The Changing Nature of Man

THE CHANGING NATURE OF MAN INTRODUCTION TO A HISTORICAL PSYCHOLOGY J.H. van den Berg Preface The whole science of psychology is based on the assumption that man does not change. Even the theory of the neurosis and its therapy leans on this supposition: a neurotic is a person whose faculties are obstructed; the therapy consists of the removal of the obstruction. Nothing is added to the person himself and nothing is taken away from him. How much more should this be true for the normal person; certainly he will not change at all. If he should go and live in another country, or under different circumstances, he would take his whole personality with him, and if one day he should return to his old environment, he would return just as he had been before, exactly the same person, entirely unchanged. There is nothing basically new in human existence - that is what psychology has always assumed, except, perhaps, for a very few exceptions. This book stems from the idea that man does change. And so, consequently, it deals with the history of man. Whereas, in traditional psychology, the life of a previous generation is seen as a variation on a known theme, the supposition that man does change leads to the thought that earlier generations lived a different sort of life, and that they were essentially different. It is this thought which, in principle, defines historical psychology. Historical psychology compares the past and the present with the object of finding in what ways modern man differs from man in previous generations. It also seeks the reasons and the causes of the changes. And, inevitably, it must consider why and how psychology itself has changed in the course of the years. Ultimately, therefore, historical psychology has to concern itself with its own principles. It has to analyze every change in the psychology of the past and explain why a change occurred and what kind of living and thinking necessitated the change. It has to find the causes of every new principle. Historical psychology is not the history of psychology. The history of psychology is the history of a science, exactly like the history of any other science, or like history in general. The historian of psychology tries to distinguish eras, to trace fundamental thoughts, and to define the significance of the most prominent psychologists and schools of thought. He is not primarily concerned with the causes of the changes in fundamental principles, and certainly not with the changes in man himself of which they were a reflection-although no good historian can altogether ignore these. But there is a similarity: historical psychology, as a science of changes, is also concerned with the past eras of psychology. To avoid misunderstanding, and to make it clear from the start that this book is not a book on history, the term historical psychology is omitted from the title. This book will try to explain psychology on the basis of the assumption that man changes. This means that it is based on an understanding of human existence which differs from the conventional one; it is based on the belief, ignored by science but so common in every day life, that nothing is more liable to change than man. CHAPTER 1 Up till now we have had no historical psychology. Why did the Middle Ages and the Renaissance produce entirely different types of men? -Karl Mannheim, Man and Society The need for a theory of changes The idea of eternity in the psychology of the nineteenth century Psychologists of the previous century would be astonished if they could see what work their modern colleagues do. In their day, psychology was a science of distinction, related by old ties to timeless philosophy. The psychologists bore the marks of this distinction. Like philosophers they sat behind desks laden with books and counters, writing theoretical treatises. They contemplated the differences between observation and fantasy, they classified emotions, and they compiled codes of associations. And when, in 1878, it became fashionable for them to leave their desks now and then, it was only to repair to laboratories where experiments were conducted which remained true to the serenity of their contemplation's; and true, mainly, to the timeless character of those contemplations. The psychologist worked for eternal science. He remained remote from daily life. He considered the walls of his study and of his laboratory the limits of his science. He was able to do so because nobody ever asked him anything. A lost tranquillity In the twentieth century his idyll was disturbed, and his tranquillity vanished. People began to ask questions, a few at first, but more and more as time went on; at last they asked so many questions that the psychologist could hardly find time to answer them all. And yet he had to answer them, for the questions concerned important matters. For instance: "What is the best way to educate my child?" Could the psychologist disappoint the father who asked this question! "How should I treat my wife?" "How should I, as an employer, deal with my employees?" "How can I know if there is a suitable person among the twenty who applied for my position?" "How do I find what occupation suits me best?" "How can I grow old blamelessly?" It is undeniable that these are important questions, all of them; and it is apparent that the psychologist had to answer them. The psychologist learns to answer questions And so he did answer them. Hurriedly he invented a respectable system of examination, checked and applied it, and discovered the words to express his conclusions and advice. Faith in psychology grew; people did not ask questions in vain. And the psychologist, in his turn, grew in the faith that people appeared to have in him. He put down his thoughts in businesslike articles, books, and practical guides. The difference between twentieth-century publications and those of the nineteenth century is striking: the contemplative character has almost entirely disappeared. The twentieth-century psychologist speaks of extremely practical subjects. He knows about ordinary daily life. He comes to factories and homes, business firms and schools; he is to be found in recreation areas and instruction centers. He is busy and he knows what to do. He speaks, examines, tests, discusses, and--answers questions. To the psychologist capable of answering the questions? A few psychologists, however, view all this practical activity with critical eyes. It is their opinion that tire psychologist, in spite of his equipment and his choice of words, is not really justified in answering most of these questions, for the simple reason that his answers and his recommendations are based on a foundation which does not exist. Let us presume that these few psychologists are right. What, then, is the psychologist to do with the' questions? He has just learned how to answer them; should he now send them back to those who asked? Should he block his letterbox, close his doors and windows, and return to the old subjects! He would not succeed: the questioners would know how to find him, and so much need, so much faith, would appear in their interruptions that he would have to get his tests and his tape-recorder out of the cupboard and start to work again. It has to be admitted that in any case it was the questions, which had made him, give the advice in the first place. It would never have occurred to the psychologist to write reports and to give advice if people had not urgently requested him to do so. The nineteenth-century psychologist could permit himself the luxury of unconcern bemuse nobody ever felt the need to ask him even a single question. Nobody asked questions Did people in the nineteenth century know the answers, then? Did they know how to educate their children, how to treat their wives? Did employers know how to handle employees? Did people know the tricks of the different phases of life and could they recognize the dangers where the one phase changes into the next? Did they know which occupation suited them best? Did no one ever have doubts about being the right man in the light place? Apparently they did know the answers: for no one asked. At one point people must have begun to ask. It is not clear why or from whom. Certainly they did not learn to ask from the psychologist: the questions were there before he even thought of answering them. What then had happened that knowledge had been lost? and howl Martin Buber and a modern inability Once Martin Buber lectured in Czemowitz; afterward, as he was sitting in a restaurant continuing the discussion with a few of his audience, a middle-aged Jew came in. He introduced himself, and then sat down and followed the abstract discussion, which must have been unusual to his ears, with great interest. He declined every invitation to advance a comment, but at the close of the discussion he came to Buber and said, "I want to ask you something. I have a daughter and she knows a young man who has been studying law. He passed all his examinations with honors. What I would like to know is: would he be a reliable man?" Buber was taken by surprise by this question, and answered, "I assume from your words that he is industrious and able." But apparently this was not what the other man really meant to ask, for he proceeded, "But could you tell me? would like to ]mow this particularly-- would he be clever?" "That is rather more difficult to answer," Briber said, "but I presume that merely with diligence he could not have achieved what he did." The other man was still not satisfied, and finally the question he really meant to ask came out.

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