WHY AMERICANS DEVOTE THEMSELVES MORE TO THE PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS OF SCIENCE THAN TO THE THEORY
ALTHOUGH the democratic social state and democratic institutions do not arrest the growth of the human mind, there can be no doubt that they steer it one way rather than another. Even limited in this regard, their effects are still very great, and I beg the reader’s indulgence if I pause for a moment to dwell on them.
In discussing the philosophical method of the Americans, we made a number of observations that are pertinent here.
Equality fosters in each individual the desire to judge everything for himself. It inspires in him a taste for the tangible and the real in all things as well as contempt for traditions and forms. These general instincts are particularly evident in regard to the subject of this chapter.
People who cultivate the sciences in democratic nations are always afraid of losing their way in utopian ideas. They distrust systems and like to stick very close to the facts, which they prefer to study for themselves. Since they are not easily impressed by the mere name of any of their fellow human beings, they are unlikely to swear by the teachings of authority. Indeed, they are always looking for the weak side of any doctrine deemed to be authoritative. Scientific traditions have little hold on them. They never dwell for long on the subtleties of any school and are not comfortable with bandying about big words. They delve to the heart of any subject that interests them, insofar as their abilities allow, and they love to explain what they find out in plain language. Science therefore has a freer and surer but less lofty style.
The mind, it seems to me, can divide science into three parts.
The first contains the most theoretical principles and most abstract notions, those whose applications are either unknown or highly remote.
The second comprises those general truths which, though still derived from pure theory, nevertheless lead by a straight and short path to practical applications.
Methods of application and means of execution make up the third.
Each of these different aspects of science can be cultivated separately, although reason and experience teach us that none of the three can prosper for long if completely divorced from the other two.
In America, the purely practical part of the sciences is admirably cultivated, and care is taken with those theoretical aspects of science that are immediately necessary for the application at hand. In this respect the American mind has invariably shown itself to be clear, free, original, and fertile. But almost no one in the United States devotes himself to the essentially theoretical and abstract aspects of human knowledge. In this the Americans carry to excess a tendency that can, I think, be found in all democratic peoples, though to a lesser degree.
Nothing is more necessary to the cultivation of the higher sciences, or of the loftier aspects of the sciences, than meditation, and nothing is less suited to meditation than the circumstances of democratic society. In such a society one does not find, as in aristocratic nations, a numerous class that enjoys repose because it finds everything to its liking, and another that does not stir because it has abandoned hope that things will ever improve. Everyone is restless: some want to attain power, others to achieve wealth. In the midst of this universal tumult, this constant clash of conflicting interests, this unending quest for fortune, where is the calm necessary to the deeper strategies of the intellect to be found? How is one to ponder some specific point when everything is in flux and one is daily swept along and buffeted about by the impetuous current that carries all things before it?
One must be careful to distinguish the kind of permanent agitation that exists in a peaceful, established democracy from the tumultuous revolutionary movements that almost always accompany the birth and development of a democratic society.
When a violent revolution takes place in a highly civilized nation, it cannot fail to impart a sudden impetus to feelings and ideas.
This is especially true of democratic revolutions. Because such revolutions stir all classes of the nation at once, they fill every citizen’s heart with vast ambitions.
Although the French made remarkable progress in the exact sciences at the exact moment they were finishing off what was left of feudal society, that sudden burst of creativity must be attributed not to democracy but to the unprecedented revolution that attended its growth. What happened then was a special case; it would be imprudent to take it as indicative of a general law.
Great revolutions are no more common in democratic nations than in other countries; I am even inclined to believe that they are less so. What is common in democratic nations, however, is a somewhat troubling restlessness, a constant turnover of people, which disturbs and distracts the mind without stimulating or elevating it.
Not only is meditation difficult for men who live in democratic societies, but they are inclined by nature to hold it in relatively low esteem. The democratic social state and institutions encourage most people to be constantly active, and the habits of mind appropriate to action are not always appropriate to thought. The man who acts is often forced to settle for approximations, because he would never achieve his goals if he insisted on perfection in every detail. He must constantly rely on ideas that he has not had the leisure to delve into, for what helps him is far more the timeliness of an idea than its rigorous accuracy. All things considered, it is less risky for him to invoke a few false principles than to waste time trying to show that all his principles are true. Long and learned proofs do not determine how the world is run. Quick assessments of specific facts, daily study of the shifting passions of the multitude, momentary chances and the skill to grasp them — these are the things that decide how affairs are dealt with in democratic societies.
In centuries in which nearly everyone is active, there is thus a general tendency to place too much value on quickness of mind and superficial concepts and too little on deeper but slower exertions of the intellect.
This opinion of the public influences the judgment of those who cultivate the sciences. It either persuades them that they can succeed in scientific study without meditation or dissuades them from studying those sciences that require it.
There are many ways of studying the sciences. Countless people are drawn to the discoveries of the mind for selfish, commercial, or industrial reasons having nothing to do with the disinterested passion that burns in the hearts of a few. There is a desire to use knowledge, and a pure desire to know. I have no doubt that, from time to time, small numbers of people do conceive an ardent and inexhaustible love of truth, which feeds on itself and is a source of constant pleasure though it never is fully gratified. It is this ardent, proud, and disinterested love of what is true that leads straight to the abstract sources of truth from which such people draw fundamental ideas.
Had Pascal only some great profit in mind, or had he been moved solely by the desire for glory, I cannot believe that he would have been able to concentrate the powers of his mind as he did to uncover the Creator’s best-kept secrets. Seeing him, as it were, wrest his soul from life’s concerns so as to devote himself entirely to this research, only to die of old age at forty, having prematurely ruptured the bond between soul and body, I stand amazed in the knowledge that no ordinary cause could have produced such extraordinary efforts.
Time will tell whether these passions, so rare and so fruitful, can originate and develop in democratic societies as readily as in aristocratic ones. I confess that I find this hard to believe.
In aristocratic societies, the class that shapes opinion and takes the lead in public affairs enjoys a permanent and hereditary place above the multitude and naturally forms a high idea of itself and of man in consequence. It loves to hold out to mankind the prospect of glorious satisfactions and to set magnificent goals for man’s desires. Aristocracies often act in ways that are highly tyrannical and highly inhuman, but they rarely conceive base thoughts and exhibit a certain haughty disdain for petty pleasures even as they indulge them: every soul is thereby raised to a very high pitch. In aristocratic times, vast ideas of the dignity, power, and grandeur of man are widely entertained. These opinions influence those who cultivate the sciences along with everyone else. They facilitate the mind’s natural yearning for the highest realms of thought and naturally foster a sublime and almost divine love of truth.
In such times, men of learning are therefore drawn to theory, and it is even common for them to feel a rash contempt for practice. “Archimedes,” says Plutarch, “was so high-minded that he never deigned to write any treatise on the construction of war machines, and because he regarded the whole science of inventing and building machines and, in general, any craft of practical value as vile, base, and mercenary, he put his mind and his studies to use only in writing things whose beauty and subtlety were in no way tinctured with necessity.” This is the aristocratic objective of the sciences.
It cannot be the same in democratic nations.
Most people in such nations are quite intent on immediate material gratifications, and since they are always unhappy with the position they occupy and always free to abandon it, they think only of ways to change or improve their fortunes. To minds so disposed, any new method that shortens the road to wealth, any machine that saves labor, any instrument that reduces the costs of production, any discovery that facilitates or increases pleasures seems the most magnificent achievement of the human mind. It is primarily for these reasons that democratic peoples devote themselves to science, understand it, and honor it. In aristocratic centuries men turn to science particularly to gratify the mind; in democratic centuries they do so to gratify the body.
We may take it for granted that the more democratic, enlightened, and free a nation is, the more rapidly the number of people with a self-interested appreciation of scientific genius will increase, and the greater the profit, fame, and even power authors of discoveries immediately applicable to industry will earn, for in democracies the class that works takes part in public affairs, and those who serve it must look to it for honors as well as money.
It is easy to imagine that in a society organized in this way, the human mind is subtly encouraged to neglect theory and to devote unparalleled energy to applications or, at any rate, to those aspects of theory most necessary to the people who apply it.
Though the mind may yearn instinctively for the higher realms of the intellect, it does so in vain, for interest focuses its attention on the middle range. There it exerts its strength and brings its restless energy to bear and works miracles. The same Americans who did not discover a single one of the general laws of mechanics have introduced into navigation a new machine that is changing the face of the world.
Of course I by no means wish to imply that today’s democratic nations are fated to witness the extinction of the transcendent lights of the human spirit or even that they will never kindle new lights of their own. At the stage the world is now in, with so many literate nations constantly goaded by the ardor of industry, the connections among the various branches of science cannot fail to strike the eye, and the very taste for practice, if it is enlightened, should discourage neglect of theory. With so many applications being tried, so many experiments being repeated every day, it is almost impossible that very general laws should not frequently emerge, so that great discoveries may be common though great inventors be rare.
I believe, moreover, that science is a high calling. Although democracy does not encourage men to cultivate science for its own sake, it does vastly increase the number who do cultivate it. It is inconceivable that from such a vast multitude there should not on occasion arise a speculative genius impassioned solely by the love of truth. One can rest assured that such a genius will strive to penetrate nature’s deepest mysteries regardless of the spirit of his country and his times. There is no need to aid his development; it is enough to stay out of his way. All I mean to say is this: permanent inequality of conditions encourages men to limit themselves to the proud and sterile search for abstract truths, whereas the democratic social state and institutions encourage them to look to science only for its immediate and useful applications.
This tendency is natural and inevitable. It is interesting to note and perhaps necessary to point out.
If those who are called to lead nations in our time had a clear and prescient grasp of these new instincts, which will soon be irresistible, they would understand that with enlightenment and liberty men who live in democratic times cannot fail to perfect the industrial aspects of science, and that henceforth the social power should direct all its efforts to supporting advanced studies and fostering great scientific passions.
Nowadays the human mind needs to be forced to concentrate on theory. Left to itself, it veers in the direction of practice, and rather than allow it to indulge repeatedly in detailed examination of secondary effects, it is good to distract it from these on occasion in favor of something loftier, the contemplation of primary causes.
Because Roman civilization perished in the wake of barbarian invasion, we are perhaps too inclined to believe that civilization can perish in no other way.
If the sources of our enlightenment were ever to die out, they would dwindle gradually, like a flame left unattended. If we were to limit ourselves to applications, we might lose sight of principles, and when we had forgotten principles entirely, we would make poor use of the methods derived from them. We would no longer be capable of inventing new methods and would make unintelligent and artless use of learned procedures we no longer understood.
When Europeans first landed in China three hundred years ago, they found that nearly all the arts had achieved a certain degree of perfection and were surprised that people who had come so far had not gone further. Later they discovered vestiges of certain advanced bodies of knowledge that had been lost. The nation was industrial; it had preserved most scientific methods, but science itself no longer existed. Europeans took this as the explanation for what they found to be the singularly static character of the Chinese mind. The Chinese, following in the footsteps of their forebears, had forgotten the reasons that had guided them. They continued to use formulas without seeking to fathom their meaning. They held on to instruments though they had lost the art of modifying or reproducing them. Hence the Chinese could not change anything. They had to give up making improvements. They were forced always to imitate their forebears in every respect lest the slightest deviation from the path laid out for them in advance plunge them into impenetrable darkness. The source of human knowledge had almost dried up, and though the river still flowed, its waters could no longer increase in volume or change direction.
China had nevertheless lived in peace for centuries. Its conquerors had adopted its mores. Order prevailed. Material prosperity of a sort was everywhere apparent. Revolutions were rare, and war was all but unknown.
Hence we must not reassure ourselves with the thought that the barbarians are still far from our gates, for if there are peoples who allow the torch of enlightenment to be snatched from their grasp, there are others who use their own feet to stamp out its flames.