplishments, and for those of the Athenians in particular? Some have half-seriously suggested the climate; Cicero said that Athens’ clear air contributed to the keenness of the Attic mind. Certain present-day analysts have hypothesized that the Athenians’ living outdoors much of the time, in constant conversation with one another, induced questioning and thinking. Others have argued that commerce and conquest, bringing Athenians and other Greeks into contact with many other cultures, made them curious about the origin of human differences. Still others have said that the mix of cultural influences in the Greek city-states gave Greek culture a kind of hybrid vigor. Finally, some have pragmatically suggested that when civilization had developed to the point where day-to-day survival did not take up every hour of the day, human beings for the first time had leisure in which to theorize about their motives and thoughts, and those of other people.
None of these explanations is really satisfactory, although perhaps all of them taken together, along with still others, are. Athens reached the zenith of its greatness, its Golden Age (480 to 399), after it and its allies defeated the Persians. Victory, wealth, and the need to rebuild the temples on the Acropolis that the Persian leader Xerxes had burned, in addition to the favorable influences mentioned above, may have produced a kind of cultural critical mass and an explosion of creativity.
The Forerunners
Along with their many other speculations, a number of the Greek philosophers of the sixth and early fifth centuries began proposing naturalistic explanations of human mental processes; these hypotheses and their derivatives have been at the core of Western psychology ever since.
What kinds of persons were they? What caused or at least enabled them to think about human cognition in this radically new fashion? We know their names—Thales, Alcmaeon, Empedocles, Anaxogoras, Hippocrates, Democritus, and others—but about many of them we know little else; about the others what we know consists largely of hagiography and legend.
We read, for instance, that Thales of Miletus (624–546), first of the philosophers, was an absentminded dreamer who, studying the nighttime heavens, could be so absorbed in glorious thoughts as to tumble ingloriously into a ditch. We read, too, that he paid no heed to money until, tired of being mocked for his poverty, he used his astrological expertise one winter to foretell a bumper crop of olives, cheaply leased all the oil presses in the area, and later, at harvest time, charged top prices for their use.
Gossipy chroniclers tell us that Empedocles (500?–430), of Acragas in southern Sicily, had such vast scientific knowledge that he could control the winds and once brought back to life a woman who had been dead for thirty days. Believing himself a god, in his old age he leaped into Etna in order to die without leaving a human trace; as some later poet-aster jested, “Great Empedocles, that ardent soul / Leaped into Etna, and was roasted whole.” But Etna vomited his brazen slippers back onto the rim of the crater and thereby proclaimed him mortal.
Such details hardly help us fathom the psychophilosophers, if we may so call them. Nor did any of them set down an account—at least, none exists—of how or why they became interested in the workings of the mind. We can only suppose that in the dawn of philosophy, when thoughtful men began to ask all sorts of searching questions about the nature of the world and of humankind, it was natural that they would also ask how their own thoughts about such things arose and where their ideas came from.
One or two did actual research that touched on the physical equipment involved in psychological processes. Alcmaeon (fl. 520), a physician of Croton in southern Italy, performed dissections on animals (dissecting the human body was taboo) and discovered the optic nerve, connecting the eye to the brain. Most, however, were neither hands-on investigators nor experimentalists but men of leisure, who, starting with self-evident truths and their own observations of everyday phenomena, sought to deduce the nature of the world and of the mind.
The psychophilosophers most often carried on their reasoning while strolling or sitting with their students in the marketplaces of their cities or courtyards of their academies, endlessly debating the questions that intrigued them. And probably, like Thales gazing at the stars, they also spent periods alone in deep meditation. But little remains of the fruits of their labors; nearly all copies of their writings were lost or destroyed.
Most of what we know of their thinking comes from brief citations in the works of later writers. Yet even these bits and pieces indicate that they asked a number of the major questions—to which they offered some sensible and some outlandish answers—that have concerned psychologists ever since.
We can surmise from the few obscure and tantalizing allusions by later writers to the philosophers’ ideas that among the questions they asked themselves concerning nous (which they variously identified as soul, mind, or both) were what its nature is (what it is made of), and how so seemingly intangible an entity could be connected to and influence the body.
Thales pondered these matters, although a single sentence in Aristotle’s De Anima (On the Soul) is the only surviving record of those thoughts: “Judging from the anecdotes related of him [Thales], he conceived soul as a cause of motion, if it be true that he affirmed the lode-stone to possess soul because it moves iron.”2 Little as this is to go on, it indicates that Thales considered soul or mind the source of human behavior and its mode of action a kind of physical force inherent in it, a view radically unlike the earlier Greek belief that human behavior was directed by supernatural forces.
Within a century, some philoso
phers and the physician Alcmaeon suggested that the brain, rather than the heart or other organs, as earlier believed, was where nous existed and where thinking goes on. Some thought it was a kind of spirit, others that it was the very stuff of the brain itself, but in neither case did they say anything about how memory, reasoning, or other thought processes take place. They were preoccupied by the more elementary question of whence—since not from the gods—the mind obtains the raw materials of thought.
Alcmaeon
Their general answer was sense experience. Alcmaeon, for one, said that the sense organs send perceptions to the brain, where, by means of thinking, we interpret them and derive ideas from them. What intrigued him and others was how the perceptions get from the sense organs to the brain. Unaware of nerve impulses, even though he had discovered the optic nerve, and believing, on abstract metaphysical grounds, that air was the vital component of mind, he decided that perceptions must travel along air channels from the sense organs to the brain: No matter that he never saw any and that no such channels exist; reason told him it must be so. (Later Greek anatomists would refer to the air, pneuma, they thought was in the nerves and brain as “animal spirits,” and in one form or another this belief would dominate thinking about the nervous system until the eighteenth century.) Although Alcmaeon’s theory was wholly incorrect, his emphasis on perception as the source of knowledge was the beginning of epistemology—the study of how we acquire knowledge—and laid the ground for a debate about that topic that has gone on ever since.
