by Peter Watson
Ideas
A History Of Thought And Invention, From Fire To Freud
Peter Watson
Introduction
The Most Important Ideas in History
Some Candidates
To Introduction Notes and References
In 1936, a collection of papers by Sir Isaac Newton, the British physicist and natural philosopher, which had been considered to be ‘of no scientific value’ when offered to Cambridge University some fifty years earlier, came up for auction at Sotheby’s, the international salesroom, in London. The papers were bought by another Cambridge man, the distinguished economist John Maynard Keynes (later Lord Keynes). He spent several years studying the documents–mainly manuscripts and notebooks–and in 1942, in the midst of the Second World War, delivered a lecture to the Royal Society Club in London in which he presented an entirely new view of ‘history’s most renowned and exalted scientist’. ‘In the eighteenth century and since,’ Keynes told the club, ‘Newton came to be thought of as the first and greatest of the modern age of scientists, a rationalist, one who taught us to think on the lines of cold and untinctured reason. I do not see him in this light. I do not think that anyone who has pored over the contents of that box which he packed up when he left Cambridge in 1696 and which, though partly dispersed, have come down to us, can see him like that. Newton was not the first of the age of reason. He was the last of the magicians, the last of the Babylonians and Sumerians, the last great mind which looked out on the visible and intellectual world with the same eyes as those who began to build our intellectual inheritance rather less than 10,000 years ago.’1
Newton is still known to us, first and foremost, as the man who conceived the modern notion of the universe, as held together by gravity. But, in the decades since Keynes spoke to the Royal Society, a second–and very different–Newton has emerged: a man who spent years involved in the shadowy world of alchemy, in the occult search for the philosopher’s stone, who studied the chronology of the Bible because he believed it would help predict the apocalypse that was to come. He was a near-mystic who was fascinated by Rosicrucianism, astrology and numerology. Newton believed that Moses was well aware of the heliocentric theory of Copernicus and his own doctrine of gravity. A generation after the appearance of his famous book Principia Mathematica, Newton was still striving to uncover the exact plan of Solomon’s Temple, which he considered ‘the best guide to the topography of heaven’.2 Perhaps most surprising of all, the latest scholarship suggests that Newton’s world-changing discoveries in science might never have been made but for his researches in alchemy.3
The paradox of Newton is a useful corrective with which to begin this book. A history of ideas might be expected to show a smooth progression in mankind’s intellectual development, from primitive notions in the very beginning, when early man was still using stone tools, through the gestation of the world’s great religions, down to the unprecedented flowering of the arts in Renaissance times, the birth of modern science, the industrial revolution, the devastating insights of evolution and the technological wizardry that marks our own day, with which we are all familiar and on which so many are dependent.
But the great scientist’s career reminds us that the situation is more complex. There has been a general development, a steady progress much of the time (the idea of progress is discussed more fully in Chapter 26). But by no means all of the time. Throughout history certain countries and civilisations have glittered for a while, then for one reason or another been eclipsed. Intellectual history is very far from being a straight line–that is part of its attraction. In his book, The Great Titration (1969), the Cambridge historian of science Joseph Needham set out to answer what he thought was one of the most fascinating puzzles in history: why the Chinese civilisation, which developed paper, gunpowder, woodblock printing, porcelain and the idea of the competitive written examination for public servants, and led the world intellectually for many centuries, never developed mature science or modern business methods–capitalism–and therefore, after the Middle Ages, allowed itself to be overtaken by the West and then dropped further and further behind (his answer is discussed on pages 323–324).4 The same might be said about Islam. Baghdad in the ninth century led the Mediterranean world intellectually: it was here that the great classics of the ancient civilisations were translated, where the hospital was conceived, where al-jabr, or algebra, was developed, and major advances made in falsafah. By the eleventh century, thanks to the rigours of fundamentalism, it had disappeared. Charles Freeman, in his recent book The Closing of the Western Mind, describes many instances of the way intellectual life withered in the early Middle Ages, the years of Christian fundamentalism.5 In the fourth century Lactantius wrote: ‘What purpose does knowledge serve–for as to knowledge of natural causes, what blessing is there for me if I should know where the Nile rises, or whatever else under the heavens the “scientists” rave about?’6 Epilepsy, which Hippocrates described as a natural illness as early as the fifth century BC, was, in the Middle Ages, placed under the care of St Christopher. John of Gaddesden, an English physician, recommended as a cure the reading of the Gospel over the epileptic while simultaneously placing on him the hair of a white dog.7
This is perhaps the most important lesson we can learn from a history of ideas: that intellectual life–arguably the most important, satisfying and characteristic dimension to our existence–is a fragile thing, easily destroyed or wasted. In the last chapter some conclusions will be attempted, in an effort to assess what has and has not been achieved in this realm. This Introduction, however, shows how this history differs from other histories, and in so doing helps explain what a history of ideas is. The discussion will be confined to an exploration of the various ways the material for an intellectual history may be organised. A history of ideas clearly touches on a vast amount of material and ways must be found to make this array manageable.
For some reason, numerous figures in the past have viewed intellectual history as a tripartite system–organised around three grand ideas, ages or principles. Joachim of Fiore (c. 1135–1202) argued–heretically–that there have been three epochs, presided over by God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit respectively, during which the Old Testament, the New Testament and a ‘spiritual eternal Gospel’ will be in force.8 Jean Bodin (c. 1530–1596), the French political philosopher, divided history into three periods–the history of Oriental peoples, the history of Mediterranean peoples, and the history of northern peoples.9 In 1620 Francis Bacon identified three discoveries that set his age apart from ancient times.10 ‘It is well to observe the force and virtue and consequences of discoveries. These are to be seen nowhere more conspicuously than in those three which were unknown to the ancients, and of which the origin, though recent, is obscure and inglorious; namely, printing, gunpowder, and the magnet. For these three have changed the whole face and state of things throughout the world, the first in literature, the second in warfare, the third in navigation; whence have followed innumerable changes; insomuch that no empire, no sect, no star, seems to have exerted greater power and influence in human affairs than these mechanical discoveries.’11 The origins of each of these discoveries have been identified since Bacon’s time but that does not change the force of his arguments.
Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679), Bacon’s amanuensis, argued that three branches of knowledge outweighed all others in explanatory power: physics, which studies natural objects; psychology, which studies man as an individual; and politics, which deals with artificial and social groupings of mankind. Giambattista Vico (1668–1744) distinguished the age of the gods, the heroic age and the human age (though he borrowed some of these ideas from Herodotus and Varro). In fact, Vico tended to think in threes: he distinguished three ‘instincts’ which, he said
, shaped history, and three ‘punishments’ that shaped civilisation.12 The three instincts were a belief in Providence, the recognition of parenthood, and the instinct to bury the dead, which gave mankind the institutions of religion, family and sepulture.13 The three punishments were shame, curiosity and the need to work.14 The French statesman Anne Robert Jacques Turgot (1727–1781) argued that civilisation is the product of geographical, biological and psychological factors (Saint-Simon agreed). Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas Caritat, marquis de Condorcet (1743–1794), who thought that the French Revolution was the dividing line between the past and a ‘glorious future’, believed there were three outstanding issues in history–the destruction of inequality between nations, the progress of equality within one and the same nation, and the perfecting of mankind. William Godwin (1756–1836), the English anarchist, thought that the three chief ideas that would produce the all-important goal in life–the triumph of reason and truth–were literature, education and (political) justice. Thomas Carlyle (1795–1881) noted ‘the three greatest elements of modern civilisation [are] gunpowder, printing and the Protestant religion’, while Auguste Comte (1798–1857) idealised three stages of history–theological, metaphysical and scientific, later expanded to theological-military, metaphysical-legalistic, and scientific-industrial.15 Later still in the nineteenth century the anthropologist Sir James Frazer distinguished the ages of magic, religion and science, while Lewis Morgan, in his Ancient Society, divided history into the stages of savagery, barbarism and civilisation, and thought that the main organising ideas of civilisation were the growth of government, the growth of ideas about the family, and the growth of ideas about property.
Not everyone has fallen into this tripartite way of looking at history. Condorcet thought there had been ten stages of progress, Johann Gottfried Herder divided history into five periods, Georg Wilhelm Hegel divided it into four, and Immanuel Kant believed that progress had gone through nine stages.
Nevertheless, W. A. Dunlap, writing in 1905, used the word ‘triposis’ to describe this tendency to divide intellectual history into three, while Ernest Gellner in 1988 favoured the term ‘trinitarian’.16 In recent years we have had J. H. Denison’s Emotions as the Basis of Civilisation (1932), which divided societies into the patriarchal, the fratriarchal and the democratic. In 1937, in his Intellectual and Cultural History of the Western World, Harry Elmer Barnes described three great changes in ‘sensibility’ in history–the arrival of ‘ethical monotheism’ in the Axial Age (700–400 BC), the advent of individualism in the Renaissance, when the present world became an end in itself instead of a preparation for the shadowy afterlife, and the Darwinian revolution of the nineteenth century.17
Economists have often thought in threes. In The Wealth of Nations (1776), Adam Smith (1723–1790) offered a pioneering analysis of the fundamental division of income into rents, wages and the profits of stock, identifying their respective owners as the landlord, the wage-earner and the capitalist, the ‘three great, original and constituent orders of every civilised society’.18 Even Marxism can be reduced to three: an age when man knows neither surplus nor exploitation, when both surplus and exploitation are pervasive, and when surplus remains but exploitation is ended.19 And Karl Polanyi, in The Great Transformation(1944), distinguished three great economic epochs–reciprocity, redistribution and the market. Two years later, in The Idea of History, R. G. Collingwood described ‘three great crises’ that have occurred in the history of European historiography. The first occurred in the fifth century BC, when the idea of history as a science came into being; the second took place in the fourth and fifth centuries AD, with the advent of Christianity, which viewed history as the working out of God’s purpose, not man’s; and the third came in the eighteenth century with a general denial of innate ideas and intuitionism or revelation. In 1951, in Ideas and Men, Crane Brinton, professor of ancient and modern history at Harvard, identified humanism, Protestantism and rationalism as the three great ideas making the modern world. Carlo Cipolla published Guns and Sails in the Early Phase of European Expansion, 1400–1700 in 1965, in which he argued that nationalism, guns and navigation accounted for the European conquests which created the modern world. The rising nationalism in Europe, as a result of the Reformation, led to a new round of war, which promoted the growth of metallurgy, and ever more efficient–and brutal–weapons. These far outstripped anything available in the East (in contrast to the situation in 1453, when the Turks sacked Constantinople), while the developments in navigation, fuelled by ambitions of empire, enabled European ships to reach both the far east (the ‘Vasco da Gama’ era) and, eventually, the Americas.20
In Ernest Gellner’s Plough, Sword and Book (1988), he argued that there have been three great phases in history–hunting/gathering, agrarian production and industrial production–and that these fitted with the three great classes of human activity–production, coercion and cognition. In 1991, Richard Tarnas, in The Passion of the Western Mind, argued that philosophy, in the West at any rate, can be divided into three great epochs–as largely autonomous during the classical period, as subordinate to religion during the dominant years of Christianity, and as subordinate to science ever since.21
In his book Fire and Civilisation (1992), Johan Goudsblom argued that man’s control of fire produced the first transformation in human life. Early man was now no longer a predator: control of fire enabled him to corral animals and to clear land. Without this, agriculture–the second transformation–would not have been possible. Control over fire also introduced the possibility of cooking, which distinguished man from the animals and may be regarded as the origins of science. (The use of smoke may also have been the first form of communication.) Control over fire, of course, also led to baking, ceramics and smelting (the ‘pyrotechnic cultures’), which enabled metal daggers and then swords to be constructed. But the third great transformation, and the most important, after agriculture, Goudsblom said, was industrialisation, the union of fire with water, to produce in the first instance steam, harnessing a new form of energy which enabled machines of unprecedented size and power to perform certain routine skills much better and much faster than was possible by hand.22
Isaiah Berlin, the Oxford political philosopher, thought there had been three great political/psychological turning-points in history. The first came after the death of Aristotle, when the philosophical schools of Athens ‘ceased to conceive of individuals as intelligible only in the context of social life, ceased to discuss the questions connected with public and political life that had preoccupied the Academy and the Lyceum, as if these questions were no longer central…and suddenly spoke of men purely in terms of inner experience and individual salvation’.23 A second turning-point was inaugurated by Machiavelli, which involved the recognition that there is a division ‘between the natural and the moral virtues, the assumption that political values are not merely different from, but may in principle be incompatible with, Christian ethics.’ The third turning-point–which Berlin says is the greatest yet–was the advent of romanticism. These changes are discussed in Chapter 30.
Finally, in 1997, in Guns, Germs and Steel, Jared Diamond picked up where Cipolla left off: his concern was to explain the way the world developed before modern times and why Europe discovered (and conquered) America rather than vice versa. His answer had three broad themes. Eurasia, he pointed out, is mainly an east–west landmass, whereas the Americas are north–south. The exigencies of geography, he said, mean that the migration of domesticated animals and plants is by definition easier along latitudes than it is along longitudes, which meant that cultural evolution was likewise easier, and therefore faster, in Eurasia than it was in the Americas. Second, Eurasia had more mammals capable of domestication than in the Americas (fifteen, as opposed to two), and this also helped civilisations evolve. In particular, the domestication of the horse, in Eurasia, transformed warfare, which encouraged the development of the sword, which helped the evolution of metallurgy, meaning that Eur
opean weapons far outstripped their equivalents in the New World. Third, domestication of many animals meant that European humans evolved immunity to the diseases which those animals carried and which, when they were introduced into the New World, devastated the population.24
It is encouraging that there is a measure of overlap here. Agriculture, weapons, science, industrialisation, and printing, for example, are each selected by more than one author. These arguments and ideas certainly help us begin to find our way about a massive field but, as will become clear later in this Introduction, and then throughout the book, though I think that all these ideas and innovations are important, my own candidates are very different.
Of course, this is by no means the only way of looking at the development of ideas–by identifying the most influential innovations and abstractions of all time. In their book, The Western Intellectual Tradition, Jacob Bronowski and Bruce Mazlish identify three ‘realms’ of intellectual activity, an approach that I have found very useful. There is first the realm of truth: the effort to inquire into truth is the concern of religion, science, philosophy where, in an ideal world, agreement would be total and involuntary–i.e., inevitable in a logical, mathematical or syllogistical sense. Next, there is the search for what is right: this is the concern of law, ethics and politics, where agreement, largely voluntary, need not be total but in order to work still needs to be widespread. And thirdly there is the realm of taste, which is largely the business of the arts, where agreement is not necessary at all and where disagreement may be fruitful. Of course, there is again a measure of overlap between these realms (artists search for the truth, or say that they do, religion is concerned with what is right as well as with what is true) but the distinction is worth bearing in mind throughout this book. The Greeks early on recognised an important distinction between natural law and human law.25