Fear Page #5

THE learned and eloquent Professor of Physiology at Turin has given us in the book which he has entitled “Fear,” an analysis of this mental condition and its accompanying physical states, which, marked as it is by scientific accuracy and couched in charming and even in poetical diction, will take high rank as a popular exposition of our knowledge of the expression of one of the most interesting of the emotions of both men and animals.

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II

And yet these are nought but dreams of the waking mind. Even when the force of attention and the energy of thought are greater, we still are carried away by the wilful, untamable current of cerebral activity; because the will can do nothing within the domain of the imagination, and because the brain is no slave who will obey our very nod. Who does not remember the painful and useless endeavours made to rid oneself of an annoying thought and that incapacity for mental work which afflicts us, without our knowing whence it came? How often have we sat for hours at the desk, with idle pen, our head in our hands, unable to wrest even one thought from the mind which we dared transmit to paper! How depressed we are on those days when the sources of the mind seem dried up, when we torture ourselves in vain, ransacking our brains and finding nothing but fragments, crumbs of thought which we reject angrily as worthless refuse!

We must resign ourselves. We feel ourselves humbled as though the door of our own house had been shut in our face. It is of no use to be sad and annoyed; even if we give way to furious passion, it does not help us. We stand behind a high wall which we cannot break down. An English physiologist compared the thinking man to a simple engine-driver. He does not move the trains, neither does he determine their departure or their stoppage, he merely guides their movement, directing them first in one direction then in another.

The brain is perpetually at work, and it is impossible for the mind to embrace its activities in every part. The greater the attention is in one part, the more vague is the knowledge which we have of contiguous parts, the less vivid are the impressions which the senses transmit from the outside world. We need only recall the well-known example of Archimedes who was killed by a Roman soldier during the siege of Syracuse, while he stood in calm contemplation of some geometrical figures.

The whole of our brain is never at work at one time; now it is the one half, then the other which is in action.

When looking at the sky or at a wall in a uniform light with only one eye, I found that the field of vision changed alternately from light to dark. This does not depend upon the eye but upon the brain, because unconsciously we use first one eye then the other; and, in the same way, the two hemispheres of the brain do not work simultaneously, sometimes it is the one sometimes the other which is in a state of activity. A French general had lost one half of his brain from a wound which clove the skull. He recovered and retained his intelligence and gaiety, but he used soon to grow tired during conversation and could only continue any intense mental work for a few minutes at a time.

There are many philosophers who maintain that a considerable portion of our cerebral activity is purely automatic, so that our mind is often in operation without our being conscious of it. When an idea, says Maudsley,[3] disappears from the horizon of consciousness, it need not vanish totally, but may remain, as it were, latent or veiled, continuing by its movements to awaken, to give rise to, other ideas without our being aware of this activity. But when our consciousness is unexpectedly drawn off from its work, or roused by something which had before occupied it, then we catch the idea at work.

[3] Maudsley: The Physiology of Mind, p. 305. London, 1876.

This opinion is rendered probable by a few phenomena which I observed during my studies of the circulation of the blood in the brain, and we may easily convince ourselves also, if we reflect, how often, quite unexpectedly, names and events occur to us when we were least thinking of them, and which we were unable to recall for a long time and in spite of wearisome efforts, when we wished to do so. And we all know that we are unable to fall asleep at will, so little mastery have we over our thoughts. We direct our minds first to this object then to that, in order to draw it away from that which occupies it and keeps us awake. We try to suppress an idea which torments us by calling other ideas to our assistance in ousting it, and often wait powerless for the coming of that silent oblivion and calm of mind which alone can give us rest.

If, in the moments preceding sleep, when the mind is comparatively quiet, we make an effort to fix our thoughts on something, we notice how they vacillate, disappearing and reappearing, as though we were in a boat and our heads were lifted from time to time above the waves. Even when awake we find ourselves only too often in this humble bark in which every puff of wind drives us far from the shore we wish to reach, when impetuous currents of thought prevent our entering the haven, or when the waves open to plunge us into unfathomable depths out of which we can see no horizon.

III

But in order better to see the link which binds the substance of our organism to the activity of thought, the correlation between the nutrition of the body and the mental state, or, as one is accustomed to say, the relation between body and soul, let us carefully notice what takes place when a number of friends are assembled at table.

After a few cheerful remarks made by the most jovial as they take their places, a certain gloom spreads over the company. One might almost think only a few were sociably inclined. Someone attempts to break the ice, but it is a failure; one feels that the conversation is forced, jerky, altogether wanting in sparkle. Little by little the guests brighten up. A hum ensues, then a confused buzz, like the tuning of the instruments of an orchestra, which rapidly increases in pitch, as though each were trying to make his voice heard above his neighbour’s. It seems as though something in their brains had been loosened and the vocal cords had gradually got into working order. At dessert even the more taciturn, if they have done full justice to the banquet, pour forth an unceasing stream of conversation. Moody faces become smiling, and melancholy gives place to gaiety. The cross-fire of talk, the hot discussions, the frequent bursts of laughter, the lively play of feature, the witty interruptions, the excited gesticulations, all show a hundredfold increase of vital action.
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