It might be asked how the choice is made which particular one of a multitude (probably not unlimited) of possible fields shall actually replace the present field when the world changes at any level. An attempt to answer this question throws some light on the peculiar nature of tacit self-consciousness. A field, we already know, is what remains unchanged when its subordinate fields change. We know, too, that a field, when it changes, is replaced by any one of a multitude of new fields, each of which is the exact contrary of the original field (and this implies the unchanging background of a more general field). But we remarked (in Appendix III) that a field-change can only occur at the intersection of two fields. A field-change, then, should be understood as a kind of radical change of direction defined by (or defining) a more general field. Thus it appears that at the moment of change the old field is the new field and that the only change is one of direction. This might suggest that we ought to say that a field is always the field that would supplant it were it to change at that instant. But this brings us back to the starting point -- which field is it that would at that moment supplant the original one? It is precisely this that is not evident.
If I reflect on a visual pattern, a leafy bush, for example, I discover that I am perceiving one particular feature, a leaf, and that there is a surrounding zone that appears as 'not fully perceived' -- perceived, that is to say, in less detail. I notice, however, that this surrounding zone, though not fully detailed, is not totally undifferentiated but is crystallized into a number of 'half-perceived' details, a mass of individual leaves or bunches of leaves. Finally, if I reflect carefully, there is sometimes to be noticed, just before my attention actually switches, one particular 'half-perceived' leaf (which in retrospect may be found not always to have been the nearest to the centre) that is more clearly perceived than the rest; and this leaf turns out to be the one that eventually became the new centre of attention. But I am not absolutely certain beforehand that this particular leaf is the predestined one, or even that my attention is on the point of switching (indeed this situation may arise and subside again without any switch of attention). (In more general experiences there is noticeably a longer 'premonition'.) By reflecting I can never discover any necessary connexion between the present field and a peripheral field. A coming event, it seems, casts its shadow before, but I am never sure it is a coming event -- indeed I find that by voluntary action I can substitute another. (Before proceeding we must remark that whatever we say has to be applicable to all modes of perception of spatial extension. Perception of spatial extension, though convenient for reflexion, is misleading in that we may be led to suppose that all temporalization is spatialization. But in other kinds of perception, even visual, temporalization takes the forms of qualities that are not essentially spatial -- the flavour of honey, for example, or a particular shade of blue --, and here such expressions as 'surrounding zone' and 'peripheral fields' must not be understood spatially. Time appears in every sensual world, but not space. Furthermore, what we say has to be applicable to intersections of mixed fields -- a red-hot lump of iron, for example --; and, finally, it must be applicable at all levels of generality.)
It seems, then, that we encounter the following difficulty. In my 'observation' of a stable field I never discover any other field that I know to be the alternative of the present one; it is only when a field actually changes that I discover it to be capable of changing. And we have already seen (Appendix VI) that it is enough merely to admit the possibility of an alternative field for the present field to change forthwith. It seems that in order to 'observe' a field as it really is we have to disturb it: a field reveals itself as able to change only by changing -- but then it is no longer the same. Perhaps, then, we are wrong in assuming that a field 'really is' at all; perhaps the original question is inherently unanswerable. It may be that a field only exists as an ambiguity. If this is so we must be prepared to resort to equivocal language in order to describe it. Let us see what happens if we do so.
We are faced with the paradox that a field is always replaced by one out of a multitude of contrary fields, and yet at the moment of changing a field is the one it is replaced by. We suggested earlier that a field is always the field that would supplant it were it to change at that instant; but this was not satisfactory. Let us modify it by saying that a field is always all those fields that might supplant it were it to change. But since a field is always replaced by a contrary field, we must also say that a field is always not any of those fields that might supplant it. We can reconcile these two statements by saying that a field is always all its alternative fields and that these fields are absent. But what is an absent field? Clearly it must be a field that is not present; but it must be not present in such a manner that its absence is evident. In a word, it must be in some sense relatively not present: it must be less present than the present field. We found, when looking at the leafy bush, that the peripheral fields were perceived in less detail. This provisionally suggests that in comparing two fields the present field will be the one with the greater detail and the absent field will be that with less detail -- and this would clearly be a relative matter. The present field, then, might be regarded as some kind of simultaneous synthesis of all its alternative absent fields; and this would still be true at the instant of its changing, since the single alternative field at that instant is no longer absent -- the two fields are then one and the same. We may also note that since a field (though not its subordinate fields) remains unchanged so long as it is stable it would equally well be defined by any of its possible alternatives (given the general arrangement of my room from a certain point of view, I can indifferently define the place of the chair by saying it is immediately to the left of the table, to the right of the bed, or below the window). This account, furthermore, would allow us to see how it is that except at the instant of a field's changing, consciousness of that field is never consciousness of it as consisting of the possibility of being some other field (which would immediately entail its changing). A field is always all its alternatives; but a plurality of alternatives is a contradiction in terms. Consequently, to be conscious of a field as being a plurality of alternatives is no longer to regard those alternatives as alternatives, that is to say, as possibilities. Only when there is one alternative and one only does that alternative appear as a possibility; and only then does a field change. But it does not change to that possibility; for it already is that possibility: it merely 'changes direction'. Thus to be possible, here, is to be actual.
What, now, are we to understand by the expression 'change of direction'? The present field, so long as it is stable, is surrounded by a multitude -- a zone -- of absent fields. The present field, in the centre, is detailed; the absent, peripheral, fields are less so. But with the singling out by peripheral attention of one of these absent fields at the expense of the others (which thereupon tend to disappear), the detail of the present field decreases and that of the particular absent field increases. There[11] then comes an instant when the degree of detail is the same in each, and at that instant both fields are present. This is to say that they form one field; and this one field is none other than the more general field that we are already acquainted with, which is now explicitly in evidence as the common element in one actual change instead of implicitly so as that in a number of (as we shall see) only probable changes. Upon that the two fields suddenly become separated; but it is found that the formerly absent field is now the more detailed and is therefore present, and that the formerly present field has now become less detailed and is therefore absent (it is also now seen to be one among many such absent fields). Thus 'change of direction' consists in the transfer of the centre of attention (which is direction of intention) from one aspect of a more general field to another; it is the switching of presence from the present field to one of its surrounding fields.
So far so good. The question now arises, however, what the structure of a field must be in order hat this (theoretical) possibility should sometimes be distributed amongst a multitude of alternatives, and sometimes concentrated in one (when it ceases to be merely theoretical). In other words, what is the nature of the simultaneous synthesis mentioned above? It is clear, first, that all the absent fields are present together; for otherwise the distribution would simply be a rapid succession of single absent fields, and this will not do because the present field would then be one absent field at a time and one only, which is not so. In the second place, an unchanging simultaneous synthesis by itself would make impossible any tendency towards concentration of emphasis in a single field (or in several in turn), which we know by the evidence of reflexive consciousness to occur. So, assuming that a field is ambiguous, let us say that there is both a succession and a synthesis (indeed, we have already seen in Appendix II that consciousness must, in some way, be both progressive and transverse). We may call this a quasi-synthesis, whose ambiguous nature will perhaps become clearer as we proceed. (We shall continue to use the prefix quasi to indicate ambiguity.) In this way we have all the absent fields present simultaneously, and, at the same time, a perpetual variation in the manner of distribution of emphasis amongst them. (And how rapid is this succession? Evidently as rapid as the field-changes of next lower order. Thus the lower the order the faster it is.) It seems clear that the degree of attention to an absent field must correspond absolutely to its degree of pleasantness[12] (there is, of course, no explaining this necessity, except perhaps to say that it is necessary in order to explain any explanation of it), and thus the most pleasant absent field will tend (since there is, in fact, opposition) to dominate the remainder by draining attention (and therefore pleasantness[13]) away from them. Since each of the absent fields possesses a gradient of feeling, it will be seen that a quasi-synthesis of all these fields must imply a quasi-synthesis of their gradients (which exists as opposition to the tendency of any absent fields to dominate the rest): there is a little more to say of this in a moment. It is plain that a change of direction only operates between the field that it is the centre of attention and a field of one peripheral zone; whereas, so long as the centre of attention remains fixed, variation of emphasis within the peripheral zone is in the province of the quasi-synthesis, and at that level does not involve a change of direction. The peripheral zone, it will now be clear, consists of a multitude of absent fields all differentiated and all given at once; and it is this combination of one and many that is the essence of the ambiguity. To be an absent field is to be given simultaneously with a number of other such fields, to co-exist with them; and the reason for an absent field's lack of detail is evidently the dispersion of attention amongst a crowd of rival claimants.
Consciousness of a field is consciousness of a dispersion of alternative fields, but it is not consciousness of them as such. Consciousness of a field necessarily involves a certain attitude regarding that field -- not, to be sure, the pretended totally detached attitude of the scientist, nor even the semi-detached attitude of cognition, nor yet the small separation of reflexive consciousness proper, but none the less a kind of slight fissure, an inherent quasi-attitude enough to confer on the field its existence, its elementary objectivity (without which it would never be manifest to reflexion) --, and that attitude, or quasi-attitude, consists in an ignoring of the implications of certain features of the field and its surroundings (for it cannot ignore the features themselves). Consciousnes of a field, thus, is self-consciousness,[14] and in the structure of a field there is already an inherent, pre-reflexive, element of reflexivity: a field exists as a blindness to its own nature.
The[15] gradient of feeling of a stable field as a whole (we are theorizing, of course) necessarily shares the equivocal structure of that field: on the one hand there are the gradients of the absent fields, and on the other there is the gradient of the quasi-attitude of the field towards itself (a quasi-gradient in fact); and the former are quasi-subordinate to the latter. It will now be evident that the gradient of feeling of a field as we described it earlier (Appendix V) must at the same time be regarded as a complex consisting of the gradients of the absent fields and the quasi-gradient of these gradients (which last is indifferently either the dispersion of these gradients or the gradient of the succession of subordinate fields regardless of individual pleasantness; and this quasi-gradient must always be positive or there would be no dispersion of absent fields). We have already remarked that a field remains stable so long as its gradient is positive, but changes as soon as the gradient changes sign. The gradient of every field as a whole being positive (negative fields are part of positive composite reflexive fields), that of an absent field, in so far as it is absent, is negative; and the positivity of the present field as a whole depends on the positivity of the quasi-gradient (to which the gradients of the absent fields are quasi-subordinate: the present field, so to speak, confers positivity on all the absent fields to keep them in being, and negativity to keep them absent). So long, then, as the quasi-gradient of the gradients of a field's absent fields remains positive the field as a whole is stable, but as soon as it reaches the point of changing sign, of no longer being pleasant (we might almost say quasi-pleasant; for, since it is present even at out worst moments of agony, this pleasantness of 'having-to-do with existence' is extremely subtle and elusive), the quasi-attitude ceases to be maintained. In consequence the field appears as the possibility of changing; which is to say that it does change. Towards the instant of change all the absent fields except one, while still being absent, tend to sink out of sight; and this is due to the growth in pleasantness of that one absent field as a field. For, as it becomes more pleasant, pleasure in absence or dispersion, since it involves pleasure in that field's absence, grows less. In other words, the quasi-gradient of the present field tends to zero, and its gradient is about to become the inverse of that of this particular field. As soon as this is completed the present field vanishes, and the absent field becomes present. There is no certainty, however, that a field that is pleasant as a field while absent, will for that reason continue to be so when it becomes present. It is, in fact, quite illegitimate to say, as we have been, that an absent field becomes present; or rather, it is only legitimate if its illegitimacy is pointed out. On the other hand, the new field cannot exist unless it is stable and its gradient positive. And since, at the instant of change, the quasi-gradient of the preceding field was zero, every change is, in effect, a change for the better. (Instead of change to an unstable field, which is impossible, there is a change for the better at a more general level.) The new field, then, is immediately complete with quasi-attitude and dispersion of absent fields.
The present field's absent fields are all the other fields appearing at the same time;[a] and the intensity of each one's appearance is its intrinsic likelihood of being then alternative to the present field (and thus reasoned thinking is provided with its data, as sheer reflexion with its evidence, by the quasi-attitude). In other words, all the manifold possibilities that I am at one time at each level co-exist as rival probabilities of my being any of them; and in this way there continues to be an objective orientation or world. To[16] the extent, however, that sheer reflexion rids itself of the quasi-attitude these probabilities will disappear; and ultimately there will cease to be absent fields, and therefore any fields at all. If the world consists entirely of probabilities, develop certainty and it must vanish. (Sheer reflexion discovers no indication in the present field which of its absent fields the immediately preceding, and now destroyed, present field may have been [though it cannot doubt that there was one]; and this is evidently the origin of the mathematical Theory of Groups.)
A[17] field is necessarily an equivocation, and can only exist as such. It should by now be clear that the absolute faith we spoke of earlier (Appendices II & VI) as characteristic of intention or action is nothing other than this quasi-attitude, this blindness, that is necessary for the existence of a field. Intention is the refusal to admit that a field may change; it is the assumption that a field is incapable of change. It is the assumption that is implied in the words 'I am' (but it is not the explicit view 'my self exists', which is of a different order). It is the certainty that I exist, the certainty that is tacit consciousness (Appendix IV). And we have seen that this quasi-attitude or conceit has a quasi-gradient, and craving therefore is one of its structures (indeed every attitude is a mode of craving); this conceit, then, may be described as the desire 'I am'. (Cf. Khandhasamyutta ix,7.) Moreover this quasi-gradient is positive: the tacit assumption of a field's endless existence is always pleasurable. My self, then, is simply a mirage; its being is an equivocal structure consisting of the pleasant delusion of permanence; and this implicit certainty of my existence is absolute -- on the precise condition that I fail to see this equivocal structure completely for what it is (though I may well theorize about it, which is another matter). So it is that this absolute self-certainty, the condition of all action and therefore of the very existence of the world, itself rests upon nescience. And persistent sheer reflexion is self-destructive.
'All structures are impermanent --
When, understanding, thus he sees,
He turns away from suffering:
This is the path of purity.All structures, next, are suffering --
When, understanding, thus he sees,
He turns away from suffering:
This is the path of purity.All natures, lastly, are not-self --
When, understanding, thus he sees,
He turns away from suffering:
This is the path of purity.'
(Dhammapada, 277-9)
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[11] [Referring to this sentence:] Not quite. [Back to text]
[12] [This word is drawn through in pencil.] [Back to text]
[13] [These three words are drawn through in pencil.] [Back to text]
[14] ['self' is crossed out.] [Back to text]
[15] [This paragraph is crossed out in pencil.] [Back to text]
[a] If the parallel with the quantum theory suggested in Appendix V should be verified, it would appear that a field always has the same exact number of absent fields. [Back to text]
[16] [This and the next sentences are crossed off in pencil.] [Back to text]
[17] [This paragraph is crossed off in pencil.]
[Back to text]