CONTENTS Introduction 1. Learning to Swing Along with the Process 2. Learning to Tune in to the Melody of Duration 3. Learning to Heed the Whispers of Intuition 4. Learning to Laugh through Department Meetings 5. Learning to Know what we Know but do not See that we Know and to See what we See but do not Know that we See 6. Learning to Enhance Perception, Memory and Attention 7. Learning to Be, and Belong to, an Organism 8. Learning to Experience Mystical Raptures without Becoming St Teresa Conclusion: Bergson’s Cash Value Homework Acknowledgements INTRODUCTION In my youth, satirical humour seemed the most appropriate response to a venal world and this interest in the theory and practice of comedy led me to Henri Bergson’s book Laughter: an Essay on the Meaning of the Comic. I was not entirely convinced by Bergson’s theories but I liked his scathing comments on the stultifying effects of convention and social life, which he defined as ‘an admiration of ourselves based on the admiration we think we are inspiring in others’. I poked around in the Bergson oeuvre – but was disappointed. In his other work he displayed no satirical disgust or, despite the comedy book, wit, and his key work, Creative Evolution, proposed that the meaning of life was something called élan vital, which struck me as a vague, mystical concept. As a consequence of a scientific education, I respected only thinking that was hard- edged, logical and clear. For me, the intention of mysticism was to enshroud the world in mist. So au revoir, Henri. I forgot about Bergson in the following decades of adult life, which was meant to comprise derisive laughter launched at the world from a rented garret but somehow turned out to be the conventional entanglements of mortgage, job, wife and child. Satire was no longer enough and I turned to thinkers like Erich Fromm, whose marvellous little book, The Art of Loving, helped me to make a go of marriage, whose The Sane Society taught me social and political awareness, and whose To Have and to Be taught me that religion might be of use to non-believers, and that Buddhism in particular might offer practical lessons. Much later, I learned from the twentieth-century philosophy of mind that memory and the self are processes rather than fixed entities – and suddenly this connected with the theories of particle physics, which claim that at the heart of matter there are in fact no particles but only processes. Then that connection made a further connection with the central Buddhist concept of ‘no soul, no substance’. And, in a thrilling Eureka moment, philosophy, science and religion came together in the revelation that everything is process . . . and everything is connected to everything else. Or, to be more precise, that the cosmos is a vast unity of interpenetrating and interdependent processes, a gigantic mega process made up of maxi processes themselves made up of mini processes composed of micro processes – all the way in to the weird heart of matter and all the way out to the weird far end of our madly-expanding universe. And interacting with all this is the equally weird mega process of human consciousness, made up in turn of its own whirl of interpenetrating processes. The concept that everything is process seemed to me an original insight, at least in Western thought. But my euphoria was soon tempered by the discovery that this was the central premise of process philosophy, a long-established and flourishing sub-genre with its own academic centres, professors and journals. On the other hand it was reassuring to discover that so many others shared the process view. I found that these ideas go back to Buddha and Heraclitus, who claimed that everything is fire and flow, and then it turned out that the true founder of modern process philosophy was none other than the thinker I had rejected so long before – Henri Bergson. ‘Substance is movement and change,’ he announced unequivocally. ‘There are changes, but underneath the changes no things which change: change does not require a support. There are movements, but no inert or invariable object which moves: movement does not imply a mobile.’ The crucial thing, according to Bergson, was to accept this movement and become part of it: ‘Philosophy can only be an effort to dissolve again into the Whole.’ In other words, it is all about process and unity. Bonjour encore, Henri. But who was this guy? Henri Bergson (1859–1941) was the second child of Michael Bergson, a Polish composer/pianist who came to Paris to make his name but never succeeded, and Kate Levinson, a Yorkshire woman of Irish descent. Both father and mother were devout Jews, but Henri abandoned religion at a young age, possibly a response to being left in a boarding school while his parents took the other children to England, never to return. This early isolation may account for his independence and reserve, profound distrust of social life and insistence on the need to create and protect a deep self. If rejecting Judaism was a rebellious act, it was his only one. Bergson seems to have desired only the conventional bourgeois life of career and family. Success at both school and university was followed by teaching secondary-level philosophy in the provinces, then lecturing in Paris and, once he was established, marriage, a daughter and an intimate, happy, intensely private family life. (He never spoke publicly of his wife and daughter, and after his death his widow never spoke publicly of his wife and daughter, and after his death his widow complied with his wish to have all personal papers destroyed.) Bergson’s life-changing revelation of process came in 1884 when he was engaged in that most pleasurable of processes – walking. All of the philosophy that begins with Plato . . . is the development of the principle that there is more in the immutable than in the moving, and we pass from the stable to the unstable by mere diminution. Now it is the contrary which is true. (La Pensée et le mouvant, 1934) In other words, Plato’s influential concept of ideal unchanging forms that exist somewhere beyond the imperfect world was a fantasy expressing the human hunger for immutability and perfection. There is only this imperfect world and everything in it is constantly changing. Bergson’s first two books promoting this idea were received with polite interest in French academic circles – but in 1902 he discovered that for popular success there is nothing more effective than promotion by an enthusiastic and energetic American. Out of the blue came a letter from William James who, despite being celebrated and seventeen years older, acclaimed Bergson’s second book, Matière et mémoire, as a masterpiece: It is a work of exquisite genius. It makes a sort of Copernican revolution . . . and will probably . . . open a new era of philosophical discussion. It fills my mind with all sorts of new questions and hypotheses and brings the old into a most agreeable liquefaction. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. (The Letters of William James, 1920) This letter must have been enthralling for Bergson, who had found in James’s work the two qualities he admired most – generosity and enthusiasm. And for me it was enthralling to discover that one of my favourite thinkers, James, was also a Bergson fan. This was no mere intellectual rapport, for when the two met they immediately hit it off. Despite being an international celebrity, James was entirely without self-importance and recognized similar humility in Bergson. As he wrote to a friend: ‘So modest and unpretending a man but such a genius intellectually. I have the strongest suspicion that the tendency which he has brought to a focus will end by prevailing.’ For the next two years they corresponded regularly and when James died in 1910 Bergson wrote: ‘No one loved truth with a more ardent love and no one sought it with a greater passion.’ And throughout the rest of his long life Bergson kept a portrait of James in his study. The extent of their mutual influence is the subject of much debate, but they seem to have been thinking on similar lines for a long time before becoming seem to have been thinking on similar lines for a long time before becoming aware of each other. Indeed their ideas were so similar that I like to regard the two as a single thinker – ‘James Bergson’ – the French half more original, more impersonal and more focused on the implications of the process view; the American half more engaging, more personal and with wider-ranging interests. But both halves were equally interested in chance and possibility; freedom and determinism; consciousness, memory and attention; religion and mysticism; and both investigated these only as means of experiencing life more vividly. James insisted that philosophy was worthless if it did not provide ‘cash value’. James was certainly right about Bergson prevailing. With the appearance of L’Évolution créatrice in French in 1907 and in English as Creative Evolution in 1911, Bergson became the most famous thinker in the Western world. (James welcomed this book with more impersonal understatement: ‘O my Bergson, you are a magician and your book is a marvel, a real wonder’). In Paris people gathered outside windows, and even scaled ladders to reach upper windows, to catch a few words of his lectures. In London he became a media celebrity, much to the amazement of the English philosopher T. E. Hulme: ‘We have not been able to buy even a sporting evening paper without finding in it an account of a certain famous philosopher.’ And in 1913 Bergson caused one of New York’s first traffic jams, when Broadway was brought to a standstill by crowds desperate to attend a lecture called Spiritualité et Liberté, delivered in French. Perhaps even more astounding was Bergson’s secret political mission on behalf of the French government. In 1917 he was despatched to the USA to persuade Woodrow Wilson to join the war on the side of the Allies. It was known that Wilson wanted to set up a League of Nations to promote world peace, and the French strategy was to suggest to Wilson that this would be more feasible if he had a place at the negotiating table after the war. Bergson, who was also a fervent advocate of a League of Nations, played on Wilson’s intellectual vanity, treating him as a philosopher-king whose combination of idealism and power made him the only man capable of saving civilization. It is not known if Bergson’s fortnight in Washington was decisive – but shortly afterwards Wilson took the USA into the war. Bergson returned to Washington for this development and at the end of the war served as the interpreter between the French and American leaders in the negotiations leading to the Treaty of Versailles. Official recognition followed, with Bergson collecting the full set of French honours and in 1928 the Nobel Prize for literature. But his belief in the necessity of accepting change was soon to be tested to the limit. Rejected as an outdated establishment figure by the ambitious new boys like Sartre and Merleau-Ponty, his reputation as a thinker began to fade. Then his health failed. The great his reputation as a thinker began to fade. Then his health failed. The great celebrant of mobility was left half paralysed by a rheumatic disorder. On top of this, all his public work came to nothing. The great advocate of internationalism saw the collapse of the League of Nations, which he had helped to found and had worked for, at the expense of his own work. The great campaigner for world peace was obliged to endure another world war and the occupation of France by the Nazis. The Vichy government offered him exemption from the anti-Semitic laws as an ‘Honorary Aryan’ but he refused and went or, rather, was helped (in dressing gown and slippers, according to one account) to a police station to queue up in bitter cold to register as a Jew. As a consequence he was stripped of all his honours, which at least permitted him to prove his claim that these had never been important and that what matters, even at the age of eighty-two, is the free act. Shortly afterwards he died of bronchitis, his last words those of a lifelong teacher and learner: ‘Gentlemen, it is five o’clock. The class is over.’ The class was over for Bergson but it is still very much in session for the many who have absorbed and applied his ideas. Not only were these ideas central to the oldest religion (though Bergson seems to have been unaware of the similarity to Buddhist thought), they are also everywhere in the newest science (though the scientists appear to be unaware of Bergson). There have been Bergsonian developments recently in neuroscience, psychology, physics, chemistry and biology, for instance theories of consciousness, memory and personal identity, the psychology of cognition and emotion, the physics of elementary particles and fields, the chemistry of non-equilibrium reactions and the biology of living organisms. And in the arts Bergson’s ideas were enthusiastically embraced by the modernist movement and influenced, among others, T. S. Eliot, Marcel Proust, Paul Valéry, Gertrude Stein, Wallace Stevens, Robert Frost, George Bernard Shaw, Virginia Woolf, Katherine Mansfield and Willa Cather. But what relevance have these ideas for the world of marriage, mortgage and office desk? What can mere ideas offer to those who fear that their experience is pitifully limited, even non-existent? Bergson agreed that experience is crucial – this is his main theme – but argued that it is not so much a matter of what as of how – not a matter of embarking on travels, adventures and love affairs but of experiencing everyday reality more intensely. Experience may be deepened as well as widened – and concepts such as unity and process can be the key to such deepening. If we could experience reality as ‘continuous and indivisible’ and as ‘mobility itself’, Bergson insisted, then our everyday lives would be ‘illuminated and nourished’. 1 LEARNING TO SWING ALONG WITH THE PROCESS One of the most common characteristics of depression is a sense of monotony and stale repetition, a crushing sameness that seems as though it can never change and never provide sustenance. On many occasions I have had this terrifying thought: ‘Nothing is happening; I am gaining no experience; I will die without ever having really lived.’ The revelation that everything is process dispels this illusion of monotony. As Bergson put it, ‘the same does not remain the same’. In the process view nothing is fixed, nothing is final, and no circumstances ever repeat in the same way. Even God, in traditional theology the ultimate unmoved mover, becomes for Christian process thinkers the ultimate movement. Not even God may stay the same. Such a vision can be vertiginous, as Bergson conceded: Before the spectacle of this universal mobility some may be seized by dizziness. They are accustomed to terra firma, cannot get used to the rolling and pitching and must have fixed points of attachment for thought and existence. They believe that if everything passes nothing exists; and that if reality is mobility, it has already ceased to exist at the moment of perception – it eludes thought. The material world, they say, will disintegrate, and the mind will drown in the torrential flow. (La Pensée et le mouvant, 1934) But, as in all white-knuckle rides, the dizziness is also exhilarating: Reality no longer appears essentially static, but affirms itself dynamically, as continuity and variation. What was immobile and frozen in our perception is warmed and set in motion. Everything comes to life around us, everything is revitalized within us. A great impulse sweeps forward beings and things. We feel ourselves uplifted, borne along, carried away. We are more fully alive and this increase of life brings with it the conviction that grave philosophical enigmas can be resolved and even perhaps that they may not be raised, since they arise from a frozen vision of the real and are only the translation, in terms of