THE POSITIVE CULT, continued. II. Imitative Rites and Causality

But the processes which we have just been describing are not the only ones employed to assure the fecundity of the totemic species. There are others which serve for the same end, whether they accompany the preceding ones or replace them.

But the practices we have just described are not the only ones used to ensure the fertility of the totemic species. Other practices serve the same purpose, either alongside the earlier ones or in their place.

In the very ceremonies which we have been describing, in addition to the oblations, whether bloody or otherwise, there are other rites which are frequently celebrated, whose object is to complete the former ones and to consolidate their effects. They consist in movements and cries whose object is to imitate the different attitudes and aspects of the animal whose reproduction is desired; therefore, we shall call them imitative.

In the ceremonies we have been describing, offerings, whether bloody or otherwise, are often accompanied by other rites. These rites complete the offerings and strengthen their effects. They consist of movements and cries that imitate the various postures and appearances of the animal the participants want to reproduce. We will therefore call them imitative.

Thus the Intichiuma of the Witchetty grub among the Arunta includes more than the rites performed upon the sacred rocks, of which we have already spoken. When these are finished, the men set out to return to camp; but when they still are about a mile away, they halt and all decorate themselves ritually; after this, the march is resumed. The decorations with which they thus adorn themselves announce that an important ceremony is going to take place. And, in fact, while the company was absent, one of the old men who had been left to guard the camp had built a shelter out of branches, called Umbana, which represented the chrysalis out of which the insect comes. All of those who had taken part in the previous ceremonies assemble near the spot where this construction has been raised; then they advance slowly, stopping from time to time, until they reach the Umbana, which they enter. At once all the men who do not belong to the phratry of the Witchetty grub totem, and who assist at the scene, though from a distance, lie down on the ground, with their faces against the earth; they must remain in this position without moving until they are allowed to get up again. Meanwhile, a chant arises from the interior of the Umbana, which describes the different phases through which the animal passes in the course of its development, and the myths of which the sacred rocks are the subject. When this hymn ceases, the Alatunja glides out of the Umbana, though remaining in a squatting position, and advances slowly over the ground before him; he is followed by all his companions who reproduce gestures whose evident object is to represent the insect as it leaves the chrysalis. Also, a hymn which is heard at just this moment and which is like an oral commentary on the rite, consists in a description of the movements made by the insect at this stage of its development.¹¹⁶⁰

Thus, the Intichiuma of the Witchetty grub among the Arunta includes more than the rites performed at the sacred rocks, which we have already discussed. When those rites are finished, the men set out for camp. But when they are still about a mile away, they stop and all ritually decorate themselves. Then they resume their march. Their decorations announce that an important ceremony is about to take place. And indeed, while the group was away, one of the old men left to guard the camp built a shelter of branches. Called Umbana, it represented the chrysalis from which the insect emerges. All who took part in the earlier ceremonies gather near the shelter. Then they move slowly toward the Umbana, stopping from time to time, until they reach and enter it. At once, all the men who do not belong to the phratry of the Witchetty grub totem lie face down on the ground. They are watching the ceremony from a distance. They must remain motionless in this position until they are allowed to get up again. Meanwhile, a chant rises from inside the Umbana. It describes the different stages of the animal’s development and the myths about the sacred rocks. When the hymn ends, the Alatunja slips out of the Umbana. Still squatting, he moves slowly forward along the ground. All his companions follow, repeating gestures clearly meant to represent the insect emerging from the chrysalis. A hymn heard at this very moment also serves as a spoken commentary on the rite. It describes the insect’s movements at this stage of its development.¹¹⁶⁰

Another Intichiuma,¹¹⁶¹ celebrated in connection with another kind of grub, the unchalka¹¹⁶² grub, has this character still more clearly. The actors of this rite decorate themselves with designs representing the unchalka bush upon which this grub lives at the beginning of its existence. Then they cover a buckler with concentric circles of down, representing another kind of bush upon which the insect lays its eggs when it has become adult. When all these preparations are finished, they all sit down on the ground in a semicircle facing the principal officiant. He alternately bends his body double by leaning towards the ground and then rises on his knees; at the same time, he shakes his stretched-out arms, which is a way of representing the wings of the insect. From time to time, he leans over the buckler, imitating the way in which the butterfly flies over the trees where it lays its eggs. When this ceremony is finished, another commences at a different spot, to which they go in silence. This time they use two bucklers. Upon one the tracks of the grub are represented by zigzag lines; upon the other, concentric circles of uneven dimensions represent the eggs of the insect and the seed of the Eremophile bush, upon which it is nourished. As in the former ceremony, they all sit down in silence while the officiant acts, representing the movements of the animal when leaving its chrysalis and taking its first flight.

Another Intichiuma,¹¹⁶¹ performed in connection with another kind of grub, the unchalka¹¹⁶² grub, shows this character even more clearly. The participants decorate themselves with designs representing the unchalka bush, where the grub lives early in its life. Then they cover a shield with concentric circles of down. These represent another kind of bush, where the insect lays its eggs as an adult. When all the preparations are complete, everyone sits on the ground in a semicircle facing the principal officiant. He repeatedly bends forward toward the ground and then rises onto his knees. At the same time, he shakes his outstretched arms to represent the insect's wings. From time to time, he leans over the shield, imitating the butterfly flying over the trees where it lays its eggs. When this ceremony ends, another begins at a different spot, where they go in silence. This time they use two shields. Zigzag lines on one represent the grub's tracks. On the other, concentric circles of different sizes represent the insect's eggs and the seeds of the Eremophile bush, which it feeds on. As in the first ceremony, everyone sits in silence while the officiant performs. He represents the animal's movements as it leaves its chrysalis and takes its first flight.

Spencer and Gillen also point out certain analogous facts among the Arunta, though these are of a minor importance: in the Intichiuma of the Emu, for example, at a certain moment the actors try to reproduce by their attitude the air and aspect of this bird;¹¹⁶³ in the Intichiuma of water, the men of the totem utter the characteristic cry of the plover, a cry which is naturally associated in the mind with the rainy season.¹¹⁶⁴ But in all, the examples of imitative rites which these two explorers have noted are rather few in number. However, it is certain that their relative silence on this point is due either to their not having observed the Intichiuma sufficiently or else to their having neglected this side of the ceremonies; Schulze, on the other hand, has been struck by the essentially imitative nature of the Arunta rites. "The sacred corrobbori," he says, "are generally ceremonies representing animals": he calls them animal tjurunga¹¹⁶⁵ and his testimony is now confirmed by the documents collected by Strehlow. The examples given by this latter author are so numerous that it is impossible to cite them all: there are scarcely any ceremonies in which some imitating gesture is not pointed out. According to the nature of the animals whose feast is celebrated, they jump after the manner of kangaroos, or imitate the movements they make in eating, the flight of winged ants, the characteristic noise of the bat, the cry of the wild turkey, the hissing of the snake, the croaking of the frog, etc.¹¹⁶⁶ When the totem is a plant, they make the gesture of plucking it,¹¹⁶⁷ or eating it,¹¹⁶⁸ etc.

Spencer and Gillen also report similar but less important facts among the Arunta. For example, during the Intichiuma of the Emu, the performers at one point try to imitate the bird’s appearance and posture.¹¹⁶³ During the Intichiuma of water, the men of the totem make the plover’s distinctive cry. This cry is naturally associated with the rainy season.¹¹⁶⁴ But overall, the two explorers recorded relatively few examples of imitative rites. It is certain, however, that they said relatively little about them either because they had not observed the Intichiuma closely enough or because they had neglected this aspect of the ceremonies. Schulze, on the other hand, was struck by how essentially imitative the Arunta rites were. "The sacred corrobbori," he says, "are generally ceremonies representing animals." He calls them animal tjurunga,¹¹⁶⁵ and the material collected by Strehlow now confirms his account. Strehlow gives so many examples that it is impossible to cite them all. He identifies an imitative gesture in almost every ceremony. Depending on which animal’s feast is being celebrated, the performers jump like kangaroos or imitate their movements while eating. They also imitate the flight of winged ants, the distinctive sound of the bat, the cry of the wild turkey, the hissing of the snake, the croaking of the frog, and so on.¹¹⁶⁶ When the totem is a plant, they make the gesture of plucking it,¹¹⁶⁷ or eating it,¹¹⁶⁸ and so on.

Among the Warramunga, the Intichiuma generally takes a special form, which we shall describe in the next chapter and which differs from those which we have studied up to the present. However, there is one typical case of a purely imitative Intichiuma among this people; it is that of the black cockatoo. The ceremony described by Spencer and Gillen commenced at ten o'clock in the evening. All night long the chief of the clan imitated the cry of the bird with a disheartening monotony. He stopped only when he had come to the end of his force, and then his son replaced him; then he commenced again as soon as he felt a little refreshed. These exhausting exercises continued until morning without interruption.¹¹⁶⁹

Among the Warramunga, the Intichiuma generally takes a special form. We will describe this form in the next chapter. It differs from the forms we have studied so far. However, among the Warramunga, there is one typical case of a purely imitative Intichiuma, that of the black cockatoo. The ceremony described by Spencer and Gillen began at ten o'clock in the evening. All night long, the clan chief imitated the bird's cry with a disheartening monotony. He stopped only when he was exhausted, and then his son took over. The chief began again as soon as he felt a little rested. These exhausting exercises continued without interruption until morning.¹¹⁶⁹

Living beings are not the only ones which they try to imitate. In a large number of tribes, the Intichiuma of rain consists essentially in imitative rites. One of the most simple of these is that celebrated among the Arabunna. The chief of the clan is seated on the ground, all covered with white down and holding a lance in his hands. He shakes himself, undoubtedly in order to detach from his body the down which is fixed there and which represents clouds when scattered about in the air. Thus he imitates the men-clouds of the Alcheringa who, according to the legend, had the habit of ascending to heaven and forming clouds there, from which the rain then fell. In a word, the object of the whole rite is to represent the formation and ascension of clouds, the bringers of rain.¹¹⁷⁰

Living beings are not the only things they try to imitate. In many tribes, the Intichiuma of rain consists mainly of imitative rites. One of the simplest is performed among the Arabunna. The clan chief sits on the ground, covered in white down and holding a lance. He shakes himself, undoubtedly to loosen the down attached to his body. When scattered in the air, the down represents clouds. In this way, he imitates the men-clouds of the Alcheringa. According to legend, these men-clouds used to rise to the sky and form clouds there, from which rain then fell. In short, the whole rite is meant to represent the formation and rise of clouds, which bring rain.¹¹⁷⁰

The ceremony is much more complicated among the Kaitish. We have already spoken of one of the means employed: the officiant pours water over the sacred stones and himself. But the action of this sort of oblation is reinforced by other rites. The rainbow is considered to have a close connection with rain: they say that it is its son and that it is always urged to appear to make the rain stop. To make the rain fall, it is therefore necessary that it should not appear; they believe that this result can be obtained in the following manner. A design representing a rainbow is made upon a buckler. They carry this buckler to camp, taking care to keep it hidden from all eyes. They are convinced that by making this image of the rainbow invisible, they keep the rainbow itself from appearing. Meanwhile, the chief of the clan, having beside him a pitchi full of water, throws in all directions flakes of down which represent clouds. Repeated imitations of the cry of the plover complete this ceremony, which seems to have an especial gravity; for as long as it lasts, all those who participate in it, either as actors or assistants, may have no relations whatsoever with their wives; they may not even speak to them.¹¹⁷¹

The ceremony is much more complicated among the Kaitish. We have already discussed one of the methods used: the officiant pours water over the sacred stones and himself. But other rites reinforce the effect of this offering. The rainbow is thought to have a close connection with rain. They say that the rainbow is the rain’s son and is always urged to appear to make the rain stop. So, to make rain fall, the rainbow must not appear. They believe they can prevent it from appearing in the following way. They draw a rainbow on a shield. They carry the shield to camp, taking care to keep it hidden from everyone. They are convinced that by hiding the image of the rainbow, they keep the rainbow itself from appearing. Meanwhile, the clan chief sits beside a pitchi full of water and throws flakes of down in all directions. The flakes represent clouds. Repeated imitations of the plover’s cry complete the ceremony. The ceremony seems to be especially solemn. For as long as it lasts, all who take part, whether performing or assisting, must have no relations whatsoever with their wives. They may not even speak to them.¹¹⁷¹

The processes of figuration are different among the Dieri. Rain is not represented by water, but by blood, which the men cause to flow from their veins on to the assistants.¹¹⁷² At the same time they throw handfuls of white down about, which represent clouds. A hut has been constructed previously, in which they now place two large stones representing piles of clouds, a sign of rain. After they have been left there for a little while, they are carried a little distance away and placed as high as possible in the loftiest tree to be found; this is a way of making the clouds mount into the sky. Powdered gypsum is then thrown into a water-hole, for when he sees this, the rain spirit soon makes the clouds appear. Finally all the men, young and old, assemble around the hut and with heads lowered, they charge upon it; they rush violently through it, repeating the operation several times, until nothing remains of the whole construction except the supporting posts. Then they fall upon these and shake and pull at them until the whole thing has tumbled down. The operation consisting in running through the hut is supposed to represent clouds bursting; the tumbling down of the construction, the fall of rain.¹¹⁷³

The Dieri use different ways of representing things. They represent rain not with water but with blood, which the men draw from their veins and let flow onto those present.¹¹⁷² At the same time, they scatter handfuls of white down to represent clouds. A hut has been built beforehand, and they now place two large stones inside it. The stones represent masses of clouds, a sign of rain. After a short time, the stones are carried a little way off and placed as high as possible in the tallest tree available. This represents the clouds rising into the sky. Powdered gypsum is then thrown into a water hole. When the rain spirit sees this, he soon makes the clouds appear. Finally, all the men, young and old, gather around the hut and charge at it with their heads lowered. They rush through it violently, repeating this several times until only the supporting posts remain. Then they attack the posts, shaking and pulling them until the whole structure has collapsed. Running through the hut is supposed to represent clouds bursting. The collapse of the structure represents rain falling.¹¹⁷³

In the north-western tribes studied by Clement,¹¹⁷⁴ which occupy the district included between the Fontescue and Fitzroy rivers, certain ceremonies are celebrated whose object is exactly the same as that of the Intichiuma of the Arunta, and which seem to be, for the most part, essentially imitative.

The north-western tribes studied by Clement¹¹⁷⁴ live in the region between the Fontescue and Fitzroy rivers. They perform ceremonies with exactly the same purpose as the Intichiuma of the Arunta. For the most part, these ceremonies seem to be essentially imitative.

These peoples give the name tarlow to certain piles of stones which are evidently sacred, for, as we shall see, they are the object of important rites. Every animal, every plant, and in fact, every totem or sub-totem,¹¹⁷⁵ is represented by a tarlow which a special clan¹¹⁷⁶ guards. The analogy between these tarlow and the sacred rocks of the Arunta is easily seen.

These peoples call certain piles of stones tarlow. These piles are clearly sacred because, as we shall see, important rites are performed for them. Every animal, every plant, and in fact every totem or sub-totem,¹¹⁷⁵ is represented by a tarlow that a particular clan¹¹⁷⁶ guards. The similarity between these tarlow and the sacred rocks of the Arunta is easy to see.

When kangaroos, for example, become rare, the chief of the clan to which the tarlow of the kangaroo belongs goes to it with a certain number of companions. Here various rites are performed, the chief of which consist in jumping around the tarlow as kangaroos jump, in drinking as they drink and, in a word, in imitating all their most characteristic movements. The weapons used in hunting the animal have an important part in these rites. They brandish them, throw them against the stones, etc. When they are concerned for emus, they go to the tarlow of the emu, and walk and run as these birds do. The skill which the natives show in these imitations is, as it appears, really remarkable.

When kangaroos become rare, for example, the chief of the clan to which the kangaroo’s tarlow belongs goes there with several companions. They perform various rites. The main ones involve jumping around the tarlow as kangaroos do, drinking as they do, and imitating all their most characteristic movements. The weapons used to hunt kangaroos play an important part in these rites. The participants brandish the weapons, throw them against stones, and so on. When they are concerned about emus, they go to the emu’s tarlow and walk and run as these birds do. The skill the natives show in these imitations is apparently quite remarkable.

Other tarlow are consecrated to plants, such as the cereals. In this case, they imitate the actions of threshing and grinding the grain. Since in ordinary life it is the women who are normally charged with these tasks, it is also they who perform the rite, in the midst of songs and dances.

Other tarlow are dedicated to plants, such as cereal crops. In these rites, people imitate threshing and grinding grain. Women normally do this work in everyday life, so they also perform the rite, amid singing and dancing.

All these rites belong to the same type. The principle upon which they rest is one of those at the basis of what is commonly and incorrectly called sympathetic¹¹⁷⁷ magic.

All these rites are of the same type. They rest on a principle that also underlies what is commonly, but incorrectly, called sympathetic¹¹⁷⁷ magic.

These principles are ordinarily reduced to two.¹¹⁷⁸

These principles are usually reduced to two.¹¹⁷⁸

The first may be stated thus: anything touching an object also touches everything which has any relation of proximity or unity whatsoever with this object. Thus, whatever affects the part also affects the whole; any action exercised over an individual is transmitted to his neighbours, relatives and all those to whom he is united in any way. All these cases are simple applications of the law of contagion, which we have already studied. A condition or a good or bad quality are communicated contagiously from one subject to another who has some connection with the former.

The first may be stated as follows: anything that touches an object also touches everything connected to it by proximity or unity of any kind. Thus, whatever affects a part also affects the whole. Any action affecting a person is passed on to their neighbors, relatives, and everyone connected to them in any way. All these cases are simple applications of the law of contagion, which we have already studied. A condition or a good or bad quality spreads by contagion from one subject to another connected with the first.

The second principle is ordinarily summed up in the formula: like produces like. The representation of a being or condition produces this being or condition. This is the maxim which brings about the rites which we have just been describing, and it is in them that we can best observe its characteristics. The classical example of the magic charm, which is ordinarily given as the typical application of this same precept, is much less significant. The charm is, to a large extent, a simple phenomenon of transfer. The idea of the image is associated in the mind with that of the model; consequently the effects of an action performed upon a statue are transmitted contagiously to the person whose traits it reproduces. The function of the image is for its original what that of a part is for the whole: it is an agent of transmission. Therefore men think that they can obtain the same result by burning the hair of the person whom they wish to injure: the only difference between these two sorts of operations is that in one, the communication is made through similarity, while in the other it is by means of contiguity. It is different with the rites which concern us. They suppose not only the displacement of a given condition or quality, which passes from one object into the other, but also the creation of something entirely new. The mere act of representing the animal gives birth to this animal and creates it; by imitating the sound of wind or falling water, they cause clouds to form, rain to fall, etc. Of course resemblance plays an important part in each case, but not at all the same one. In a charm, it only gives a special direction to the action exercised; it directs in a certain way an action not originating in it. In the rites of which we have just been speaking, it acts by itself and is directly efficacious. So, in contradiction to the usual definitions, the real difference between the two principles of the so-called sympathetic magic and the corresponding practices is not that it is contiguity acts in one case and resemblance in the other, but that in the former there is a simple contagious communication, while there is production and creation in the latter.¹¹⁷⁹

The second principle is usually summed up in the formula: like produces like. Representing a being or condition produces that being or condition. This maxim is the basis of the rites we have just described, which best show its characteristics. The classic example of the magic charm is usually given as the typical application of this same principle. But it is much less significant. A charm is, to a large extent, simply a case of transfer. In the mind, the idea of the image is associated with the idea of the person it represents. As a result, the effects of an action performed on a statue pass by contagion to the person it depicts. The image serves the person it represents as a part serves the whole: it is a means of transmission. For this reason, people think they can achieve the same result by burning the hair of someone they wish to harm. The only difference between these two practices is the means of transmission. In one, transmission takes place through resemblance. In the other, it takes place through physical contact. The rites that concern us are different. They involve more than the transfer of a condition or quality from one object to another. They also involve the creation of something entirely new. The mere act of representing the animal brings that animal into being and creates it. By imitating the sound of wind or falling water, people cause clouds to form, rain to fall, and so on. Of course, resemblance plays an important part in each case, but it plays quite different roles. In a charm, resemblance only gives a particular direction to the action. It directs an action that does not originate in resemblance. In the rites we have just discussed, resemblance acts on its own and is directly effective. So, contrary to the usual definitions, the real difference between the two principles of so-called sympathetic magic is not that contact acts in one case and resemblance in the other. Nor is that the difference between the corresponding practices. The difference is that the first involves a simple communication by contagion, while the second involves production and creation.¹¹⁷⁹

The explanation of imitative rites therefore implies the explanation of the second of these principles, and reciprocally.

Therefore, explaining imitative rites means explaining the second of these principles, and vice versa.

We shall not tarry long to discuss the explanation proposed by the anthropological school, and especially by Tylor and Frazer. Just as in their attempts to account for the contagiousness of a sacred character, they invoke the association of ideas. "Homœopathic magic," says Frazer, who prefers this expression to imitative magic, "is founded on the association of ideas by similarity; contagious magic is founded on the association of ideas by contiguity. Homœopathic magic commits the mistake of assuming that things which resemble each other are the same."¹¹⁸⁰ But this is a misunderstanding of the special nature of the practices under discussion. On the one hand, the formula of Frazer may be applied with some fitness to the case of charms;¹¹⁸¹ here, in fact, two distinct things are associated with each other, owing to their partial resemblance: these are the image and the model which it represents more or less systematically. But in the imitative rites, which we have just been observing, the image alone is given; as for the model, it does not exist, for the new generation of the totemic species is as yet only a hope and even an uncertain hope at that. So there could be no question of association, whether correct or not; there is a real creation, and we cannot see how the association of ideas could possibly lead to a belief in this creation. How could the mere act of representing the movements of an animal bring about the certitude that this animal will be born, and born in abundance?

We will not spend long discussing the explanation proposed by the anthropological school, especially by Tylor and Frazer. As in their attempts to explain how a sacred character spreads by contact, they appeal to the association of ideas. Frazer prefers the term “homœopathic magic” to “imitative magic.” He says, “Homœopathic magic is founded on the association of ideas by similarity. Contagious magic is founded on the association of ideas by contiguity. Homœopathic magic commits the mistake of assuming that things which resemble each other are the same.”¹¹⁸⁰ But this misunderstands the particular nature of the practices under discussion. Frazer’s formula can be applied reasonably well to charms.¹¹⁸¹ In charms, two distinct things are associated because they partly resemble each other. These are the image and the model it represents more or less systematically. But in the imitative rites we have just examined, only the image is present. The model does not exist, because the new generation of the totemic species is still only a hope. It is even an uncertain hope. So there can be no question of association, whether correct or not. There is a real creation, and we cannot see how the association of ideas could possibly lead to belief in it. How could merely representing an animal’s movements make people certain that the animal will be born, and born in abundance?

The general properties of human nature cannot explain such special practices. So instead of considering the principle upon which they rest in its general and abstract form, let us replace it in the environment of which it is a part and where we have been observing it, and let us connect it with the system of ideas and sentiments which the above rites put into practice, and then we shall be better able to perceive the causes from which it results.

The general features of human nature cannot explain such specific practices. So let us consider the principle behind them, not in general and abstract terms, but in its setting. That is where we have been observing the principle. Let us connect it to the system of ideas and feelings expressed in the rites described above. Then we will be better able to see what causes the principle.

The men who assemble on the occasion of these rites believe that they are really animals or plants of the species whose name they bear. They feel within them an animal or vegetable nature, and in their eyes, this is what constitutes whatever is the most essential and the most excellent in them. So when they assemble, their first movement ought to be to show each other this quality which they attribute to themselves and by which they are defined. The totem is their rallying sign; for this reason, as we have seen, they design it upon their bodies; but it is no less natural that they should seek to resemble it in their gestures, their cries, their attitude. Since they are emus or kangaroos, they comport themselves like the animals of the same name. By this means, they mutually show one another that they are all members of the same moral community and they become conscious of the kinship uniting them. The rite does not limit itself to expressing this kinship; it makes it or remakes it. For it exists only in so far as it is believed in, and the effect of all these collective demonstrations is to support the beliefs upon which they are founded. Therefore, these leaps, these cries and these movements of every sort, though bizarre and grotesque in appearance, really have a profound and human meaning. The Australian seeks to resemble his totem just as the faithful in more advanced religions seek to resemble their God. For the one as for the other, this is a means of communicating with the sacred being, that is to say, with the collective ideal which this latter symbolizes. This is an early form of the ὁμοίωσις τῷ θεῷ.

The men who gather for these rites believe they really are animals or plants of the species whose name they bear. They feel that they have an animal or plant nature. In their eyes, this nature is the most essential and excellent part of who they are. So when they gather, their first impulse should be to show one another this quality that they believe defines them. The totem is their rallying sign. For this reason, as we have seen, they draw it on their bodies. But it is just as natural for them to try to resemble it in their gestures, cries, and posture. Since they are emus or kangaroos, they behave like those animals. In this way, they show one another that they all belong to the same moral community. They also become aware of the kinship that unites them. The rite does not merely express this kinship. It creates or renews it. For the kinship exists only as long as people believe in it. All these collective demonstrations support the beliefs on which they are based. So these leaps, cries, and movements of every kind may look bizarre and grotesque, but they have a profound human meaning. The Australian tries to resemble his totem, just as the faithful in more advanced religions try to resemble their God. For both, this is a way of communicating with the sacred being, that is, with the collective ideal that the sacred being symbolizes. This is an early form of the ὁμοίωσις τῷ θεῷ.

However, as this first reason is connected with the most specialized portions of the totemic beliefs, the principle by which like produces like should not have survived totemism, if this had been the only one in operation. Now there is probably no religion in which rites derived from it are not found. So another reason must co-operate with this first one.

However, this first reason is tied to the most specialized parts of totemic beliefs. If it had been the only reason, the principle that like produces like should not have survived totemism. Yet probably every religion has rites derived from this principle. So another reason must be working alongside the first.

And, in fact, the ceremonies where we have seen it applied do not merely have the very general object which we have just mentioned, howsoever essential this may be; they also aim at a more immediate and more conscious end, which is the assurance of the reproduction of the totemic species. The idea of this necessary reproduction haunts the minds of the worshippers: upon it the forces of their attention and will are concentrated. Now a single preoccupation cannot possess a group of men to this point without being externalized in a material form. Since all think of the animal or plant to whose destinies the clan is united, it is inevitable that this common thought should not be manifested outwardly by gestures,¹¹⁸² and those naturally designated for this office are those which represent this animal or plant in one of its most characteristic attitudes; there are no other movements so close to the idea filling every mind, for these are an immediate and almost automatic translation of it. So they make themselves imitate the animal; they cry like it, they jump like it; they reproduce the scenes in which they make daily use of the plant. All these ways of representation are just so many means of ostensibly showing the end towards which all minds are directed, of telling the thing which they wish to realize, of calling it up and of evoking it. And this need belongs to no one time, nor does it depend upon the beliefs of any special religion; it is essentially human. This is why, even in religions very far removed from those we have been studying, the worshippers, when assembled to ask their gods for some event which they ardently desire, are forced to figure it. Of course, the word is also a way of expressing it; but the gesture is no less natural; it bursts out from the organism just as spontaneously; it even precedes the word, or, in any case, accompanies it.

In fact, the ceremonies where we have seen it applied do more than serve the very general purpose just mentioned, however essential that purpose may be. They also have a more immediate and conscious aim: to ensure the reproduction of the totemic species. The thought of this necessary reproduction occupies the worshippers’ minds. They concentrate their attention and will on it. When a single concern takes hold of a group of people so completely, it cannot help but find outward expression in a material form. All of them think about the animal or plant whose fate is bound to the clan’s. Inevitably, then, this shared thought finds outward expression in gestures,¹¹⁸² especially gestures that show the animal or plant in one of its most characteristic forms or postures. No other movements come so close to the idea filling every mind. They express the idea directly and almost automatically. So the worshippers imitate the animal. They cry like it and jump like it. They act out scenes in which they use the plant in daily life. All these forms of representation visibly show the goal toward which everyone’s thoughts are directed. They express what the worshippers wish to bring about, call it to mind, and evoke it. This need is not confined to any one time, nor does it depend on the beliefs of any particular religion. It is essentially human. That is why worshippers must also represent the events they ardently desire in religions very different from those we have been studying. They do so when they gather to ask their gods for such an event. Of course, words are also a way to express their desire. But gestures are just as natural. They spring from the body just as spontaneously. They even come before words, or at least accompany them.

But if we can thus understand how the gestures acquired a place in the ceremony, we still must explain the efficacy attributed to them. If the Australian repeats them regularly each new season, it is because he believes them essential to the success of the rite. Where could he have gotten the idea that by imitating an animal, one causes it to reproduce?

But even if we can understand how the gestures became part of the ceremony, we still must explain why they are thought to work. The Australian repeats them each new season because he believes they are essential to the success of the rite. Where could he have gotten the idea that imitating an animal causes it to reproduce?

So manifest an error seems hardly intelligible so long as we see in the rite only the material end towards which it seems to aim. But we know that in addition to the effect which it is thought to have on the totemic species, it also exercises a profound influence over the souls of the worshippers who take part in it. They take away with them a feeling of well-being, whose causes they cannot clearly see, but which is well founded. They feel that the ceremony is good for them; and, as a matter of fact, they reforge their moral nature in it. How could this sort of well-being fail to give them a feeling that the rite has succeeded, that it has been what it set out to be, and that it has attained the ends at which it was aimed? As the only end which was consciously sought was the reproduction of the totemic species, this seems to be assured by the means employed, the efficacy of which is thus proven. Thus it comes about that men attribute creative virtues to their gestures, which in themselves are vain. The moral efficacy of the rite, which is real, leads to the belief in its physical efficacy, which is imaginary; that of the whole, to the belief in that of each part by itself. The truly useful effects produced by the whole ceremony are like an experimental justification of the elementary practices out of which it is made, though in reality, all these practices are in no way indispensable to its success. A certain proof, moreover, that they do not act by themselves is that they may be replaced by others, of a very different nature, without any modification of the final result. It appears that there are Intichiuma which include only oblations, with no imitative rites; others are purely imitative, and include no oblations. However, both are believed to have the same efficacy. So if a price is attached to these various manœuvres, it is not because of their intrinsic value, but because they are a part of a complex rite, whose utility as a whole is realized.

Such an obvious error is hard to understand as long as we see only the rite’s apparent material goal. But we know that the rite also has a profound effect on the minds of the worshippers who take part. This is in addition to its supposed effect on the totemic species. The worshippers leave with a sense of well-being. They cannot clearly see what causes it, but the feeling has a real basis. They feel that the ceremony is good for them. In fact, it renews their moral nature. How could this well-being fail to make them feel that the rite has succeeded? They feel that it has done what it set out to do and achieved its aims. The only aim they consciously sought was the reproduction of the totemic species. So the means they used seem to guarantee that reproduction, and their effectiveness seems proven. In this way, people come to believe that their gestures have creative powers, though the gestures themselves are futile. The rite’s real moral effect leads people to believe in an imaginary physical effect. The effect of the whole rite leads them to believe that each part has the same effect on its own. The genuine benefits of the whole ceremony seem to provide experimental proof for the basic practices that make it up. Yet in reality, none of these practices is indispensable to the ceremony’s success. Further proof that the practices do not work on their own is that they can be replaced by very different ones. The final result remains unchanged. Some Intichiuma appear to include only offerings, with no imitative rites. Others appear to be purely imitative, with no offerings. Yet both are believed to be equally effective. So if people value these various actions, it is not because of their inherent worth. It is because they are part of a complex rite whose overall usefulness is recognized.

We are able to understand this state of mind all the easier because we can still observe it about us. Especially among the most cultivated peoples and environments, we frequently meet with believers who, though having doubts as to the special efficacy attributed by dogma to each rite considered separately, still continue to participate in the cult. They are not sure that the details of the prescribed observances are rationally justifiable; but they feel that it would be impossible to free oneself of them without falling into a moral confusion before which they recoil. The very fact that in them the faith has lost its intellectual foundations throws into eminence the profound reasons upon which they rest. This is why the easy criticisms to which an unduly simple rationalism has sometimes submitted ritual prescriptions generally leave the believer indifferent: it is because the true justification of religious practices does not lie in the apparent ends which they pursue, but rather in the invisible action which they exercise over the mind and in the way in which they affect our mental status. Likewise, when preachers undertake to convince, they devote much less attention to establishing directly and by methodical proofs the truth of any particular proposition or the utility of such and such an observance, than to awakening or reawakening the sentiment of the moral comfort attained by the regular celebration of the cult. Thus they create a predisposition to belief, which precedes proofs, which leads the mind to overlook the insufficiency of the logical reasons, and which thus prepares it for the proposition whose acceptance is desired. This favourable prejudice, this impulse towards believing, is just what constitutes faith; and it is faith which makes the authority of the rites, according to the believer, whoever he may be, Christian or Australian. The only superiority of the former is that he better accounts for the psychological process from which his faith results; he knows that "it is faith that saves."

We can understand this state of mind more easily because we can still see it around us. We often meet believers, especially among the most educated peoples and in the most educated circles, who continue to take part in religious worship. They do so even though they doubt the special effect that religious doctrine assigns to each separate rite. They are not sure that the details of the prescribed practices can be justified by reason. But they feel that abandoning them would lead to a moral confusion they shrink from. The very fact that their faith has lost its intellectual foundations brings its deeper foundations into view. This is why believers generally remain indifferent to the easy criticisms that an overly simple rationalism has sometimes directed at ritual prescriptions. The true justification for religious practices does not lie in their apparent aims. It lies instead in their invisible effect on the mind and on our mental state. Similarly, when preachers try to persuade, they pay much less attention to directly establishing a particular belief as true or a particular practice as useful through systematic proofs. Instead, they try to awaken or reawaken a sense of the moral comfort that comes from regular worship. In this way, preachers create a readiness to believe that comes before any proofs. This readiness leads the mind to overlook the inadequacy of the logical reasons and prepares it to accept the belief being offered. This favorable bias, this impulse to believe, is precisely what constitutes faith. And it is faith that gives the rites their authority in the eyes of every believer, whether Christian or Australian. The only advantage of the Christian is that he better understands the psychological process that produces his faith. He knows that "it is faith that saves."

It is because faith has this origin that it is, in a sense, "impermeable to experience."¹¹⁸³ If the intermittent failures of the Intichiuma do not shake the confidence of the Australian in his rite, it is because he holds with all the strength of his soul to these practices in which he periodically recreates himself; he could not deny their principle without causing an upheaval of his own being, which resists. But howsoever great this force of resistance may be, it cannot radically distinguish religious mentality from the other forms of human mentality, even those which are the most habitually opposed to it. In this connection, that of a scholar differs from the preceding only in degree. When a scientific law has the authority of numerous and varied experiments, it is against all method to renounce it too quickly upon the discovery of a fact which seems to contradict it. It is still necessary to make sure that the fact does not allow of a single interpretation, and that it is impossible to account for it, without abandoning the proposition which it seems to invalidate. Now the Australian does not proceed otherwise when he attributes the failure of the Intichiuma to some sorcery, or the abundance of a premature crop to a mystic Intichiuma celebrated in the beyond. He has all the more reason for not doubting his rite on the belief in a contrary fact, since its value is, or seems to be, established by a larger number of harmonizing facts. In the first place, the moral efficacy of the ceremony is real and is felt directly by all who participate in it; there is a constantly renewed experience in it, whose importance no contradictory experience can diminish. Also, the physical efficacy itself is not unable to find an at least apparent confirmation in the data of objective observation. As a matter of fact, the totemic species normally does reproduce regularly; so in the great majority of cases, everything happens just as if the ritual gestures really did produce the effects expected of them. Failures are the exception. As the rites, and especially those which are periodical, demand nothing more of nature than that it follow its ordinary course, it is not surprising that it should generally have the air of obeying them. So if the believer shows himself indocile to certain lessons of experience, he does so because of other experiences which seem more demonstrative. The scholar does not do otherwise; only he introduces more method.

Because faith has this origin, it is, in a sense, "impermeable to experience."¹¹⁸³ The Intichiuma sometimes fails, but these failures do not shake the Australian’s confidence in his rite. This is because he holds with all the strength of his soul to practices that periodically renew him. He could not deny their underlying principle without upheaval in his own being, which resists such a denial. But however strong this resistance may be, it cannot fundamentally distinguish religious thinking from other forms of human thinking. This includes even the forms most often opposed to religious thinking. In this respect, a scholar’s thinking differs from religious thinking only in degree. When many varied experiments support a scientific law, sound method requires that it not be abandoned too quickly. This remains true when a fact appears to contradict the law. It is still necessary to make sure that the fact admits of only one interpretation. It is also necessary to make sure that the fact cannot be explained without abandoning the proposition it seems to invalidate. The Australian proceeds no differently when he attributes the failure of the Intichiuma to some sorcery. Nor does he proceed differently when he attributes an abundant early crop to a mystic Intichiuma celebrated in the beyond. He has all the more reason not to doubt his rite on the evidence of a contrary fact. Its value is, or seems to be, established by a larger number of facts consistent with it. First, the ceremony’s moral effect is real and is felt directly by all who take part. This experience is constantly renewed, and no contradictory experience can diminish its importance. The ceremony’s physical effect can also find at least apparent confirmation in objective observation. In fact, the totemic species normally does reproduce regularly. So, in the great majority of cases, everything happens as if the ritual gestures really produced the expected effects. Failures are the exception. The rites, especially those performed periodically, ask nothing more of nature than that it follow its ordinary course. So it is not surprising that nature should generally appear to obey them. If the believer resists certain lessons of experience, he does so because other experiences seem more convincing. The scholar does no differently, except that he uses more method.

So magic is not, as Frazer has held,¹¹⁸⁴ an original fact, of which religion is only a derived form. Quite on the contrary, it was under the influence of religious ideas that the precepts upon which the art of the magician is based were established, and it was only through a secondary extension that they were applied to purely lay relations. Since all the forces of the universe have been conceived on the model of the sacred forces, the contagiousness inherent in the second was extended to the first, and men have believed that all the properties of a body could be transmitted contagiously. Likewise, when the principle according to which like produces like had been established, in order to satisfy certain religious needs, it detached itself from its ritual origins to become, through a sort of spontaneous generalization, a law of nature.¹¹⁸⁵ But in order to understand these fundamental axioms of magic, they must be replaced in the religious atmosphere in which they arose and which alone enables us to account for them. When we regard them as the work of isolated individuals or solitary magicians, we ask how they could ever have occurred to the mind of man, for nothing in experience could either suggest or verify them; and especially we do not explain how so deceiving an art has been able to impose itself for so long a time in the confidence of men. But this problem disappears when we realize that the faith inspired by magic is only a particular case of religious faith in general, and that it is itself the product, at least indirectly, of a collective effervescence. This is as much as to say that the use of the expression sympathetic magic to designate the system of rites which we have just been speaking is not very exact. There are sympathetic rites, but they are not peculiar to magic; not only are they to be found in religion, but it was from religion that magic received them. So we only risk confusion when, by the name we give them, we have the air of making them something which is specifically magic.

So magic is not an original fact from which religion developed, as Frazer has argued.¹¹⁸⁴ Quite the opposite is true. Religious ideas shaped the principles on which the magician’s art is based. Only later were these principles extended to purely secular relations. All the forces of the universe were conceived on the model of sacred forces. So the power of sacred forces to spread by contact was also attributed to all other forces. People came to believe that all the properties of a body could be transmitted by contact. Similarly, the principle that like produces like was established to meet certain religious needs. It then separated from its ritual origins and became a law of nature through a kind of spontaneous generalization.¹¹⁸⁵ But to understand these fundamental principles of magic, we must put them back into the religious atmosphere in which they arose. Only that atmosphere allows us to explain them. When we regard them as the work of isolated individuals or solitary magicians, we wonder how anyone could have conceived them. Nothing in experience could have suggested or confirmed them. Above all, this view does not explain how such a deceptive art could have held people’s confidence for so long. But this problem disappears when we recognize that faith in magic is just one form of religious faith in general. We also see that faith in magic is itself, at least indirectly, a product of collective effervescence. This also means that the expression sympathetic magic is not quite accurate for the system of rites we have just discussed. There are sympathetic rites, but they are not unique to magic. Not only are they found in religion, but magic received them from religion. So we risk confusion when we give these rites a name that makes them appear specific to magic.

The results of our analysis thus attach themselves to and confirm those attained by MM. Hubert and Mauss when they studied magic directly.¹¹⁸⁶ They have shown that this is nothing more nor less than crude industry based on incomplete science. Behind the mechanisms, purely laical in appearance, which are used by the magician, they point out a background of religious conceptions and a whole world of forces, the idea of which has been taken by magic from religion. We are now able to understand how it comes that magic is so full of religious elements: it is because it was born of religion.

The results of our analysis support and confirm the findings of Hubert and Mauss in their direct study of magic.¹¹⁸⁶ They showed that magic is nothing more or less than crude practical work based on incomplete science. They pointed out that the magician’s methods appear entirely secular. But behind these methods lie religious ideas and a whole world of forces whose concept magic borrowed from religion. We can now understand why magic is so full of religious elements: magic was born from religion.

But the principle which has just been set forth does not merely have a function in the ritual; it is of direct interest for the theory of knowledge. In fact, it is a concrete statement of the law of causality and, in all probability, one of the most primitive statements of it which has ever existed. A full conception of the causal relation is implied in the power thus attributed to the like to produce the like; and this conception dominates primitive thought, for it is the basis both of the practices of the cult and the technique of the magician. So the origins of the precept upon which the imitative rites depend are able to clarify those of the principle of causality. The genesis of one should aid us in understanding the genesis of the other. Now we have shown how the former is a product of social causes: it was elaborated by groups having collective ends in view, and it translates collective sentiments. So we may assume that the same is true for the second.

But the principle just described does more than guide ritual. It is also directly relevant to the theory of knowledge. In fact, it is a concrete statement of the law of causality. In all probability, it is one of the earliest statements of that law. The power attributed to like things to produce like things implies a complete conception of causality. This conception dominates primitive thought because it underlies both the practices of the cult and the techniques of the magician. So the origins of the rule behind imitative rites can shed light on the origins of the principle of causality. Understanding how the rule arose should help us understand how the principle of causality arose. Now we have shown how the rule is a product of social causes. Groups developed it with collective goals in mind, and it expresses collective feelings. So we may assume that the same is true of the principle of causality.

In fact, an analysis of the principle of causality is sufficient to assure us that the diverse elements of which it is composed really did have this origin.

In fact, analyzing the principle of causality is enough to show that its various elements really did have this origin.

The first thing which is implied in the notion of the causal relation is the idea of efficacy, of productive power, of active force. By cause we ordinarily mean something capable of producing a certain change. The cause is the force before it has shown the power which is in it; the effect is this same power, only actualized. Men have always thought of causality in dynamic terms. Of course certain philosophers had refused all objective value to this conception; they see in it only an arbitrary construction of the imagination, which corresponds to nothing in the things themselves. But, at present, we have no need of asking whether it is founded in reality or not; it is enough for us to state that it exists and that it constitutes and always has constituted an element of ordinary mentality; and this is recognized even by those who criticize it. Our immediate purpose is to seek, not what it may be worth logically, but how it is to be explained.

The first idea implied by a causal relationship is that of effectiveness, productive power, or active force. By a cause, we usually mean something capable of producing a particular change. A cause is a force before it has shown its power. The effect is that same power put into action. People have always thought of causality in terms of forces. Of course, some philosophers have denied that this conception has any objective validity. They see it as merely an arbitrary construction of the imagination, corresponding to nothing in things themselves. But for now, we do not need to ask whether this conception is grounded in reality. It is enough to say that it exists and is, and always has been, part of ordinary thinking. Even those who criticize the conception recognize this. Our immediate purpose is not to assess its logical value, but to explain it.

Now it depends upon social causes. Our analysis of facts has already enabled us to see that the prototype of the idea of force was the mana, wakan, orenda, the totemic principle or any of the various names given to collective force objectified and projected into things.¹¹⁸⁷ The first power which men have thought of as such seems to have been that exercised by humanity over its members. Thus reason confirms the results of observation; in fact, it is even possible to show why this notion of power, efficacy or active force could not have come from any other source.

Now it depends on social causes. Our analysis of the facts has already shown us the original model for the idea of force. It was mana, wakan, orenda, the totemic principle, or any of the other names for collective force made objective and projected into things.¹¹⁸⁷ The first power people seem to have recognized as such was the power humanity exercises over its members. Thus, reason confirms the results of observation. In fact, it is even possible to show why this idea of power, effectiveness, or active force could not have come from any other source.

In the first place, it is evident and recognized by all that it could not be furnished to us by external experience. Our senses only enable us to perceive phenomena which coexist or which follow one another, but nothing perceived by them could give us the idea of this determining and compelling action which is characteristic of what we call a power or force. They can touch only realized and known conditions, each separate from the others; the internal process uniting these conditions escapes them. Nothing that we learn could possibly suggest to us the idea of what an influence or efficaciousness is. It is for this very reason that the philosophers of empiricism have regarded these different conceptions as so many mythological aberrations. But even supposing that they all are hallucinations, it is still necessary to show how they originated.

First, everyone recognizes that external experience cannot give us this idea. Our senses only let us perceive events that occur together or follow one another. Nothing our senses perceive can give us the idea of the determining and compelling action characteristic of what we call a power or force. Our senses can grasp only actual, known conditions, each separate from the others. They cannot grasp the internal process that connects these conditions. Nothing we learn could possibly suggest the idea of influence or effectiveness. For this very reason, empiricist philosophers have regarded these different concepts as so many mythological errors. But even if they are all hallucinations, we still need to explain how they arose.

If external experience counts for nothing in the origin of these ideas, and it is equally inadmissible that they were given us ready-made, one might suppose that they come from internal experience. In fact, the notion of force obviously includes many spiritual elements which could only have been taken from our psychic life.

If external experience plays no part in the origin of these ideas, and we cannot accept that they were given to us ready-made, perhaps they come from inner experience. In fact, the idea of force clearly includes many spiritual elements that could only have come from our mental life.

Some have believed that the act by which our will brings a deliberation to a close, restrains our impulses and commands our organism, might have served as the model of this construction. In willing, it is said, we perceive ourselves directly as a power in action. So when this idea had once occurred to men, it seems that they only had to extend it to things to establish the conception of force.

Some have believed that an act of will might have served as the model for this construction. Through an act of will, we conclude our deliberations, restrain our impulses, and direct our bodies. It is said that when we exercise our will, we directly perceive ourselves as a power in action. So, once people had this idea, it seems they only had to apply it to things to form the concept of force.

As long as the animist theory passed as a demonstrated truth, this explanation was able to appear to be confirmed by history. If the forces with which human thought primitively populated the world really had been spirits, that is to say, personal and conscious beings more or less similar to men, it was actually possible to believe that our individual experience was enough to furnish us with the constituent elements of the notion of force. But we know that the first forces which men imagined were, on the contrary, anonymous, vague and diffused powers which resemble cosmic forces in their impersonality, and which are therefore most sharply contrasted with the eminently personal power, the human will. So it is impossible that they should have been conceived in its image.

As long as the animist theory was accepted as proven, history could seem to confirm this explanation. Early human thought filled the world with forces. If these forces really had been spirits, meaning conscious beings with personalities more or less like those of humans, one could believe that individual experience alone supplied the elements of the idea of force. But we know that the first forces people imagined were, on the contrary, anonymous, vague, and widespread powers. Like cosmic forces, they were impersonal. They therefore contrasted sharply with the distinctly personal power of human will. So it is impossible that these first forces were conceived in the image of human will.

Moreover, there is one essential characteristic of the impersonal forces which would be inexplicable under this hypothesis: this is their communicability. The forces of nature have always been thought of as capable of passing from one object to another, of mixing, combining and transforming themselves into one another. It is even this property which gives them their value as an explanation, for it is through this that effects can be connected with their causes without a break of continuity. Now the self has just the opposite characteristic: it is incommunicable. It cannot change its material substratum or spread from one to another; it spreads out in metaphor only. So the way in which it decides and executes its decisions could never have suggested the idea of an energy which communicates itself and which can even confound itself with others and, through these combinations and mixings, give rise to new effects.

Moreover, this hypothesis cannot explain one essential feature of impersonal forces: their ability to pass from one object to another. The forces of nature have always been thought capable of doing this. They have also been thought capable of mixing, combining, and transforming into one another. This very property makes them useful as explanations. It allows effects to be connected with their causes without a break in continuity. The self, however, has exactly the opposite feature: it cannot be passed from one object to another. It cannot change its material basis or spread from one object to another. It spreads only in a metaphorical sense. So the way the self makes and carries out decisions could never have suggested the idea of a transferable energy. Such an energy can even merge with other energies and produce new effects through these combinations and mixtures.

Therefore, the idea of force, as implied in the conception of the causal relation, must present a double character. In the first place, it can come only from our internal experience; the only forces which we can directly learn about are necessarily moral forces. But, at the same time, they must be impersonal, for the notion of an impersonal power was the first to be constituted. Now the only ones which satisfy these two conditions are those coming from life together: they are collective forces. In fact, these are, on the one hand, entirely psychical; they are made up exclusively of objectified ideas and sentiments. But, on the other hand, they are impersonal by definition, for they are the product of a co-operation. Being the work of all, they are not the possession of anybody in particular. They are so slightly attached to the personalities of the subjects in whom they reside that they are never fixed there. Just as they enter them from without, they are also always ready to leave them. Of themselves, they tend to spread further and further and to invade ever new domains: we know that there are none more contagious, and consequently more communicable. Of course physical forces have the same property, but we cannot know this directly; we cannot even become acquainted with them as such, for they are outside us. When I throw myself against an obstacle, I have a sensation of hindrance and trouble; but the force causing this sensation is not in me, but in the obstacle, and is consequently outside the circle of my perception. We perceive its effects, but we cannot reach the cause itself. It is otherwise with social forces: they are a part of our internal life, as we know, more than the products of their action; we see them acting. The force isolating the sacred being and holding profane beings at a distance is not really in this being; it lives in the minds of the believers. So they perceive it at the very moment when it is acting upon their wills, to inhibit certain movements or command others. In a word, this constraining and necessitating action, which escapes us when coming from an external object, is readily perceptible here because everything is inside us. Of course we do not always interpret it in an adequate manner, but at least we cannot fail to be conscious of it.

Therefore, the idea of force implied by causation must have two qualities. First, it can come only from our inner experience. The only forces we can learn about directly are necessarily moral forces. But these forces must also be impersonal, because the idea of an impersonal power came first. Only forces arising from shared life meet both conditions. They are collective forces. On the one hand, collective forces are entirely mental. They consist only of ideas and feelings that have been given an objective form. On the other hand, they are impersonal by definition, because they result from cooperation. Since everyone produces them, they belong to no one in particular. They are so loosely tied to the individuals in whom they reside that they never stay fixed there. Just as they enter individuals from outside, they are always ready to leave them. By their nature, they tend to spread further and enter ever new areas. We know that no forces are more contagious, and therefore none are more easily passed on. Of course, physical forces have the same ability to spread, but we cannot know this directly. We cannot even know physical forces as such, because they are outside us. When I throw myself against an obstacle, I feel resistance and discomfort. But the force causing this sensation is not in me. It is in the obstacle and therefore outside the range of my perception. We perceive the effects of the force, but we cannot reach the cause itself. Social forces are different. They are part of our inner life, and we know more than just the effects of their action. We see them acting. The force that sets a sacred being apart and keeps profane beings at a distance is not actually in that being. It lives in the minds of believers. So believers perceive the force at the very moment it acts on their wills, preventing some actions or commanding others. In short, we cannot perceive this compelling and controlling action when it comes from an external object. But we can readily perceive it here because everything is inside us. Of course, we do not always interpret this action correctly, but at least we cannot fail to be aware of it.

Moreover, the idea of force bears the mark of its origin in an apparent way. In fact, it implies the idea of power which, in its turn, does not come without those of ascendancy, mastership and domination, and their corollaries, dependence and subordination; now the relations expressed by all these ideas are eminently social. It is society which classifies beings into superiors and inferiors, into commanding masters and obeying servants; it is society which confers upon the former the singular property which makes the command efficacious and which makes power. So everything tends to prove that the first powers of which the human mind had any idea were those which societies have established in organizing themselves: it is in their image that the powers of the physical world have been conceived. Also, men have never succeeded in imagining themselves as forces mistress over the bodies in which they reside, except by introducing concepts taken from social life. In fact, these must be distinguished from their physical doubles and must be attributed a dignity superior to that of these latter; in a word, they must think of themselves as souls. As a matter of fact, men have always given the form of souls to the forces which they believe that they are. But we know that the soul is quite another thing from a name given to the abstract faculty of moving, thinking and feeling; before all, it is a religious principle, a particular aspect of the collective force. In fine, a man feels that he has a soul, and consequently a force, because he is a social being. Though an animal moves its members just as we do, and though it has the same power as we over its muscles, nothing authorizes us to suppose that it is conscious of itself as an active and efficacious cause. This is because it does not have, or, to speak more exactly, does not attribute to itself a soul. But if it does not attribute a soul to itself, it is because it does not participate in a social life comparable to that of men. Among animals, there is nothing resembling a civilization.¹¹⁸⁸

Moreover, the idea of force clearly shows where it came from. Force implies power, which in turn brings with it ideas of authority, mastery, and domination. These also imply dependence and subordination. All these ideas express relations that are distinctly social. Society divides beings into superiors and inferiors, into masters who command and servants who obey. Society gives masters the distinctive quality that makes their commands effective and creates power. So everything suggests that the first powers people imagined were those societies established as they organized themselves. People conceived of powers in the physical world in the image of these social powers. People have also imagined themselves as forces that rule the bodies they inhabit only by using ideas drawn from social life. To do this, they must distinguish themselves from their physical counterparts and regard themselves as superior to them. In short, they must think of themselves as souls. In fact, people have always given the forces they believe themselves to be the form of souls. But we know that the soul is much more than a name for the abstract ability to move, think, and feel. Above all, it is a religious principle, a particular aspect of collective force. In short, a person feels they have a soul, and therefore a force, because they are a social being. An animal moves its limbs just as we do, and it has the same power over its muscles as we do. Yet nothing gives us reason to suppose that it is aware of itself as an active and effective cause. This is because it does not have a soul, or, more precisely, does not believe it has one. And if it does not believe it has a soul, that is because it does not take part in a social life comparable to that of humans. Among animals, there is nothing resembling a civilization.¹¹⁸⁸

But the notion of force is not all of the principle of causality. This consists in a judgment stating that every force develops in a definite manner, and that the state in which it is at each particular moment of its existence predetermines the next state. The former is called cause, the latter, effect, and the causal judgment affirms the existence of a necessary connection between these two moments for every force. The mind posits this connection before having any proofs of it, under the empire of a sort of constraint from which it cannot free itself; it postulates it, as they say, a priori.

But the idea of force is not the whole principle of causality. This principle is a judgment that every force develops in a definite way. It holds that the state of a force at each moment predetermines its next state. The first state is called the cause, and the second is called the effect. The causal judgment asserts that, for every force, these two states are necessarily connected. The mind assumes this connection before it has any proof. It does so under a kind of constraint it cannot escape. In other words, it assumes the connection a priori.

Empiricism has never succeeded in accounting for this apriorism and necessity. Philosophers of this school have never been able to explain how an association of ideas, reinforced by habit, could produce more than an expectation or a stronger or weaker predisposition on the part of ideas to appear in a determined order. But the principle of causality has quite another character. It is not merely an imminent tendency of our thought to take certain forms; it is an external norm, superior to the flow of our representations, which it dominates and rules imperatively. It is invested with an authority which binds the mind and surpasses it, which is as much as to say that the mind is not its artisan. In this connection, it is useless to substitute hereditary habit for individual habit, for habit does not change its nature by lasting longer than one man's life; it is merely stronger. An instinct is not a rule.

Empiricism has never succeeded in explaining why these principles exist before experience and are necessary. Philosophers of this school have never been able to explain how habits of associating ideas could produce anything more than an expectation. At most, these habits could make ideas more or less likely to appear in a particular order. But the principle of causality is quite different. It is not merely a tendency within our thought to take certain forms. It is an external norm, above the flow of our thoughts, which it controls and commands. Its authority binds the mind and goes beyond it. This means that the mind does not create the principle. It is no use replacing individual habit with inherited habit in this explanation. A habit does not change its nature by lasting longer than one person's life. It merely becomes stronger. An instinct is not a rule.

The rites which we have been studying allow us to catch a glimpse of another source of this authority, which, up to the present, has scarcely been suspected. Let us bear in mind how the law of causality, which the imitative rites put into practice, was born. Being filled with one single preoccupation, the group assembles: if the species whose name it bears does not reproduce, it is a matter of concern to the whole clan. The common sentiment thus animating all the members is outwardly expressed by certain gestures, which are always the same in the same circumstances, and after the ceremony has been performed, it happens, for the reasons set forth, that the desired result seems obtained. So an association arises between the idea of this result and that of the gestures preceding it; and this association does not vary from one subject to another; it is the same for all the participators in the rite, since it is the product of a collective experience. However, if no other factor intervened, it would produce only a collective expectation; after the imitative gestures had been accomplished, everybody would await the subsequent appearance of the desired event, with more or less confidence; an imperative rule of thought could never be established by this. But since a social interest of the greatest importance is at stake, society cannot allow things to follow their own course at the whim of circumstances; it intervenes actively in such a way as to regulate their march in conformity with its needs. So it demands that this ceremony, which it cannot do without, be repeated every time that it is necessary, and consequently, that the movements, a condition of its success, be executed regularly: it imposes them as an obligation. Now they imply a certain definite state of mind which, in return, participates in this same obligatory character. To prescribe that one must imitate an animal or plant to make them reproduce, is equivalent to stating it as an axiom which is above all doubt, that like produces like. Opinion cannot allow men to deny this principle in theory without also allowing them to violate it in their conduct. So society imposes it, along with the practices which are derived from it, and thus the ritual precept is doubled by a logical precept which is only the intellectual aspect of the former. The authority of each is derived from the same source: society. The respect which this inspires is communicated to the ways of thought to which it attaches a value, just as much as to ways of action. So a man cannot set aside either the ones or the others without hurling himself against public opinion. This is why the former require the adherence of the intelligence before examination, just as the latter require the submission of the will.

The rites we have been studying reveal another source of this authority, one that has hardly been suspected until now. Let us recall how the law of causality practiced in imitative rites came into being. The group gathers with a single concern. If the species after which the clan is named fails to reproduce, the whole clan is affected. The feeling shared by all the members finds outward expression in certain gestures. These gestures are always the same in the same circumstances. After the ceremony, the desired result seems to follow, for the reasons already given. An association therefore arises between the idea of this result and the idea of the gestures that preceded it. This association does not vary from one person to another. It is the same for everyone taking part in the rite, because it is the product of a collective experience. But if no other factor intervened, this association would produce only a collective expectation. After performing the imitative gestures, everyone would wait for the desired event to follow, with more or less confidence. This alone could never establish a binding rule of thought. But a social interest of the greatest importance is at stake. Society therefore cannot allow events to follow their own course, at the mercy of circumstances. It intervenes actively to direct them according to its needs. It demands that the ceremony, which it cannot do without, be repeated whenever necessary. Consequently, it also demands that the movements on which the ceremony's success depends be performed regularly. It makes these movements obligatory. The movements imply a certain state of mind, which in turn takes on the same obligatory character. To require people to imitate an animal or plant to make it reproduce is to assert an unquestionable axiom. That axiom is that like produces like. Public opinion cannot allow people to deny this principle in theory without also allowing them to violate it in practice. Society therefore imposes the principle along with the practices derived from it. In this way, a logical rule accompanies the ritual rule. The logical rule is simply the intellectual aspect of the ritual rule. Both draw their authority from the same source: society. The respect society inspires extends to the ways of thinking it values, just as it extends to ways of acting. So a person cannot reject either without setting themselves against public opinion. This is why ways of thinking demand the intellect's assent before examination, just as ways of acting demand the will's submission.

From this example, we can show once more how the sociological theory of the idea of causality, and of the categories in general, sets aside the classical doctrines on the question, while conciliating them. Together with apriorism, it maintains the prejudicial and necessary character of the causal relation; but it does not limit itself to affirming this; it accounts for it, yet without making it vanish under the pretext of explaining it, as empiricism does. On the other hand, there is no question of denying the part due to individual experience. There can be no doubt that by himself, the individual observes the regular succession of phenomena and thus acquires a certain feeling of regularity. But this feeling is not the category of causality. The former is individual, subjective, incommunicable; we make it ourselves, out of our own personal observations. The second is the work of the group, and is given to us ready-made. It is a frame-work in which our empirical ascertainments arrange themselves and which enables us to think of them, that is to say, to see them from a point of view which makes it possible for us to understand one another in regard to them. Of course, if this frame can be applied to the contents, that shows that it is not out of relation with the matter which it contains; but it is not to be confused with this. It surpasses it and dominates it. This is because it is of a different origin. It is not a mere summary of individual experiences; before all else, it is made to fulfil the exigencies of life in common.

This example shows once again how the sociological theory of causality and the categories differs from classical theories, while reconciling them. Like apriorism, it holds that the causal relation is a necessary precondition of experience. But it does more than assert this. It explains the causal relation without explaining it away, as empiricism does. On the other hand, it does not deny the role of individual experience. There can be no doubt that individuals observe events occurring in regular sequence. In this way, they acquire a certain feeling of regularity. But this feeling is not the category of causality. The feeling is individual, subjective, and impossible to communicate. We form it ourselves from our own observations. The category, by contrast, is the work of the group and is given to us ready-made. It is a framework that organizes our empirical findings and enables us to think about them. In other words, it lets us see them from a point of view that allows us to understand one another about them. Of course, if this framework can be applied to those findings, it must have some relation to them. But the framework must not be confused with the findings. It goes beyond them and governs them. This is because it has a different origin. It is not merely a summary of individual experiences. Above all, it is made to meet the demands of life in common.

In fine, the error of empiricism has been to regard the causal bond as merely an intellectual construction of speculative thought and the product of a more or less methodical generalization. Now, by itself, pure speculation can give birth only to provisional, hypothetical and more or less plausible views, but ones which must always be regarded with suspicion, for we can never be sure that some new observation in the future will not invalidate them. An axiom which the mind accepts and must accept, without control and without reservation, could never come from this source. Only the necessities of action, and especially of collective action, can and must express themselves in categorical formulæ, which are peremptory and short, and admit of no contradiction, for collective movements are possible only on condition of being in concert and, therefore, regulated and definite. They do not allow of any fumbling, the source of anarchy; by themselves, they tend towards an organization which, when once established, imposes itself upon individuals. And as action cannot go beyond intelligence, it frequently happens that the latter is drawn into the same way and accepts without discussion the theoretical postulates demanded by action. The imperatives of thought are probably only another side of the imperatives of action.

In short, empiricism’s error has been to treat the causal link as merely a construction of speculative thought. It has seen the link as the product of a more or less systematic process of generalization. But pure speculation alone can produce only provisional, hypothetical, and more or less plausible ideas. Such ideas must always be viewed with suspicion, because we can never be sure that a future observation will not disprove them. Speculation could never produce an axiom that the mind accepts and must accept without scrutiny or reservation. Only the necessities of action, especially collective action, can and must take the form of categorical statements. These statements are decisive and brief, and they allow no contradiction. Collective movements are possible only when people act together, and therefore in a regulated and definite way. Such movements leave no room for fumbling, which is a source of anarchy. Collective movements tend on their own toward an organization that, once established, imposes itself on individuals. And because action cannot go beyond intelligence, intelligence often follows the same course. It accepts without discussion the theoretical assumptions that action demands. The imperatives of thought are probably only another side of the imperatives of action.

It is to be borne in mind, moreover, that we have never dreamed of offering the preceding observations as a complete theory of the concept of causality. The question is too complex to be resolved thus. The principle of causality has been understood differently in different times and places; in a single society, it varies with the social environment and the kingdoms of nature to which it is applied.¹¹⁸⁹ So it would be impossible to determine with sufficient precision the causes and conditions upon which it depends, after a consideration of only one of the forms which it has presented during the course of history. The views which we have set forth should be regarded as mere indications, which must be controlled and completed. However, as the causal law which we have been considering is certainly one of the most primitive which exists, and as it has played a considerable part in the development of human thought and industry, it is a privileged experiment, so we may presume that the remarks of which it has been the occasion may be generalized to a certain degree.

We should also remember that we have never intended these observations to be a complete theory of causality. The question is too complex to be settled in this way. The principle of causality has been understood differently in different times and places. Even within a single society, it varies with the social environment and the realms of nature to which it is applied.¹¹⁸⁹ So we cannot identify its causes and conditions precisely enough by considering only one form it has taken throughout history. The views we have presented should be regarded only as indications. They must be tested and completed. However, the causal law we have considered is certainly one of the most primitive that exists. It has also played a considerable part in the development of human thought and industry. It therefore provides an especially valuable test case. We may presume that the observations it prompted can be generalized to some degree.