Bergsonian philosophy has had its
adepts, but those have been vastly outnumbered by its critics. To be sure, I am
not much moved toward a negative view of Bergson by his detractors, as any
imaginative philosopher is a sitting duck for the sharpshooters. In this entry,
whose title is self-explanatory, once you read the whole thing, I shall
concentrate on two points raised by Bertrand Russell, who is one of Bergson’s
critics, but he is also a very good source on Bergson, having written a very
substantial essay on him.
The two
foundations of Bergson’s philosophy, writes Russell, in so far as it is more than an imaginative and poetic view
of the world (here contained is a great praise, in my judgment, for any
thinker capable of giving an imaginative and poetic view of the world already
deserves a high praise!), are his doctrines of space
and time. His doctrine of space is required for his condemnation of the
intellect (here is an incredibly witty lead to a discussion of Bergson’s
irrationalism!), and if he fails in his condemnation
of the intellect, the intellect will succeed in its condemnation of him, for,
between the two, it is war to the knife. His doctrine of time is necessary for
his vindication of freedom, for his escape from what William James called a “block
universe,” for his doctrine of a perpetual flux, in which nothing flows,
and for his account of the relations between mind and matter. It will be well,
therefore, in criticism, to concentrate on these two doctrines. If they are
true, such minor errors and inconsistencies as no philosopher escapes, would
not greatly matter; while if they are false, nothing remains except an
imaginative epic, to be judged on aesthetic, rather than on intellectual grounds.
Russell now starts criticizing
Bergson’s theory of space, where Bergson’s basic premise is that whenever we
talk about greater or less, we imply space. In Bergson’s words, “As if one could speak of magnitude where there is
neither multiplicity nor space.” As Russell notes, “the obvious cases to the contrary, such as pain or
pleasure, afford him much difficulty, yet he never doubts the dogma with which
he starts.”
Where Bergson’s theory of time is
concerned, Russell sees its fatal flaw in the elementary
confusion between the present occurrence of a recollection (present
remembering) and the past occurrence that is recollected
(a past event remembered). But for the fact
that time is familiar to us, the vicious circle involved in his attempt to
deduce the past as what is no longer active would be obvious at once. As it is,
what Bergson gives us is an account of the difference between perception and
recollection, both present facts, and what he believes has been given is
an account of the difference between the present and the past. But as soon as
this confusion is realized, his theory of time is seen to be simply a theory
which omits time altogether.
Among the points raised by
Russell in this critique, of a particular interest is Bergson’s take on the
famous Arrow Paradox of Zeno the Eleatic (see it in the PreSocratica section).
This has to do with the
Bergsonian theory of change, where he rejects what he calls the “cinematographic”
representation of the world. Mathematics conceives
change as constituted by a series of states; Bergson, on the contrary, contends
that no series of states can represent what is continuous, and that in change a
thing is never in any state at all… Zeno’s argument tacitly assumes the essence
of the Bergsonian theory of change. He points out that at each instant the
arrow simply is where it is, just as it would be if at rest. He concludes that
there can be no such thing as a state of motion, inferring that there
can be no motion and that the arrow is always at rest. Now Bergson meets Zeno’s
argument by denying that the arrow is ever anywhere--- “Yes, if we suppose
that the arrow can ever be in a point of its course. Yes, again, if the
arrow, which is moving, ever coincides with a position, which is motionless.
But the arrow never is in any point of its course.”
Russell criticizes Bergson’s
paradoxical view in the following manner: His only
argument in its favor is the statement that the mathematical view of change “implies
the absurd proposition that movement is made of immobilities.” But the
apparent absurdity of this view is merely due to the verbal form in which he
states it, and it vanishes as soon as we realize that motion implies relations.
A friendship, for example, is made out of people, but not out of friendships...
So, a motion is made out of what is moving, and not out of motions. It
expresses the fact that a thing may be in different places at different times,
and that the places may still be different however near together the times may
be. Bergson’s argument against the (rational!) mathematical view of motion, therefore, reduces itself, in
the last analysis, to a mere play upon words.
Russell’s criticism of Bergson’s
irrational crusade is severe, but it does not diminish the fact that the crusade
itself is a breathtaking intellect-stimulating adventure, which may well be its
own legitimization. After all, it was Russell himself who took precious time to
write extensively and substantially on the Bergsonian subject and chose to
allot a full twenty pages to him in his History of Western Philosophy, which
is more than he allots to any other philosopher, with the exception of Plato,
Aristotle, and John Locke!
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