Origins of These Beliefs, Conclusion: The Idea of the Totemic Principle or Mana

The proposition established in the preceding chapter determines the terms in which the problem of the origins of totemism should be posed. Since totemism is everywhere dominated by the idea of a quasi-divine principle, imminent in certain categories of men and things and thought of under the form of an animal or vegetable, the explanation of this religion is essentially the explanation of this belief; to arrive at this, we must seek to learn how men have been led to construct this idea and out of what materials they have constructed it.

The proposition established in the previous chapter determines how we should approach the question of totemism’s origins. Totemism is everywhere dominated by the idea of a quasi-divine principle present in certain categories of people and things. This principle is thought of in the form of an animal or plant. Explaining this religion therefore means, above all, explaining this belief. To do so, we must find out how people came to form the idea and what materials they used to construct it.

It is obviously not out of the sensations which the things serving as totems are able to arouse in the mind; we have shown that these things are frequently insignificant. The lizard, the caterpillar, the rat, the ant, the frog, the turkey, the bream-fish, the plum-tree, the cockatoo, etc., to cite only those names which appear frequently in the lists of Australian totems, are not of a nature to produce upon men these great and strong impressions which in a way resemble religious emotions and which impress a sacred character upon the objects they create. It is true that this is not the case with the stars and the great atmospheric phenomena, which have, on the contrary, all that is necessary to strike the imagination forcibly; but as a matter of fact, these serve only very exceptionally as totems. It is even probable that they were very slow in taking this office.⁶⁷⁶ So it is not the intrinsic nature of the thing whose name the clan bears that marked it out to become the object of a cult. Also, if the sentiments which it inspired were really the determining cause of the totemic rites and beliefs, it would be the pre-eminently sacred thing; the animals or plants employed as totems would play an eminent part in the religious life. But we know that the centre of the cult is actually elsewhere. It is the figurative representations of this plant or animal and the totemic emblems and symbols of every sort, which have the greatest sanctity; so it is in them that is found the source of that religious nature, of which the real objects represented by these emblems receive only a reflection.

Obviously, it does not come from the sensations that totemic things can arouse in the mind. We have shown that these things are often insignificant. Consider the lizard, caterpillar, rat, ant, frog, turkey, bream-fish, plum-tree, and cockatoo. These are only some of the names that appear frequently in lists of Australian totems. They are not likely to make the powerful impressions that resemble religious emotions and give their objects a sacred character. The stars and great atmospheric phenomena, by contrast, certainly have everything needed to stir the imagination powerfully. But in fact, they serve as totems only very rarely. It is even probable that they were very slow to take on this role.⁶⁷⁶ So it was not the inherent nature of the thing that gave the clan its name that marked it out for worship. Also, suppose the feelings inspired by the thing were really the determining cause of totemic rites and beliefs. The thing itself would then be the most sacred object. The animals or plants used as totems would play a major part in religious life. But we know that the center of worship actually lies elsewhere. Images of the plant or animal, and totemic emblems and symbols of every kind, are the most sacred objects. So the source of their religious character lies in these images and symbols. The actual objects they represent receive only a reflection of that character.

Thus the totem is before all a symbol, a material expression of something else.⁶⁷⁷ But of what?

So the totem is above all a symbol, a physical expression of something else.⁶⁷⁷ But of what?

From the analysis to which we have been giving our attention, it is evident that it expresses and symbolizes two different sorts of things. In the first place, it is the outward and visible form of what we have called the totemic principle or god. But it is also the symbol of the determined society called the clan. It is its flag; it is the sign by which each clan distinguishes itself from the others, the visible mark of its personality, a mark borne by everything which is a part of the clan under any title whatsoever, men, beasts or things. So if it is at once the symbol of the god and of the society, is that not because the god and the society are only one? How could the emblem of the group have been able to become the figure of this quasi-divinity, if the group and the divinity were two distinct realities? The god of the clan, the totemic principle, can therefore be nothing else than the clan itself, personified and represented to the imagination under the visible form of the animal or vegetable which serves as totem.

From the analysis we have been considering, it is clear that it expresses and symbolizes two different things. First, it is the outward, visible form of what we have called the totemic principle or god. But it is also the symbol of a particular society called the clan. It is the clan’s flag, the sign that distinguishes each clan from the others. It is the visible mark of the clan’s identity. Everything that belongs to the clan in any way bears this mark, whether people, animals, or things. So if it symbolizes both the god and the society, is that not because the god and the society are one? How could the group’s emblem have become the image of this quasi-divinity if the group and the divinity were distinct realities? The clan’s god, the totemic principle, can therefore be nothing other than the clan itself. The clan is personified and imagined in the visible form of the animal or plant that serves as its totem.

But how has this apotheosis been possible, and how did it happen to take place in this fashion?

But how was this elevation to divine status possible, and why did it happen in this way?

In a general way, it is unquestionable that a society has all that is necessary to arouse the sensation of the divine in minds, merely by the power that it has over them; for to its members it is what a god is to his worshippers. In fact, a god is, first of all, a being whom men think of as superior to themselves, and upon whom they feel that they depend. Whether it be a conscious personality, such as Zeus or Jahveh, or merely abstract forces such as those in play in totemism, the worshipper, in the one case as in the other, believes himself held to certain manners of acting which are imposed upon him by the nature of the sacred principle with which he feels that he is in communion. Now society also gives us the sensation of a perpetual dependence. Since it has a nature which is peculiar to itself and different from our individual nature, it pursues ends which are likewise special to it; but, as it cannot attain them except through our intermediacy, it imperiously demands our aid. It requires that, forgetful of our own interests, we make ourselves its servitors, and it submits us to every sort of inconvenience, privation and sacrifice, without which social life would be impossible. It is because of this that at every instant we are obliged to submit ourselves to rules of conduct and of thought which we have neither made nor desired, and which are sometimes even contrary to our most fundamental inclinations and instincts.

In general, there is no doubt that society has everything needed to awaken a sense of the divine in people. Its power over them alone is enough. For society is to its members what a god is to his worshippers. A god is, above all, a being whom people regard as superior to themselves and on whom they feel dependent. A god may be a conscious personality, such as Zeus or Jahveh, or simply abstract forces like those at work in totemism. In either case, worshippers believe they must act in certain ways. These ways are imposed by the nature of the sacred principle with which they feel connected. Society also gives us a constant sense of dependence. Its nature is distinct from our individual nature, and it pursues goals that are likewise its own. But society can achieve these goals only through us, so it demands our help. It requires us to set aside our own interests and serve it. It subjects us to all kinds of inconvenience, hardship, and sacrifice, without which social life would be impossible. For this reason, we are constantly obliged to follow rules of conduct and thought that we neither made nor wanted. These rules sometimes even go against our most basic inclinations and instincts.

Even if society were unable to obtain these concessions and sacrifices from us except by a material constraint, it might awaken in us only the idea of a physical force to which we must give way of necessity, instead of that of a moral power such as religions adore. But as a matter of fact, the empire which it holds over consciences is due much less to the physical supremacy of which it has the privilege than to the moral authority with which it is invested. If we yield to its orders, it is not merely because it is strong enough to triumph over our resistance; it is primarily because it is the object of a venerable respect.

If society could gain these concessions and sacrifices from us only by physical force, we might see it merely as a force we must yield to. We might not see it as a moral power like those religions worship. But in fact, society’s power over our consciences comes much less from its physical superiority than from its moral authority. We do not obey society’s commands merely because it is strong enough to overcome our resistance. We obey primarily because we hold society in deep respect.

We say that an object, whether individual or collective, inspires respect when the representation expressing it in the mind is gifted with such a force that it automatically causes or inhibits actions, without regard for any consideration relative to their useful or injurious effects. When we obey somebody because of the moral authority which we recognize in him, we follow out his opinions, not because they seem wise, but because a certain sort of physical energy is imminent in the idea that we form of this person, which conquers our will and inclines it in the indicated direction. Respect is the emotion which we experience when we feel this interior and wholly spiritual pressure operating upon us. Then we are not determined by the advantages or inconveniences of the attitude which is prescribed or recommended to us; it is by the way in which we represent to ourselves the person recommending or prescribing it. This is why commands generally take a short, peremptory form leaving no place for hesitation; it is because, in so far as it is a command and goes by its own force, it excludes all idea of deliberation or calculation; it gets its efficacy from the intensity of the mental state in which it is placed. It is this intensity which creates what is called a moral ascendancy.

We say that an object, whether individual or collective, inspires respect when our mental image of it has a certain force. This force automatically prompts or prevents actions, without regard for whether those actions are useful or harmful. When we obey someone because we recognize their moral authority, we follow their views not because they seem wise. Rather, the idea we form of that person contains a kind of physical energy. This energy overcomes our will and inclines us in the direction indicated. Respect is the emotion we feel when this inner, wholly spiritual pressure acts on us. In such cases, we are not guided by the advantages or disadvantages of the conduct prescribed or recommended to us. Instead, we are guided by how we picture the person prescribing or recommending it. This is why commands generally take a short, decisive form that leaves no room for hesitation. A command, insofar as it is a command and acts through its own force, rules out all deliberation or calculation. A command gets its power from the intensity of the mental state in which it is placed. This intensity creates what is called moral ascendancy.

Now the ways of action to which society is strongly enough attached to impose them upon its members, are, by that very fact, marked with a distinctive sign provocative of respect. Since they are elaborated in common, the vigour with which they have been thought of by each particular mind is retained in all the other minds, and reciprocally. The representations which express them within each of us have an intensity which no purely private states of consciousness could ever attain; for they have the strength of the innumerable individual representations which have served to form each of them. It is society who speaks through the mouths of those who affirm them in our presence; it is society whom we hear in hearing them; and the voice of all has an accent which that of one alone could never have.⁶⁷⁸ The very violence with which society reacts, by way of blame or material suppression, against every attempted dissidence, contributes to strengthening its empire by manifesting the common conviction through this burst of ardour.⁶⁷⁹ In a word, when something is the object of such a state of opinion, the representation which each individual has of it gains a power of action from its origins and the conditions in which it was born, which even those feel who do not submit themselves to it. It tends to repel the representations which contradict it, and it keeps them at a distance; on the other hand, it commands those acts which will realize it, and it does so, not by a material coercion or by the perspective of something of this sort, but by the simple radiation of the mental energy which it contains. It has an efficacy coming solely from its psychical properties, and it is by just this sign that moral authority is recognized. So opinion, primarily a social thing, is a source of authority, and it might even be asked whether all authority is not the daughter of opinion.⁶⁸⁰ It may be objected that science is often the antagonist of opinion, whose errors it combats and rectifies. But it cannot succeed in this task if it does not have sufficient authority, and it can obtain this authority only from opinion itself. If a people did not have faith in science, all the scientific demonstrations in the world would be without any influence whatsoever over their minds. Even to-day, if science happened to resist a very strong current of public opinion, it would risk losing its credit there.⁶⁸¹

When society is committed enough to certain ways of acting to impose them on its members, those ways acquire a distinctive mark that inspires respect. They are developed collectively, so the force with which each person thinks of them is retained in every other mind, and vice versa. The ideas that express these ways of acting within each of us are more intense than any purely private state of mind could ever be. They have the combined force of the countless individual ideas that helped form them. When people affirm these ideas in our presence, society speaks through them. We hear society when we hear them. The voice of all has a power that the voice of one alone could never have.⁶⁷⁸ Society reacts fiercely to every attempt at dissent, through blame or physical suppression. This outburst of passion shows the strength of the shared conviction and helps strengthen society’s control.⁶⁷⁹ In short, when public opinion holds something in such regard, each person’s idea of it gains power from its origins and the conditions in which it arose. Even those who do not submit to the idea feel its power. The idea tends to repel ideas that contradict it and to keep them at a distance. It also commands the actions that will put it into practice. It does so not through physical force or the prospect of such force, but simply through the mental energy it radiates. Its effectiveness comes solely from its mental properties, and this is the very mark by which we recognize moral authority. Opinion, then, is primarily social and is a source of authority. We might even ask whether all authority comes from opinion.⁶⁸⁰ One might object that science often opposes opinion, fighting and correcting its errors. But science cannot succeed in this task without sufficient authority, and it can gain that authority only from opinion itself. If a people had no faith in science, all the scientific demonstrations in the world would have no influence on their minds. Even today, if science were to resist a very strong current of public opinion, it would risk losing credibility with the public.⁶⁸¹

Since it is in spiritual ways that social pressure exercises itself, it could not fail to give men the idea that outside themselves there exist one or several powers, both moral and, at the same time, efficacious, upon which they depend. They must think of these powers, at least in part, as outside themselves, for these address them in a tone of command and sometimes even order them to do violence to their most natural inclinations. It is undoubtedly true that if they were able to see that these influences which they feel emanate from society, then the mythological system of interpretations would never be born. But social action follows ways that are too circuitous and obscure, and employs psychical mechanisms that are too complex to allow the ordinary observer to see whence it comes. As long as scientific analysis does not come to teach it to them, men know well that they are acted upon, but they do not know by whom. So they must invent by themselves the idea of these powers with which they feel themselves in connection, and from that, we are able to catch a glimpse of the way by which they were led to represent them under forms that are really foreign to their nature and to transfigure them by thought.

Because social pressure works through the mind, it inevitably gives people an idea of powers outside themselves. These powers are both moral and effective, and people depend on them. People must think of these powers as at least partly outside themselves. The powers speak to them in a commanding tone and sometimes even order them to go against their most natural inclinations. Of course, if people could see that these influences came from society, mythological explanations would never arise. But social action takes paths that are too indirect and obscure for ordinary observers to trace. It also works through mental processes that are too complex for them to understand. Until scientific analysis teaches people where these influences come from, they know that something acts on them, but not who or what it is. So they must invent their own idea of the powers they feel connected to. From this, we can glimpse how they came to imagine these powers in forms quite unlike their true nature and to transform them in their minds.

But a god is not merely an authority upon whom we depend; it is a force upon which our strength relies. The man who has obeyed his god and who, for this reason, believes the god is with him, approaches the world with confidence and with the feeling of an increased energy. Likewise, social action does not confine itself to demanding sacrifices, privations and efforts from us. For the collective force is not entirely outside of us; it does not act upon us wholly from without; but rather, since society cannot exist except in and through individual consciousnesses,⁶⁸² this force must also penetrate us and organize itself within us; it thus becomes an integral part of our being and by that very fact this is elevated and magnified.

But a god is not just an authority we depend on. A god is also a force that supports our strength. A person who has obeyed their god believes the god is with them for that reason. They approach the world with confidence and a feeling of increased energy. Likewise, society does more than demand sacrifices, hardship, and effort from us. The collective force is not entirely outside us, acting on us only from without. Society can exist only in and through individual minds,⁶⁸² so this force must also enter us and organize itself within us. It becomes an essential part of our being, elevating and magnifying us in the process.

There are occasions when this strengthening and vivifying action of society is especially apparent. In the midst of an assembly animated by a common passion, we become susceptible of acts and sentiments of which we are incapable when reduced to our own forces; and when the assembly is dissolved and when, finding ourselves alone again, we fall back to our ordinary level, we are then able to measure the height to which we have been raised above ourselves. History abounds in examples of this sort. It is enough to think of the night of the Fourth of August, 1789, when an assembly was suddenly led to an act of sacrifice and abnegation which each of its members had refused the day before, and at which they were all surprised the day after.⁶⁸³ This is why all parties, political, economic or confessional, are careful to have periodical reunions where their members may revivify their common faith by manifesting it in common. To strengthen those sentiments which, if left to themselves, would soon weaken, it is sufficient to bring those who hold them together and to put them into closer and more active relations with one another. This is the explanation of the particular attitude of a man speaking to a crowd, at least if he has succeeded in entering into communion with it. His language has a grandiloquence that would be ridiculous in ordinary circumstances; his gestures show a certain domination; his very thought is impatient of all rules, and easily falls into all sorts of excesses. It is because he feels within him an abnormal over-supply of force which overflows and tries to burst out from him; sometimes he even has the feeling that he is dominated by a moral force which is greater than he and of which he is only the interpreter. It is by this trait that we are able to recognize what has often been called the demon of oratorical inspiration. Now this exceptional increase of force is something very real; it comes to him from the very group which he addresses. The sentiments provoked by his words come back to him, but enlarged and amplified, and to this degree they strengthen his own sentiment. The passionate energies he arouses re-echo within him and quicken his vital tone. It is no longer a simple individual who speaks; it is a group incarnate and personified.

Sometimes society’s power to strengthen and energize us is especially clear. In a gathering united by a common passion, we become capable of acts and feelings beyond our individual powers. When the gathering breaks up and we are alone again, we return to our ordinary level. Then we can see how far above ourselves we were raised. History is full of such examples. Consider the night of August 4, 1789. An assembly was suddenly moved to an act of sacrifice and self-denial that each member had refused the day before. The next day, they were all surprised by it.⁶⁸³ This is why all parties, whether political, economic, or religious, make sure to meet regularly. At these meetings, members renew their shared faith by expressing it together. Feelings that would soon weaken on their own can be strengthened simply by bringing together those who share them. Closer, more active contact with one another is enough. This also explains the distinctive manner of someone speaking to a crowd, at least if the speaker has connected with it. The speaker’s language is grand and dramatic in a way that would be ridiculous in ordinary circumstances. The speaker’s gestures show a certain dominance. Even the speaker’s thoughts grow impatient with all rules and easily fall into all sorts of excesses. This happens because the speaker feels an unusual surplus of energy within, overflowing and seeking release. Sometimes the speaker even feels controlled by a moral force greater than the self, a force the speaker merely interprets. This is the mark of what has often been called the demon of oratorical inspiration. This exceptional increase in energy is very real. It comes to the speaker from the very group being addressed. The feelings stirred by the speaker’s words return enlarged and amplified, strengthening the speaker’s own feelings in turn. The passionate energies the speaker arouses echo within and heighten the speaker’s vitality. It is no longer a single individual who speaks. It is a group made flesh and given a personal form.

Beside these passing and intermittent states, there are other more durable ones, where this strengthening influence of society makes itself felt with greater consequences and frequently even with greater brilliancy. There are periods in history when, under the influence of some great collective shock, social interactions have become much more frequent and active. Men look for each other and assemble together more than ever. That general effervescence results which is characteristic of revolutionary or creative epochs. Now this greater activity results in a general stimulation of individual forces. Men see more and differently now than in normal times. Changes are not merely of shades and degrees; men become different. The passions moving them are of such an intensity that they cannot be satisfied except by violent and unrestrained actions, actions of superhuman heroism or of bloody barbarism. This is what explains the Crusades,⁶⁸⁴ for example, or many of the scenes, either sublime or savage, of the French Revolution.⁶⁸⁵ Under the influence of the general exaltation, we see the most mediocre and inoffensive bourgeois become either a hero or a butcher.⁶⁸⁶ And so clearly are all these mental processes the ones that are also at the root of religion that the individuals themselves have often pictured the pressure before which they thus gave way in a distinctly religious form. The Crusaders believed that they felt God present in the midst of them, enjoining them to go to the conquest of the Holy Land; Joan of Arc believed that she obeyed celestial voices.⁶⁸⁷

Besides these brief and intermittent states, there are more lasting ones. In these, society’s strengthening influence has greater consequences and often shines even more brightly. At certain times in history, a great collective shock makes social interactions much more frequent and active. People seek one another out and gather together more than ever. This produces the general excitement characteristic of revolutionary or creative periods. In turn, this increased activity generally stimulates individual powers. People see more, and see differently, than in normal times. The changes are not merely subtle differences or matters of degree. People become different. The passions driving them are so intense that only violent, unrestrained actions can satisfy them. These actions may show superhuman heroism or bloody barbarism. This explains the Crusades,⁶⁸⁴ for example, and many of the sublime or savage scenes of the French Revolution.⁶⁸⁵ Under the influence of this general excitement, even the most ordinary and harmless bourgeois becomes either a hero or a butcher.⁶⁸⁶ These mental processes are clearly the same ones that lie at the root of religion. Indeed, people have often imagined the pressure they gave in to in a distinctly religious form. The Crusaders believed they felt God among them, commanding them to conquer the Holy Land. Joan of Arc believed she was obeying heavenly voices.⁶⁸⁷

But it is not only in exceptional circumstances that this stimulating action of society makes itself felt; there is not, so to speak, a moment in our lives when some current of energy does not come to us from without. The man who has done his duty finds, in the manifestations of every sort expressing the sympathy, esteem or affection which his fellows have for him, a feeling of comfort, of which he does not ordinarily take account, but which sustains him, none the less. The sentiments which society has for him raise the sentiments which he has for himself. Because he is in moral harmony with his comrades, he has more confidence, courage and boldness in action, just like the believer who thinks that he feels the regard of his god turned graciously towards him. It thus produces, as it were, a perpetual sustenance for our moral nature. Since this varies with a multitude of external circumstances, as our relations with the groups about us are more or less active and as these groups themselves vary, we cannot fail to feel that this moral support depends upon an external cause; but we do not perceive where this cause is nor what it is. So we ordinarily think of it under the form of a moral power which, though immanent in us, represents within us something not ourselves: this is the moral conscience, of which, by the way, men have never made even a slightly distinct representation except by the aid of religious symbols.

But society’s power to energize us is not felt only in exceptional circumstances. At virtually every moment of our lives, some current of energy comes to us from outside ourselves. A person who has done their duty finds comfort in the many ways others express sympathy, esteem, or affection for them. They do not usually notice this comfort, but it sustains them nonetheless. Society’s feelings toward them raise their feelings about themselves. Because they are in moral harmony with their companions, they act with greater confidence, courage, and boldness. They are like a believer who thinks they can feel their god looking kindly upon them. In this way, society continually sustains our moral nature. This support varies with many external circumstances. It varies as our relationships with the groups around us become more or less active, and as those groups themselves change. So we cannot help feeling that our moral support depends on an external cause. But we do not see where or what that cause is. We therefore usually think of it as a moral power within us that represents something other than ourselves. This is the moral conscience. People have never formed even a slightly clear idea of it except with the help of religious symbols.

In addition to these free forces which are constantly coming to renew our own, there are others which are fixed in the methods and traditions which we employ. We speak a language that we did not make; we use instruments that we did not invent; we invoke rights that we did not found; a treasury of knowledge is transmitted to each generation that it did not gather itself, etc. It is to society that we owe these varied benefits of civilization, and if we do not ordinarily see the source from which we get them, we at least know that they are not our own work. Now it is these things that give man his own place among things; a man is a man only because he is civilized. So he could not escape the feeling that outside of him there are active causes from which he gets the characteristic attributes of his nature and which, as benevolent powers, assist him, protect him and assure him of a privileged fate. And of course he must attribute to these powers a dignity corresponding to the great value of the good things he attributes to them.⁶⁸⁸

Besides these free forces that constantly renew our own strength, other forces are embedded in the methods and traditions we use. We speak a language we did not create. We use tools we did not invent. We claim rights we did not establish. Each generation receives a wealth of knowledge it did not gather itself, and so on. We owe these varied benefits of civilization to society. We do not usually see where they come from, but we at least know they are not our own work. These things give human beings their distinctive place among all things. A person is human only because of civilization. So a person cannot help feeling that active causes outside themselves give them the defining qualities of human nature. They feel that these causes are benevolent powers that help and protect them and ensure them a privileged fate. And of course, they must regard these powers as having a dignity equal to the great value of the benefits they attribute to them.⁶⁸⁸

Thus the environment in which we live seems to us to be peopled with forces that are at once imperious and helpful, august and gracious, and with which we have relations. Since they exercise over us a pressure of which we are conscious, we are forced to localize them outside ourselves, just as we do for the objective causes of our sensations. But the sentiments which they inspire in us differ in nature from those which we have for simple visible objects. As long as these latter are reduced to their empirical characteristics as shown in ordinary experience, and as long as the religious imagination has not metamorphosed them, we entertain for them no feeling which resembles respect, and they contain within them nothing that is able to raise us outside ourselves. Therefore, the representations which express them appear to us to be very different from those aroused in us by collective influences. The two form two distinct and separate mental states in our consciousness, just as do the two forms of life to which they correspond. Consequently, we get the impression that we are in relations with two distinct sorts of reality and that a sharply drawn line of demarcation separates them from each other: on the one hand is the world of profane things, on the other, that of sacred things.

The world around us seems filled with forces that are both commanding and helpful, majestic and kind. We also have relationships with these forces. We are aware of the pressure they exert on us, so we must place them outside ourselves. We do the same with the external causes of our sensations. But the feelings these forces inspire differ in kind from those we have for ordinary visible objects. As long as visible objects are understood only through their observable features in ordinary experience, we feel nothing like respect for them. This remains true as long as the religious imagination has not transformed them. Nor do these objects contain anything that can lift us out of ourselves. So our mental images of visible objects seem very different from those created by collective influences. The two kinds of images form distinct, separate states in our consciousness. So do the two forms of life to which they correspond. As a result, we feel that we are connected to two distinct kinds of reality. We also feel that a sharp dividing line separates them. On one side is the world of profane things, and on the other, the world of sacred things.

Also, in the present day just as much as in the past, we see society constantly creating sacred things out of ordinary ones. If it happens to fall in love with a man and if it thinks it has found in him the principal aspirations that move it, as well as the means of satisfying them, this man will be raised above the others and, as it were, deified. Opinion will invest him with a majesty exactly analogous to that protecting the gods. This is what has happened to so many sovereigns in whom their age had faith: if they were not made gods, they were at least regarded as direct representatives of the deity. And the fact that it is society alone which is the author of these varieties of apotheosis, is evident since it frequently chances to consecrate men thus who have no right to it from their own merit. The simple deference inspired by men invested with high social functions is not different in nature from religious respect. It is expressed by the same movements: a man keeps at a distance from a high personage; he approaches him only with precautions; in conversing with him, he uses other gestures and language than those used with ordinary mortals. The sentiment felt on these occasions is so closely related to the religious sentiment that many peoples have confounded the two. In order to explain the consideration accorded to princes, nobles and political chiefs, a sacred character has been attributed to them. In Melanesia and Polynesia, for example, it is said that an influential man has mana, and that his influence is due to this mana.⁶⁸⁹ However, it is evident that his situation is due solely to the importance attributed to him by public opinion. Thus the moral power conferred by opinion and that with which sacred beings are invested are at bottom of a single origin and made up of the same elements. That is why a single word is able to designate the two.

Today, just as in the past, we see society constantly making ordinary things sacred. Suppose society comes to love a man. It believes it has found in him its main aspirations and the means to satisfy them. It will raise him above others and, in effect, make him a god. Public opinion will give him a majesty exactly like the majesty that protects the gods. This has happened to many rulers in whom their age had faith. If they were not made gods, they were at least regarded as direct representatives of the deity. Society alone is clearly responsible for these acts of deification. For it often makes men sacred in this way who have no claim to it through their own merits. The simple respect shown to people in high social positions is no different in nature from religious respect. It is expressed through the same gestures. A person keeps a distance from an important figure and approaches him only with caution. When speaking to him, a person uses different gestures and language from those used with ordinary people. The feeling on these occasions is so close to religious feeling that many peoples have confused the two. To explain the respect shown to princes, nobles and political leaders, people have attributed a sacred character to them. In Melanesia and Polynesia, for example, people say that an influential man has mana, and that his influence comes from this mana.⁶⁸⁹ Yet his position is clearly due solely to the importance given to him by public opinion. Thus, the moral power given by public opinion and the power attributed to sacred beings ultimately have the same origin. They are made up of the same elements. That is why a single word can describe both.

In addition to men, society also consecrates things, especially ideas. If a belief is unanimously shared by a people, then, for the reason which we pointed out above, it is forbidden to touch it, that is to say, to deny it or to contest it. Now the prohibition of criticism is an interdiction like the others and proves the presence of something sacred. Even to-day, howsoever great may be the liberty which we accord to others, a man who should totally deny progress or ridicule the human ideal to which modern societies are attached, would produce the effect of a sacrilege. There is at least one principle which those the most devoted to the free examination of everything tend to place above discussion and to regard as untouchable, that is to say, as sacred: this is the very principle of free examination.

In addition to people, society also treats things as sacred, especially ideas. If everyone in a society shares a belief, people are forbidden to touch it, for the reason we explained above. In other words, they must not deny or question the belief. This ban on criticism is a prohibition like any other, and it shows that something sacred is present. Even today, however much freedom we allow others, someone who completely denied progress or ridiculed the human ideal cherished by modern societies would seem to commit sacrilege. Even those most devoted to questioning everything tend to put at least one principle beyond discussion. They tend to regard it as untouchable, or sacred: the very principle of free inquiry.

This aptitude of society for setting itself up as a god or for creating gods was never more apparent than during the first years of the French Revolution. At this time, in fact, under the influence of the general enthusiasm, things purely laïcal by nature were transformed by public opinion into sacred things: these were the Fatherland, Liberty, Reason.⁶⁹⁰ A religion tended to become established which had its dogmas,⁶⁹¹ symbols,⁶⁹² altars⁶⁹³ and feasts.⁶⁹⁴ It was to these spontaneous aspirations that the cult of Reason and the Supreme Being attempted to give a sort of official satisfaction. It is true that this religious renovation had only an ephemeral duration. But that was because the patriotic enthusiasm which at first transported the masses soon relaxed.⁶⁹⁵ The cause being gone, the effect could not remain. But this experiment, though short-lived, keeps all its sociological interest. It remains true that in one determined case we have seen society and its essential ideas become, directly and with no transfiguration of any sort, the object of a veritable cult.

Society’s ability to make itself a god or create gods was never clearer than in the first years of the French Revolution. At that time, widespread enthusiasm led public opinion to turn purely secular things into sacred ones: the Fatherland, Liberty, Reason.⁶⁹⁰ A religion began to take shape, with its own dogmas,⁶⁹¹ symbols,⁶⁹² altars⁶⁹³ and festivals.⁶⁹⁴ The cult of Reason and the Supreme Being tried to give these spontaneous aspirations a kind of official recognition. It is true that this religious renewal was short-lived. But that was because the patriotic enthusiasm that had initially swept up the masses soon faded.⁶⁹⁵ Once the cause was gone, the effect could not remain. But this experiment, though short-lived, remains of full sociological interest. In this particular case, we have seen society and its essential ideas become the object of a genuine cult, directly and without any transformation.

All these facts allow us to catch glimpses of how the clan was able to awaken within its members the idea that outside of them there exist forces which dominate them and at the same time sustain them, that is to say in fine, religious forces: it is because there is no society with which the primitive is more directly and closely connected. The bonds uniting him to the tribe are much more lax and more feebly felt. Although this is not at all strange or foreign to him, it is with the people of his own clan that he has the greatest number of things in common; it is the action of this group that he feels the most directly; so it is this also which, in preference to all others, should express itself in religious symbols.

All these facts give us glimpses of how the clan could inspire an idea in its members. They could come to believe that forces outside them both dominate and sustain them. These are, ultimately, religious forces. This is because no other social group is as directly and closely connected to the people Durkheim calls primitive. Their ties to the tribe are much looser and less strongly felt. Although the tribe is by no means strange or foreign to them, they have the most in common with their own clan. They feel the influence of their clan most directly. So, more than any other group, the clan should find expression in religious symbols.

But this first explanation has been too general, for it is applicable to every sort of society indifferently, and consequently to every sort of religion. Let us attempt to determine exactly what form this collective action takes in the clan and how it arouses the sensation of sacredness there. For there is no place where it is more easily observable or more apparent in its results.

But this first explanation has been too general. It applies equally to every kind of society and, therefore, to every kind of religion. Let us try to determine exactly what form this collective action takes in the clan and how it creates a sense of sacredness there. For nowhere is this collective action easier to observe or its effects more apparent.

The life of the Australian societies passes alternately through two distinct phases.⁶⁹⁶ Sometimes the population is broken up into little groups who wander about independently of one another, in their various occupations; each family lives by itself, hunting and fishing, and in a word, trying to procure its indispensable food by all the means in its power. Sometimes, on the contrary, the population concentrates and gathers at determined points for a length of time varying from several days to several months. This concentration takes place when a clan or a part of the tribe⁶⁹⁷ is summoned to the gathering, and on this occasion they celebrate a religious ceremony, or else hold what is called a corrobbori⁶⁹⁸ in the usual ethnological language.

Life in Australian societies alternates between two distinct phases.⁶⁹⁶ Sometimes the population breaks up into small groups that move about independently, each pursuing its own activities. Each family lives on its own, hunting, fishing, and using every means available to obtain the food it needs. At other times, the population comes together at particular places for periods ranging from several days to several months. These gatherings occur when a clan or part of the tribe⁶⁹⁷ is called together. On these occasions, they celebrate a religious ceremony or hold what is known in ethnology as a corrobbori⁶⁹⁸.

These two phases are contrasted with each other in the sharpest way. In the first, economic activity is the preponderating one, and it is generally of a very mediocre intensity. Gathering the grains or herbs that are necessary for food, or hunting and fishing are not occupations to awaken very lively passions.⁶⁹⁹ The dispersed condition in which the society finds itself results in making its life uniform, languishing and dull.⁷⁰⁰ But when a corrobbori takes place, everything changes. Since the emotional and passional faculties of the primitive are only imperfectly placed under the control of his reason and will, he easily loses control of himself. Any event of some importance puts him quite outside himself. Does he receive good news? There are at once transports of enthusiasm. In the contrary conditions, he is to be seen running here and there like a madman, giving himself up to all sorts of immoderate movements, crying, shrieking, rolling in the dust, throwing it in every direction, biting himself, brandishing his arms in a furious manner, etc.⁷⁰¹ The very fact of the concentration acts as an exceptionally powerful stimulant. When they are once come together, a sort of electricity is formed by their collecting which quickly transports them to an extraordinary degree of exaltation. Every sentiment expressed finds a place without resistance in all the minds, which are very open to outside impressions; each re-echoes the others, and is re-echoed by the others. The initial impulse thus proceeds, growing as it goes, as an avalanche grows in its advance. And as such active passions so free from all control could not fail to burst out, on every side one sees nothing but violent gestures, cries, veritable howls, and deafening noises of every sort, which aid in intensifying still more the state of mind which they manifest. And since a collective sentiment cannot express itself collectively except on the condition of observing a certain order permitting co-operation and movements in unison, these gestures and cries naturally tend to become rhythmic and regular; hence come songs and dances. But in taking a more regular form, they lose nothing of their natural violence; a regulated tumult remains tumult. The human voice is not sufficient for the task; it is reinforced by means of artificial processes: boomerangs are beaten against each other; bull-roarers are whirled. It is probable that these instruments, the use of which is so general in the Australian religious ceremonies, are used primarily to express in a more adequate fashion the agitation felt. But while they express it, they also strengthen it. This effervescence often reaches such a point that it causes unheard-of actions. The passions released are of such an impetuosity that they can be restrained by nothing. They are so far removed from their ordinary conditions of life, and they are so thoroughly conscious of it, that they feel that they must set themselves outside of and above their ordinary morals. The sexes unite contrarily to the rules governing sexual relations. Men exchange wives with each other. Sometimes even incestuous unions, which in normal times are thought abominable and are severely punished, are now contracted openly and with impunity.⁷⁰² If we add to all this that the ceremonies generally take place at night in a darkness pierced here and there by the light of fires, we can easily imagine what effect such scenes ought to produce on the minds of those who participate. They produce such a violent super-excitation of the whole physical and mental life that it cannot be supported very long: the actor taking the principal part finally falls exhausted on the ground.⁷⁰³

These two phases are sharply opposed. In the first, economic activity predominates, and it is generally carried on with little intensity. Gathering the grains or herbs needed for food, or hunting and fishing, does not arouse strong passions.⁶⁹⁹ Because society is dispersed, its life is uniform, sluggish, and dull.⁷⁰⁰ But when a corrobbori takes place, everything changes. The primitive’s emotions and passions are only partly controlled by reason and will, so he easily loses control of himself. Any important event sends him into a frenzy. Does he receive good news? He immediately becomes wildly enthusiastic. In the opposite circumstances, he runs about like a madman and gives himself over to all kinds of uncontrolled movements. He cries and shrieks, rolls in the dust and throws it everywhere. He bites himself and waves his arms furiously, and so on.⁷⁰¹ The gathering itself acts as an exceptionally powerful stimulant. Once the people come together, their gathering creates a kind of electricity. It quickly carries them to an extraordinary pitch of excitement. Every feeling expressed is readily taken up by everyone, because their minds are very open to outside impressions. Each echoes the others and is echoed in turn. The first impulse grows as it spreads, like an avalanche gathering force as it moves. Such intense and uncontrolled passions are bound to burst out. Everywhere one sees violent gestures and hears cries, real howls, and deafening noises of every kind. These make the state of mind they express still more intense. A shared feeling can find collective expression only through some order that allows people to act together and move in unison. So these gestures and cries naturally tend to become rhythmic and regular. Songs and dances arise from them. But they lose none of their natural violence when they take a more regular form. Even an ordered tumult is still a tumult. The human voice is not enough, so people reinforce it with artificial means. They beat boomerangs together and whirl bull-roarers. These instruments are widely used in Australian religious ceremonies. Their main purpose is probably to express the excitement people feel more fully. But while the instruments express that excitement, they also strengthen it. This effervescence often reaches such a pitch that it leads to unheard-of actions. The passions it releases are so fierce that nothing can restrain them. The participants are so far removed from their ordinary lives, and so fully aware of it, that they feel they must place themselves outside and above their ordinary morals. Men and women have sexual relations against the rules governing them. Men exchange wives with one another. Sometimes even incestuous unions are formed openly and without punishment. In normal times, such unions are considered abominable and are severely punished.⁷⁰² The ceremonies generally take place at night, in darkness broken here and there by the light of fires. If we add this to everything else, we can easily imagine the effect such scenes must have on participants. The scenes produce such violent overstimulation of the whole body and mind that it cannot be endured for long. The performer with the principal part finally falls exhausted to the ground.⁷⁰³

To illustrate and make specific this necessarily schematic picture, let us describe certain scenes taken from Spencer and Gillen.

To make this necessarily simplified picture more concrete, let us describe some scenes from Spencer and Gillen.

One of the most important religious ceremonies among the Warramunga is the one concerning the snake Wollunqua. It consists in a series of ceremonies lasting through several days. On the fourth day comes the following scene.

One of the most important religious ceremonies among the Warramunga concerns the snake Wollunqua. It consists of a series of ceremonies lasting several days. On the fourth day, the following scene takes place.

According to the ceremonial used among the Warramunga, representatives of the two phratries take part, one as officiants, the other as preparers and assistants. Only the members of the Uluuru phratry are qualified to celebrate the rite, but the members of the Kingilli phratry must decorate the actors, make ready the place and the instruments, and play the part of an audience. In this capacity, they were charged with making a sort of mound in advance out of wet sand, upon which a design is marked with red down which represents the snake Wollunqua. The real ceremony only commenced after nightfall. Towards ten or eleven o'clock, the Uluuru and Kingilli men arrived on the ground, sat down on the mound and commenced to sing. Everyone was evidently very excited. A little later in the evening, the Uluuru brought up their wives and gave them over to the Kingilli,⁷⁰⁴ who had intercourse with them. Then the recently initiated young men were brought in and the whole ceremony was explained to them in detail, and until three o'clock in the morning singing went on without a pause. Then followed a scene of the wildest excitement. While fires were lighted on all sides, making the whiteness of the gum-trees stand out sharply against the surrounding darkness, the Uluuru knelt down one behind another beside the mound, then rising from the ground they went around it, with a movement in unison, their two hands resting upon their thighs, then a little farther on they knelt down again, and so on. At the same time they swayed their bodies, now to the right and now to the left, while uttering at each movement a piercing cry, a veritable yell, "Yrrsh! Yrrsh! Yrrsh!" In the meantime the Kingilli, in a state of great excitement, clanged their boomerangs and their chief was even more agitated than his companions. When the procession of the Uluuru had twice gone around the mound, quitting the kneeling position, they sat down and commenced to sing again; at moments the singing died away, then suddenly took up again. When day commenced to dawn, all leaped to their feet; the fires that had gone out were relighted and the Uluuru, urged on by the Kingilli, attacked the mound furiously with boomerangs, lances and clubs; in a few minutes it was torn to pieces. The fires died away and profound silence reigned again.⁷⁰⁵

In the Warramunga ceremony, representatives of both phratries took part. One group officiated, while the other prepared and assisted. Only members of the Uluuru phratry were qualified to perform the rite. Members of the Kingilli phratry had to decorate the performers, prepare the site and instruments, and serve as an audience. The Kingilli were responsible for making a mound of wet sand beforehand. On it, they marked a design in red down representing the snake Wollunqua. The ceremony itself began only after nightfall. Around ten or eleven o'clock, the Uluuru and Kingilli men arrived at the site. They sat down on the mound and began to sing. Everyone was clearly very excited. A little later that evening, the Uluuru brought their wives and gave them over to the Kingilli,⁷⁰⁴ who had intercourse with them. Then the recently initiated young men were brought in, and the whole ceremony was explained to them in detail. The singing continued without a pause until three in the morning. Then came a scene of wild excitement. Fires were lit on all sides, making the white gum trees stand out sharply against the surrounding darkness. The Uluuru knelt beside the mound, one behind another. Then they rose and moved around it in unison, both hands resting on their thighs. A little farther on, they knelt again, and continued in this way. As they moved, they swayed their bodies to the right and then to the left. With each movement, they gave a piercing cry, a true yell, "Yrrsh! Yrrsh! Yrrsh!" Meanwhile, the Kingilli, in a state of great excitement, clanged their boomerangs. Their chief was even more agitated than the others. After the Uluuru procession had gone around the mound twice, the men stopped kneeling, sat down, and began singing again. At times the singing died away, then suddenly started up again. As dawn began to break, everyone leaped to their feet. The fires that had gone out were relit. Urged on by the Kingilli, the Uluuru attacked the mound furiously with boomerangs, lances, and clubs. Within a few minutes, they had torn it to pieces. The fires died away, and once again there was profound silence.⁷⁰⁵

A still more violent scene at which these same observers assisted was in connection with the fire ceremonies among the Warramunga.

The same observers witnessed an even more violent scene during the fire ceremonies among the Warramunga.

Commencing at nightfall, all sorts of processions, dances and songs had taken place by torchlight; the general effervescence was constantly increasing. At a given moment, twelve assistants each took a great lighted torch in their hands, and one of them holding his like a bayonet, charged into a group of natives. Blows were warded off with clubs and spears. A general mêlée followed. The men leaped and pranced about, uttering savage yells all the time; the burning torches continually came crashing down on the heads and bodies of the men, scattering lighted sparks in every direction. "The smoke, the blazing torches, the showers of sparks falling in all directions and the masses of dancing, yelling men," say Spencer and Gillen, "formed altogether a genuinely wild and savage scene of which it is impossible to convey any adequate idea in words."⁷⁰⁶

Beginning at nightfall, all kinds of processions, dances, and songs took place by torchlight. The general excitement kept growing. At one point, twelve assistants each took a large burning torch. One of them held his torch like a bayonet and charged into a group of Indigenous people. The blows were blocked with clubs and spears. A general fight followed. The men leaped and pranced about, shouting wild cries all the while. Burning torches kept crashing down on their heads and bodies, scattering sparks in every direction. “The smoke, the blazing torches, the showers of sparks falling in all directions, and the crowds of dancing, shouting men,” say Spencer and Gillen, “together formed a truly wild and savage scene that words cannot adequately describe.”⁷⁰⁶

One can readily conceive how, when arrived at this state of exaltation, a man does not recognize himself any longer. Feeling himself dominated and carried away by some sort of an external power which makes him think and act differently than in normal times, he naturally has the impression of being himself no longer. It seems to him that he has become a new being: the decorations he puts on and the masks that cover his face figure materially in this interior transformation, and to a still greater extent, they aid in determining its nature. And as at the same time all his companions feel themselves transformed in the same way and express this sentiment by their cries, their gestures and their general attitude, everything is just as though he really were transported into a special world, entirely different from the one where he ordinarily lives, and into an environment filled with exceptionally intense forces that take hold of him and metamorphose him. How could such experiences as these, especially when they are repeated every day. for weeks, fail to leave in him the conviction that there really exist two heterogeneous and mutually incomparable worlds? One is that where his daily life drags wearily along; but he cannot penetrate into the other without at once entering into relations with extraordinary powers that excite him to the point of frenzy. The first is the profane world, the second, that of sacred things.

It is easy to see how a man in such an exalted state no longer recognizes himself. He feels dominated and swept away by some kind of external power. This power makes him think and act differently than he normally does, so he naturally feels he is no longer himself. He feels he has become a new being. The decorations he wears and the masks covering his face give physical form to this inner transformation. Even more, they help determine its nature. At the same time, all his companions feel transformed in the same way. They express this feeling through their cries, gestures, and general behavior. Everything is as if he had really been transported into a special world, entirely different from his everyday world. In this world, exceptionally intense forces take hold of him and transform him. How could such experiences fail to convince him that two fundamentally different, incomparable worlds really exist? This is especially true when the experiences are repeated every day for weeks. In one world, his daily life drags wearily along. But he cannot enter the other without immediately coming into contact with extraordinary powers that excite him to frenzy. The first is the profane world. The second is the world of sacred things.

So it is in the midst of these effervescent social environments and out of this effervescence itself that the religious idea seems to be born. The theory that this is really its origin is confirmed by the fact that in Australia the really religious activity is almost entirely confined to the moments when these assemblies are held. To be sure, there is no people among whom the great solemnities of the cult are not more or less periodic; but in the more advanced societies, there is not, so to speak, a day when some prayer or offering is not addressed to the gods and some ritual act is not performed. But in Australia, on the contrary, apart from the celebrations of the clan and tribe, the time is nearly all filled with lay and profane occupations. Of course there are prohibitions that should be and are preserved even during these periods of temporal activity; it is never permissible to kill or eat freely of the totemic animal, at least in those parts where the interdiction has retained its original vigour; but almost no positive rites are then celebrated, and there are no ceremonies of any importance. These take place only in the midst of assembled groups. The religious life of the Australian passes through successive phases of complete lull and of super-excitation, and social life oscillates in the same rhythm. This puts clearly into evidence the bond uniting them to one another, but among the peoples called civilized, the relative continuity of the two blurs their relations. It might even be asked whether the violence of this contrast was not necessary to disengage the feeling of sacredness in its first form. By concentrating itself almost entirely in certain determined moments, the collective life has been able to attain its greatest intensity and efficacy, and consequently to give men a more active sentiment of the double existence they lead and of the double nature in which they participate.

The idea of religion seems to arise from the excitement of these social gatherings. This theory is supported by the fact that, in Australia, religious activity is almost entirely limited to such gatherings. Of course, every people holds its major religious ceremonies at intervals. But in more advanced societies, hardly a day passes without a prayer or offering to the gods, or a ritual act. In Australia, by contrast, apart from clan and tribal celebrations, almost all time is spent on ordinary, nonreligious activities. Of course, some prohibitions remain in force and are observed even during these periods of ordinary activity. People are never permitted to kill or eat the totemic animal freely, at least where the prohibition retains its original force. But almost no active rites and no important ceremonies are performed during these periods. These take place only when groups assemble. The religious life of the Australian passes through alternating phases of complete quiet and intense excitement. Social life follows the same rhythm. This clearly shows the connection between religious and social life. Among peoples called civilized, however, both are relatively continuous, which makes their relationship less clear. One might even ask whether such a sharp contrast was necessary for the first feeling of sacredness to emerge. Because collective life was concentrated almost entirely in certain moments, it could reach its greatest intensity and effectiveness. As a result, it could give people a stronger sense of the double existence they lead and the double nature they share.

But this explanation is still incomplete. We have shown how the clan, by the manner in which it acts upon its members, awakens within them the idea of external forces which dominate them and exalt them; but we must still demand how it happens that these forces are thought of under the form of totems, that is to say, in the shape of an animal or plant.

But this explanation is still incomplete. We have shown how the clan’s actions lead its members to imagine external forces that dominate and uplift them. But we must still ask why these forces are imagined as totems, in the form of an animal or plant.

It is because this animal or plant has given its name to the clan and serves it as emblem. In fact, it is a well-known law that the sentiments aroused in us by something spontaneously attach themselves to the symbol which represents them. For us, black is a sign of mourning; it also suggests sad impressions and ideas. This transference of sentiments comes simply from the fact that the idea of a thing and the idea of its symbol are closely united in our minds; the result is that the emotions provoked by the one extend contagiously to the other. But this contagion, which takes place in every case to a certain degree, is much more complete and more marked when the symbol is something simple, definite and easily representable, while the thing itself, owing to its dimensions, the number of its parts and the complexity of their arrangement, is difficult to hold in the mind. For we are unable to consider an abstract entity, which we can represent only laboriously and confusedly, the source of the strong sentiments which we feel. We cannot explain them to ourselves except by connecting them to some concrete object of whose reality we are vividly aware. Then if the thing itself does not fulfil this condition, it cannot serve as the accepted basis of the sentiments felt, even though it may be what really aroused them. Then some sign takes its place; it is to this that we connect the emotions it excites. It is this which is loved, feared, respected; it is to this that we are grateful; it is for this that we sacrifice ourselves. The soldier who dies for his flag, dies for his country; but as a matter of fact, in his own consciousness, it is the flag that has the first place. It sometimes happens that this even directly determines action. Whether one isolated standard remains in the hands of the enemy or not does not determine the fate of the country, yet the soldier allows himself to be killed to regain it. He loses sight of the fact that the flag is only a sign, and that it has no value in itself, but only brings to mind the reality that it represents; it is treated as if it were this reality itself.

This is because the animal or plant has given its name to the clan and serves as its emblem. It is a well-known principle that our feelings about something naturally attach themselves to the symbol that represents it. For us, black is a sign of mourning. It also brings sad feelings and ideas to mind. This transfer of feelings happens simply because the idea of something and the idea of its symbol are closely connected in our minds. As a result, the emotions one arouses spread to the other. This spread happens to some degree in every case. But it is much more complete and noticeable under certain conditions. The symbol must be simple, definite, and easy to picture. The thing itself, on the other hand, must be difficult to hold in mind. This may be because of its size, its many parts, and the complexity of their arrangement. We cannot regard an abstract entity as the source of our strong feelings when we can picture it only with difficulty and confusion. We can explain these feelings to ourselves only by connecting them to a concrete object whose reality we vividly recognize. If the thing itself does not meet this condition, we cannot accept it as the basis of our feelings, even if it really caused them. A sign then takes the thing’s place, and we connect the emotions the thing arouses to the sign. It is the sign that we love, fear, and respect. We feel grateful to it and sacrifice ourselves for it. A soldier who dies for his flag dies for his country. But in his own mind, the flag actually comes first. Sometimes the flag even directly determines his actions. Whether a single flag remains in enemy hands does not determine the fate of the country. Yet a soldier allows himself to be killed to recover it. He loses sight of the fact that the flag is only a sign. It has no value in itself, but only brings to mind the reality it represents. Instead, he treats it as if it were that reality itself.

Now the totem is the flag of the clan. It is therefore natural that the impressions aroused by the clan in individual minds—impressions of dependence and of increased vitality—should fix themselves to the idea of the totem rather than that of the clan: for the clan is too complex a reality to be represented clearly in all its complex unity by such rudimentary intelligences. More than that, the primitive does not even see that these impressions come to him from the group. He does not know that the coming together of a number of men associated in the same life results in disengaging new energies, which transform each of them. All that he knows is that he is raised above himself and that he sees a different life from the one he ordinarily leads. However, he must connect these sensations to some external object as their cause. Now what does he see about him? On every side those things which appeal to his senses and strike his imagination are the numerous images of the totem. They are the waninga and the nurtunja, which are symbols of the sacred being. They are churinga and bull-roarers, upon which are generally carved combinations of lines having the same significance. They are the decorations covering the different parts of his body, which are totemic marks. How could this image, repeated everywhere and in all sorts of forms, fail to stand out with exceptional relief in his mind? Placed thus in the centre of the scene, it becomes representative. The sentiments experienced fix themselves upon it, for it is the only concrete object upon which they can fix themselves. It continues to bring them to mind and to evoke them even after the assembly has dissolved, for it survives the assembly, being carved upon the instruments of the cult, upon the sides of rocks, upon bucklers, etc. By it, the emotions experienced are perpetually sustained and revived. Everything happens just as if they inspired them directly. It is still more natural to attribute them to it for, since they are common to the group, they can be associated only with something that is equally common to all. Now the totemic emblem is the only thing satisfying this condition. By definition, it is common to all. During the ceremony, it is the centre of all regards. While generations change, it remains the same; it is the permanent element of the social life. So it is from it that those mysterious forces seem to emanate with which men feel that they are related, and thus they have been led to represent these forces under the form of the animate or inanimate being whose name the clan bears.

The totem is the flag of the clan. It is therefore natural that the feelings the clan arouses in individuals should become attached to the idea of the totem rather than the clan. These are feelings of dependence and increased vitality. The clan is too complex for such rudimentary minds to picture clearly as a unified whole. What is more, the primitive person does not even see that these feelings come from the group. He does not know that people living together generate new energies that transform each of them. All he knows is that he feels raised above himself and sees a life different from his ordinary one. Still, he must connect these feelings to some external object as their cause. What does he see around him? Everywhere, the things that appeal to his senses and strike his imagination are the many images of the totem. There are the waninga and the nurtunja, symbols of the sacred being. There are churinga and bull-roarers, usually carved with combinations of lines that have the same meaning. There are also the decorations covering different parts of his body, which are totemic marks. How could this image, repeated everywhere in all kinds of forms, fail to stand out in his mind? At the center of the scene, it comes to represent the clan. The feelings he experiences become attached to the image, because it is the only concrete object they can attach to. The image continues to remind him of these feelings and bring them back even after the gathering has ended. For the image survives the gathering, carved on ritual instruments, rock faces, shields, and other objects. Through the image, the emotions he experienced are continually sustained and revived. Everything happens as if the image directly inspired those emotions. It is even more natural to attribute the emotions to the image because they are shared by the group. They can therefore be associated only with something that everyone shares equally. The totemic emblem is the only thing that meets this condition. By definition, everyone shares it. During the ceremony, it is the focus of everyone's attention. As generations change, it remains the same. It is the permanent element in social life. So the mysterious forces that people feel connected to seem to come from the emblem. In this way, they have come to picture those forces in the form of the living being or object after which the clan is named.

When this point is once established, we are in a position to understand all that is essential in the totemic beliefs.

Once this point is established, we can understand everything essential about totemic beliefs.

Since religious force is nothing other than the collective and anonymous force of the clan, and since this can be represented in the mind only in the form of the totem, the totemic emblem is like the visible body of the god. Therefore, it is from it that those kindly or dreadful actions seem to emanate, which the cult seeks to provoke or prevent; consequently, it is to it that the cult is addressed. This is the explanation of why it holds the first place in the series of sacred things.

Religious force is nothing more than the collective, anonymous force of the clan. The clan can imagine this force only in the form of the totem. So the totemic emblem is like the visible body of the god. The helpful or terrifying actions that religious rites seek to bring about or prevent therefore seem to come from the emblem. As a result, these rites are directed toward the emblem. This explains why the emblem holds first place among sacred things.

But the clan, like every other sort of society, can live only in and through the individual consciousnesses that compose it. So if religious force, in so far as it is conceived as incorporated in the totemic emblem, appears to be outside of the individuals and to be endowed with a sort of transcendence over them, it, like the clan of which it is the symbol, can be realized only in and through them; in this sense, it is imminent in them and they necessarily represent it as such. They feel it present and active within them, for, it is this which raises them to a superior life. This is why men have believed that they contain within them a principle comparable to the one residing in the totem, and consequently, why they have attributed a sacred character to themselves, but one less marked than that of the emblem. It is because the emblem is the pre-eminent source of the religious life; the man participates in it only indirectly, as he is well aware; he takes into account the fact that the force that transports him into the world of sacred things is not inherent in him, but comes to him from the outside.

But the clan, like every other kind of society, can live only in and through the minds of its members. Religious force is understood to be embodied in the totemic emblem. So it appears to exist outside individuals and to transcend them in some way. Yet, like the clan it symbolizes, this force can exist only in and through individuals. In this sense, it is present within them, and they necessarily think of it in this way. They feel the force present and active within them because it raises them to a higher life. This is why people have believed they contain a principle comparable to the one residing in the totem. As a result, they have regarded themselves as sacred, though less sacred than the emblem. This is because the emblem is the primary source of religious life. People know that they participate in it only indirectly. They recognize that the force that carries them into the world of sacred things is not inherent in them. It comes to them from outside.

But for still another reason, the animals or vegetables of the totemic species should have the same character, and even to a higher degree. If the totemic principle is nothing else than the clan, it is the clan thought of under the material form of the totemic emblem; now this form is also that of the concrete beings whose name the clan bears. Owing to this resemblance, they could not fail to evoke sentiments analogous to those aroused by the emblem itself. Since the latter is the object of a religious respect, they too should inspire respect of the same sort and appear to be sacred. Having external forms so nearly identical, it would be impossible for the native not to attribute to them forces of the same nature. It is therefore forbidden to kill or eat the totemic animal, since its flesh is believed to have the positive virtues resulting from the rites; it is because it resembles the emblem of the clan, that is to say, it is in its own image. And since the animal naturally resembles the emblem more than the man does, it is placed on a superior rank in the hierarchy of sacred things. Between these two beings there is undoubtedly a close relationship, for they both partake of the same essence: both incarnate something of the totemic principle. However, since the principle itself is conceived under an animal form, the animal seems to incarnate it more fully than the man. Therefore, if men consider it and treat it as a brother, it is at least as an elder brother.⁷⁰⁷

But there is another reason why the animals or plants of the totemic species should share this sacred character, and even more fully. If the totemic principle is nothing other than the clan, it is the clan imagined in the physical form of the totemic emblem. This form is also the form of the actual beings after which the clan is named. Because of this resemblance, those beings could not fail to evoke feelings like those aroused by the emblem itself. Since the emblem is treated with religious respect, they too should inspire the same kind of respect and appear sacred. Their outward forms are so nearly identical that people could not help attributing forces of the same nature to them. Therefore, killing or eating the totemic animal is forbidden, since its flesh is believed to have the positive powers produced by the rites. This is because the animal resembles the clan’s emblem, that is, the emblem is an image of the animal. And since the animal naturally resembles the emblem more than a person does, it holds a higher place among sacred things. There is undoubtedly a close relationship between the animal and the person, for both share the same essence. Both embody something of the totemic principle. However, since the principle itself is imagined in animal form, the animal seems to embody it more fully than the person does. Therefore, if people regard and treat the animal as a brother, it is at least as an elder brother.⁷⁰⁷

But even if the totemic principle has its preferred seat in a determined species of animal or vegetable, it cannot remain localized there. A sacred character is to a high degree contagious;⁷⁰⁸ it therefore spreads out from the totemic being to everything that is closely or remotely connected with it. The religious sentiments inspired by the animal are communicated to the substances upon which it is nourished and which serve to make or remake its flesh and blood, to the things that resemble it, and to the different beings with which it has constant relations. Thus, little by little, sub-totems are attached to the totems and from the cosmological systems expressed by the primitive classifications. At last, the whole world is divided up among the totemic principles of each tribe.

But even if the totemic principle has its preferred home in a particular animal or plant species, it cannot remain there. Sacredness is highly contagious.⁷⁰⁸ It therefore spreads from the totemic being to everything connected with it, whether closely or remotely. The religious feelings inspired by the animal spread to the substances it eats, which build and rebuild its flesh and blood. These feelings also spread to things that resemble the animal and to the various beings it has constant relationships with. Thus, little by little, sub-totems become attached to totems and from the systems of the universe expressed by early classifications. Finally, the whole world is divided among the totemic principles of each tribe.

We are now able to explain the origin of the ambiguity of religious forces as they appear in history, and how they are physical as well as human, moral as well as material. They are moral powers because they are made up entirely of the impressions this moral being, the group, arouses in those other moral beings, its individual members; they do not translate the manner in which physical things affect our senses, but the way in which the collective consciousness acts upon individual consciousnesses. Their authority is only one form of the moral ascendancy of society over its members. But, on the other hand, since they are conceived of under material forms, they could not fail to be regarded as closely related to material things.⁷⁰⁹ Therefore they dominate the two worlds. Their residence is in men, but at the same time they are the vital principles of things. They animate minds and discipline them, but it is also they who make plants grow and animals reproduce. It is this double nature which has enabled religion to be like the womb from which come all the leading germs of human civilization. Since it has been made to embrace all of reality, the physical world as well as the moral one, the forces that move bodies as well as those that move minds have been conceived in a religious form. That is how the most diverse methods and practices, both those that make possible the continuation of the moral life (law, morals, beaux-arts) and those serving the material life (the natural, technical and practical sciences), are either directly or indirectly derived from religion.⁷¹⁰

We can now explain why religious forces have appeared ambiguous throughout history. They are both physical and human, both moral and material. They are moral powers because they consist entirely of the impressions the group, a moral being, creates in its individual members, who are also moral beings. Religious forces express not how physical things affect our senses, but how collective consciousness acts on individual consciousness. Their authority is simply one form of society’s moral influence over its members. But religious forces are also imagined in material forms. So they could not help being seen as closely connected to material things.⁷⁰⁹ They therefore have power in both worlds. They reside in people, but they are also the vital forces in things. They give life to minds and discipline them, but they also make plants grow and animals reproduce. This double nature has allowed religion to serve as the womb from which all the leading seeds of human civilization emerge. Religion has been made to embrace all of reality, the physical world as well as the moral world. So the forces that move bodies, as well as those that move minds, have been understood in religious terms. That is how the most diverse methods and practices have come, directly or indirectly, from religion.⁷¹⁰ These include the methods and practices that make moral life possible, such as law, morals, and the fine arts, as well as those that serve material life, such as the natural, technical, and practical sciences.

The first religious conceptions have often been attributed to feelings of weakness and dependence, of fear and anguish which seized men when they came into contact with the world. Being the victims of nightmares of which they were themselves the creators, they believed themselves surrounded by hostile and redoubtable powers which their rites sought to appease. We have now shown that the first religions were of a wholly different origin. The famous formula Primus in orbe deos fecit timor is in no way justified by the facts. The primitive does not regard his gods as foreigners, enemies or thoroughly and necessarily malevolent beings whose favours he must acquire at any price; quite on the contrary, they are rather friends, kindred or natural protectors for him. Are these not the names he gives to the beings of the totemic species? The power to which the cult is addressed is not represented as soaring high above him and overwhelming him by its superiority; on the contrary, it is very near to him and confers upon him very useful powers which he could never acquire by himself. Perhaps the deity has never been nearer to men than at this period of history, when it is present in the things filling their immediate environment and is, in part, imminent in himself. In fine, the sentiments at the root of totemism are those of happy confidence rather than of terror and compression. If we set aside the funeral rites—the sober side of every religion—we find the totemic cult celebrated in the midst of songs, dances and dramatic representations. As we shall see, cruel expiations are relatively rare; even the painful and obligatory mutilations of the initiations are not of this character. The terrible and jealous gods appear but slowly in the religious evolution. This is because primitive societies are not those huge Leviathans which overwhelm a man by the enormity of their power and place him under a severe discipline;⁷¹¹ he gives himself up to them spontaneously and without resistance. As the social soul is then made up of only a small number of ideas and sentiments, it easily becomes wholly incarnate in each individual consciousness. The individual carries it all inside of him; it is a part of him and consequently, when he gives himself up to the impulses inspired by it, he does not feel that he is giving way before compulsion, but that he is going where his nature calls him.⁷¹²

The earliest religious ideas have often been attributed to feelings of weakness, dependence, fear, and anguish that seized people when they encountered the world. According to this view, they were victims of nightmares of their own making. They believed hostile and fearsome powers surrounded them, and their rites sought to appease those powers. We have now shown that the first religions had a wholly different origin. The facts do not justify the famous formula Primus in orbe deos fecit timor (fear first made gods in the world). Primitive people do not regard their gods as strangers, enemies, or beings who are always and necessarily malicious, whose favor they must win at any price. On the contrary, the gods are more like friends, relatives, or natural protectors. Are these not the names people give to beings of the totemic species? The power addressed by the cult is not imagined as soaring high above people and overwhelming them with its superiority. On the contrary, it is very near them. It gives them very useful powers they could never acquire on their own. Perhaps the deity has never been closer to people than at this point in history. It is present in the things around them and, in part, within them. In short, the feelings at the root of totemism are those of happy confidence rather than terror and constraint. If we set aside funeral rites, the sober side of every religion, we find the totemic cult celebrated with songs, dances, and dramatic performances. As we shall see, cruel acts of atonement are relatively rare. Even the painful, mandatory mutilations of initiation are not acts of atonement. Terrible and jealous gods appear only slowly in the evolution of religion. This is because primitive societies are not those huge Leviathans that overwhelm people with their enormous power and impose strict discipline on them.⁷¹¹ People give themselves over to these societies willingly and without resistance. At this stage, the social soul consists of only a small number of ideas and feelings. It can therefore easily take full shape in each individual consciousness. Each individual carries the whole social soul within and it is a part of them. So when individuals give in to its impulses, they do not feel forced to do so. They feel they are going where their nature calls them.⁷¹²

This way of understanding the origins of religious thought escapes the objections raised against the most accredited classical theories.

This view of how religious thought began avoids the objections raised against the most widely accepted classical theories.

We have seen how the naturists and animists pretend to construct the idea of sacred beings out of the sensations evoked in us by different phenomena of the physical or biological order, and we have shown how this enterprise is impossible and even self-contradictory. Nothing is worth nothing. The impressions produced in us by the physical world can, by definition, contain nothing that surpasses this world. Out of the visible, only the visible can be made; out of that which is heard, we cannot make something not heard. Then to explain how the idea of sacredness has been able to take form under these conditions, the majority of the theorists have been obliged to admit that men have superimposed upon reality, such as it is given by observation, an unreal world, constructed entirely out of the fantastic images which agitate his mind during a dream, or else out of the frequently monstrous aberrations produced by the mythological imagination under the bewitching but deceiving influence of language. But it remained incomprehensible that humanity should have remained obstinate in these errors through the ages, for experience should have very quickly proven them false.

We have seen how naturists and animists claim to build the idea of sacred beings from our sensations of physical or biological phenomena. We have shown that this attempt is impossible and even self-contradictory. Nothing comes from nothing. By definition, our impressions of the physical world can contain nothing beyond that world. From what is visible, we can make only what is visible. From what we hear, we cannot make something that cannot be heard. To explain how the idea of sacredness could arise under these conditions, most theorists have had to make an assumption. They assume that people have added an unreal world to the reality they observe. This unreal world is made entirely from the fantastic images that disturb the mind during dreams. Or it is made from the often monstrous distortions produced by the mythological imagination under the enchanting but deceptive influence of language. But it remained impossible to understand why humanity had stubbornly held to these errors through the ages. Experience should have proved them false very quickly.

But from our point of view, these difficulties disappear. Religion ceases to be an inexplicable hallucination and takes a foothold in reality. In fact, we can say that the believer is not deceived when he believes in the existence of a moral power upon which he depends and from which he receives all that is best in himself: this power exists, it is society. When the Australian is carried outside himself and feels a new life flowing within him whose intensity surprises him, he is not the dupe of an illusion; this exaltation is real and is really the effect of forces outside of and superior to the individual. It is true that he is wrong in thinking that this increase of vitality is the work of a power in the form of some animal or plant. But this error is merely in regard to the letter of the symbol by which this being is represented to the mind and the external appearance which the imagination has given it, and not in regard to the fact of its existence. Behind these figures and metaphors, be they gross or refined, there is a concrete and living reality. Thus religion acquires a meaning and a reasonableness that the most intransigent rationalist cannot misunderstand. Its primary object is not to give men a representation of the physical world; for if that were its essential task, we could not understand how it has been able to survive, for, on this side, it is scarcely more than a fabric of errors. Before all, it is a system of ideas with which the individuals represent to themselves the society of which they are members, and the obscure but intimate relations which they have with it. This is its primary function; and though metaphorical and symbolic, this representation is not unfaithful. Quite on the contrary, it translates everything essential in the relations which are to be explained: for it is an eternal truth that outside of us there exists something greater than us, with which we enter into communion.

But from our point of view, these difficulties disappear. Religion is no longer an inexplicable hallucination. It has a basis in reality. The believer is not mistaken in believing that a moral power exists, that he depends on it, and that he receives all that is best in himself from it. This power exists: it is society. When the Australian is carried outside himself and feels a surprising intensity of new life flowing within him, he is not deceived by an illusion. His heightened feeling is real, and it really is caused by forces outside and greater than the individual. He is wrong, it is true, to think that this increased vitality comes from a power in the form of an animal or plant. But this error concerns only the literal form of the symbol used to represent this being in his mind. It concerns the outward appearance that imagination has given the being, not the fact that it exists. Behind these figures and metaphors, whether crude or refined, there is a concrete, living reality. Religion therefore gains a meaning and a reasonableness that even the most uncompromising rationalist cannot fail to understand. Its main purpose is not to give people a picture of the physical world. If that were its essential task, we could not understand how it has survived. In that respect, religion is scarcely more than a web of errors. Above all, religion is a system of ideas through which individuals picture the society they belong to. Through these ideas, they also picture their unclear but intimate relationships with that society. This is religion's primary function. Although this picture is metaphorical and symbolic, it is not inaccurate. On the contrary, it expresses everything essential about the relationships it seeks to explain. For it is an eternal truth that something greater than us exists outside us, and that we enter into communion with it.

That is why we can rest assured in advance that the practices of the cult, whatever they may be, are something more than movements without importance and gestures without efficacy. By the mere fact that their apparent function is to strengthen the bonds attaching the believer to his god, they at the same time really strengthen the bonds attaching the individual to the society of which he is a member, since the god is only a figurative expression of the society. We are even able to understand how the fundamental truth thus contained in religion has been able to compensate for the secondary errors which it almost necessarily implies, and how believers have consequently been restrained from tearing themselves off from it, in spite of the misunderstandings which must result from these errors. It is undeniably true that the recipes which it recommends that men use to act upon things are generally found to be ineffective. But these checks can have no profound influence, for they do not touch religion in its fundamentals.⁷¹³

That is why we can be sure in advance that religious practices, whatever they may be, are more than meaningless movements and ineffective gestures. Their apparent purpose is to strengthen the bonds between believers and their god. In doing so, they also strengthen the bonds between individuals and the society to which they belong. This is because the god is only a figurative expression of society. We can even understand how this fundamental truth in religion has been able to compensate for the secondary errors religion almost necessarily involves. We can also understand how this truth has kept believers from abandoning religion, despite the misunderstandings these errors must cause. It is undeniably true that the methods religion recommends for acting on things generally prove ineffective. But these failures can have no profound influence, because they do not touch the foundations of religion.⁷¹³

However, it may be objected that even according to this hypothesis, religion remains the object of a certain delirium. What other name can we give to that state when, after a collective effervescence, men believe themselves transported into an entirely different world from the one they have before their eyes?

However, someone may object that even under this hypothesis, religion remains the object of a kind of delirium. What else can we call the state people enter after a surge of collective excitement? They believe they have been transported into a world entirely different from the one before their eyes.

It is certainly true that religious life cannot attain a certain degree of intensity without implying a psychical exaltation not far removed from delirium. That is why the prophets, the founders of religions, the great saints, in a word, the men whose religious consciousness is exceptionally sensitive, very frequently give signs of an excessive nervousness that is even pathological: these physiological defects predestined them to great religious rôles. The ritual use of intoxicating liquors is to be explained in the same way.⁷¹⁴ Of course this does not mean that an ardent religious faith is necessarily the fruit of the drunkenness and mental derangement which accompany it; but as experience soon informed people of the similarities between the mentality of a delirious person and that of a seer, they sought to open a way to the second by artificially exciting the first. But if, for this reason, it may be said that religion is not without a certain delirium, it must be added that this delirium, if it has the causes which we have attributed to it, is well-founded. The images out of which it is made are not pure illusions like those the naturists and animists put at the basis of religion; they correspond to something in reality. Of course it is only natural that the moral forces they express should be unable to affect the human mind powerfully without pulling it outside itself and without plunging it into a state that may be called ecstatic, provided that the word be taken in its etymological sense (ἔκστασις); but it does not follow that they are imaginary. Quite on the contrary, the mental agitation they cause bears witness to their reality. It is merely one more proof that a very intense social life always does a sort of violence to the organism, as well as to the individual consciousness, which interferes with its normal functioning. Therefore it can last only a limited length of time.⁷¹⁵

Religious life certainly cannot reach a certain intensity without a state of mental excitement close to delirium. That is why prophets, founders of religions, and great saints often show signs of excessive nervousness that is even pathological. In short, this is often true of men whose religious awareness is exceptionally sensitive. These physiological defects predisposed them to play great religious roles. The ritual use of intoxicating drinks can be explained in the same way.⁷¹⁴ Of course, this does not mean that a passionate religious faith is necessarily the product of the drunkenness and mental disturbance that accompany it. But experience soon showed people the similarities between the mind of a delirious person and that of a seer. So they tried to reach the seer’s state by artificially producing delirium. For this reason, we may say that religion involves a certain delirium. But we must add that this delirium is well-founded, if it has the causes we have attributed to it. The images that make up this delirium are not pure illusions like those the naturists and animists place at the basis of religion. They correspond to something real. Of course, the moral forces these images express naturally cannot affect the human mind powerfully without pulling it outside itself. They plunge it into a state that may be called ecstatic, if the word is taken in its etymological sense (ἔκστασις). But this does not mean that the forces are imaginary. On the contrary, the mental agitation they cause testifies to their reality. It is one more proof that a very intense social life always does a kind of violence to the body and to individual consciousness. This violence interferes with their normal functioning. Therefore, a very intense social life can last only for a limited time.⁷¹⁵

Moreover, if we give the name delirious to every state in which the mind adds to the immediate data given by the senses and projects its own sentiments and feelings into things, then nearly every collective representation is in a sense delirious; religious beliefs are only one particular case of a very general law. Our whole social environment seems to us to be filled with forces which really exist only in our own minds. We know what the flag is for the soldier; in itself, it is only a piece of cloth. Human blood is only an organic liquid, but even to-day we cannot see it flowing without feeling a violent emotion which its physico-chemical properties cannot explain. From the physical point of view, a man is nothing more than a system of cells, or from the mental point of view, than a system of representations; in either case, he differs only in degree from animals. Yet society conceives him, and obliges us to conceive him, as invested with a character sui generis that isolates him, holds at a distance all rash encroachments and, in a word, imposes respect. This dignity which puts him into a class by himself appears to us as one of his distinctive attributes, although we can find nothing in the empirical nature of man which justifies it. A cancelled postage stamp may be worth a fortune; but surely this value is in no way implied in its natural properties. In a sense, our representation of the external world is undoubtedly a mere fabric of hallucinations, for the odours, tastes and colours that we put into bodies are not really there, or at least, they are not such as we perceive them. However, our olfactory, gustatory and visual sensations continue to correspond to certain objective states of the things represented; they express in their way the properties, either of material particles or of ether waves, which certainly have their origin in the bodies which we perceive as fragrant, sapid or coloured. But collective representations very frequently attribute to the things to which they are attached qualities which do not exist under any form or to any degree. Out of the commonest object, they can make a most powerful sacred being.

Moreover, suppose we call every state of mind delirious when it adds to what the senses immediately tell us and projects its own feelings into things. Then nearly every collective representation is delirious in a sense. Religious beliefs are only one particular example of a very general law. Our whole social environment seems filled with forces that really exist only in our minds. We know what the flag means to a soldier. In itself, it is only a piece of cloth. Human blood is only an organic liquid. Yet even today, we cannot see it flow without feeling a powerful emotion that its physical and chemical properties cannot explain. Physically, a human being is nothing more than a system of cells. Mentally, a human being is nothing more than a system of representations. In either case, humans differ from animals only in degree. Yet society sees human beings as having a sui generis character, and it requires us to see them the same way. This character sets humans apart, discourages reckless intrusions and, in short, commands respect. This dignity places humans in a class of their own. It seems to us a distinctive human attribute, although we can find nothing in observable human nature to justify it. A canceled postage stamp may be worth a fortune. But surely that value is in no way implied by its natural properties. In a sense, our representation of the external world is undoubtedly a mere fabric of hallucinations. The smells, tastes and colors we place in objects are not really there, or at least they are not as we perceive them. Even so, our sensations of smell, taste and sight correspond to certain objective states of the things they represent. In their own way, these sensations express properties of material particles or ether waves. These properties certainly originate in the objects we perceive as fragrant, flavorful or colored. But collective representations very often attribute qualities to the things they are attached to that do not exist in any form or degree. They can turn the most ordinary object into a powerful sacred being.

Yet the powers which are thus conferred, though purely ideal, act as though they were real; they determine the conduct of men with the same degree of necessity as physical forces. The Arunta who has been rubbed with his churinga feels himself stronger; he is stronger. If he has eaten the flesh of an animal which, though perfectly healthy, is forbidden to him, he will feel himself sick, and may die of it. Surely the soldier who falls while defending his flag does not believe that he sacrifices himself for a bit of cloth. This is all because social thought, owing to the imperative authority that is in it, has an efficacy that individual thought could never have; by the power which it has over our minds, it can make us see things in whatever light it pleases; it adds to reality or deducts from it according to the circumstances. Thus there is one division of nature where the formula of idealism is applicable almost to the letter: this is the social kingdom. Here more than anywhere else, the idea is the reality. Even in this case, of course, idealism is not true without modification. We can never escape the duality of our nature and free ourselves completely from physical necessities: in order to express our own ideas to ourselves, it is necessary, as has been shown above, that we fix them upon material things which symbolize them. But here the part of matter is reduced to a minimum. The object serving as support for the idea is not much in comparison with the ideal superstructure, beneath which it disappears, and also, it counts for nothing in the superstructure. This is what that pseudo-delirium consists in, which we find at the bottom of so many collective representations: it is only a form of this essential idealism.⁷¹⁶ So it is not properly called a delirium, for the ideas thus objectified are well founded, not in the nature of the material things upon which they settle themselves, but in the nature of society.

Yet the powers conferred in this way, though purely ideal, act as if they were real. They govern people’s behavior as necessarily as physical forces do. An Arunta man who has been rubbed with his churinga feels stronger, and he is stronger. If he eats the flesh of an animal forbidden to him, though it is perfectly healthy, he will feel sick. He may even die from it. Surely a soldier who dies defending his flag does not believe he is sacrificing himself for a piece of cloth. All this happens because collective thought has a commanding authority that gives it a power individual thought could never have. Through its power over our minds, collective thought can make us see things in whatever light it chooses. It adds to reality or subtracts from it, depending on the circumstances. So there is one part of nature where the formula of idealism applies almost exactly: the social realm. Here, more than anywhere else, the idea is the reality. Of course, even here, idealism is not true without qualification. We can never escape the duality of our nature or free ourselves completely from physical necessities. As shown above, to express our ideas to ourselves, we must attach them to material things that symbolize them. But here matter plays a minimal part. The object supporting the idea is insignificant compared with the ideal structure built upon it, beneath which it disappears. Nor does the object contribute anything to that structure. This is what the pseudo-delirium underlying so many collective representations consists of. It is only a form of this essential idealism.⁷¹⁶ So it is not properly called a delirium. The ideas made into objects in this way are well founded, not in the nature of the material things they attach to, but in the nature of society.

We are now able to understand how the totemic principle, and in general, every religious force, comes to be outside of the object in which it resides.⁷¹⁷ It is because the idea of it is in no way made up of the impressions directly produced by this thing upon our senses or minds. Religious force is only the sentiment inspired by the group in its members, but projected outside of the consciousnesses that experience them, and objectified. To be objectified, they are fixed upon some object which thus becomes sacred; but any object might fulfil this function. In principle, there are none whose nature predestines them to it to the exclusion of all others; but also there are none that are necessarily impossible.⁷¹⁸ Everything depends upon the circumstances which lead the sentiment creating religious ideas to establish itself here or there, upon this point or upon that one. Therefore, the sacred character assumed by an object is not implied in the intrinsic properties of this latter: it is added to them. The world of religious things is not one particular aspect of empirical nature; it is superimposed upon it.

We can now understand how the totemic principle, and every religious force, exists outside the object in which it resides.⁷¹⁷ This is because our idea of the force is not formed from the impressions the object directly makes on our senses or minds. Religious force is only the feeling the group inspires in its members. But this feeling is projected outside the minds that experience it and given an objective form. To take an objective form, the feeling becomes attached to an object, which then becomes sacred. But any object could serve this purpose. In principle, no object’s nature makes it uniquely suited to this role. Nor is any object necessarily unsuited to it.⁷¹⁸ Everything depends on the circumstances that lead the feeling behind religious ideas to attach itself to one object or another. Therefore, an object’s sacred character is not part of its intrinsic properties. It is added to them. The world of religious things is not one particular aspect of the world we experience. It is superimposed upon it.

This conception of the religious, finally, allows us to explain an important principle found at the bottom of a multitude of myths and rites, and which may be stated thus: when a sacred thing is subdivided, each of its parts remains equal to the thing itself. In other words, as far as religious thought is concerned, the part is equal to the whole; it has the same powers, the same efficacy. The debris of a relic has the same virtue as a relic in good condition. The smallest drop of blood contains the same active principle as the whole thing. The soul, as we shall see, may be broken up into nearly as many pieces as there are organs or tissues in the organism; each of these partial souls is worth a whole soul. This conception would be inexplicable if the sacredness of something were due to the constituent properties of the thing itself; for in that case, it should vary with this thing, increasing and decreasing with it. But if the virtues it is believed to possess are not intrinsic in it, and if they come from certain sentiments which it brings to mind and symbolizes, though these originate outside of it, then, since it has no need of determined dimensions to play this rôle of reminder, it will have the same value whether it is entire or not. Since the part makes us think of the whole, it evokes the same sentiments as the whole. A mere fragment of the flag represents the fatherland just as well as the flag itself: so it is sacred in the same way and to the same degree.⁷¹⁹

Finally, this understanding of religion helps explain an important principle underlying many myths and rites: when a sacred thing is divided, each part remains equal to the whole. In other words, for religious thought, the part is equal to the whole. It has the same powers and the same effectiveness. A fragment of a relic has the same power as an intact relic. The smallest drop of blood contains the same active principle as the whole. As we shall see, the soul may be divided into nearly as many pieces as there are organs or tissues in the body. Each of these partial souls is worth a whole soul. This idea would be inexplicable if a thing were sacred because of its own properties. In that case, its sacredness should vary with the thing, increasing and decreasing with it. But suppose that the powers attributed to the thing are not inherent in it. Suppose instead that they come from feelings that the thing brings to mind and symbolizes, though those feelings originate outside it. The thing need not be a particular size to serve as a reminder. So it will have the same value whether it is whole or not. Because the part makes us think of the whole, it evokes the same feelings as the whole. A mere fragment of a flag represents the fatherland just as well as the flag itself. So the fragment is sacred in the same way and to the same degree.⁷¹⁹

But if this theory of totemism has enabled us to explain the most characteristic beliefs of this religion, it rests upon a fact not yet explained. When the idea of the totem, the emblem of the clan, is given, all the rest follows; but we must still investigate how this idea has been formed. This is a double question and may be subdivided as follows: What has led the clan to choose an emblem? and why have these emblems been borrowed from the animal and vegetable worlds, and particularly from the former?

But although this theory of totemism has helped us explain this religion’s most distinctive beliefs, it rests on a fact that remains unexplained. Once we have the idea of the totem, the clan’s emblem, everything else follows. But we still need to investigate how this idea arose. This question has two parts: What led the clan to choose an emblem? And why were these emblems taken from the animal and plant worlds, especially the animal world?

That an emblem is useful as a rallying-centre for any sort of a group it is superfluous to point out. By expressing the social unity in a material form, it makes this more obvious to all, and for that very reason the use of emblematic symbols must have spread quickly when once thought of. But more than that, this idea should spontaneously arise out of the conditions of common life; for the emblem is not merely a convenient process for clarifying the sentiment society has of itself: it also serves to create this sentiment; it is one of its constituent elements.

It hardly needs saying that an emblem is useful as a rallying point for any kind of group. By giving social unity a physical form, an emblem makes that unity more obvious to everyone. For that very reason, the use of emblems must have spread quickly once people thought of it. But the idea should also arise spontaneously from the conditions of shared life. An emblem does more than simply clarify society’s sense of itself. It also helps create that sense and is one of its essential elements.

In fact, if left to themselves, individual consciousnesses are closed to each other; they can communicate only by means of signs which express their internal states. If the communication established between them is to become a real communion, that is to say, a fusion of all particular sentiments into one common sentiment, the signs expressing them must themselves be fused into one single and unique resultant. It is the appearance of this that informs individuals that they are in harmony and makes them conscious of their moral unity. It is by uttering the same cry, pronouncing the same word, or performing the same gesture in regard to some object that they become and feel themselves to be in unison. It is true that individual representations also cause reactions in the organism that are not without importance; however, they can be thought of apart from these physical reactions which accompany them or follow them, but which do not constitute them. But it is quite another matter with collective representations. They presuppose that minds act and react upon one another; they are the product of these actions and reactions which are themselves possible only through material intermediaries. These latter do not confine themselves to revealing the mental state with which they are associated; they aid in creating it. Individual minds cannot come in contact and communicate with each other except by coming out of themselves; but they cannot do this except by movements. So it is the homogeneity of these movements that gives the group consciousness of itself and consequently makes it exist. When this homogeneity is once established and these movements have once taken a stereotyped form, they serve to symbolize the corresponding representations. But they symbolize them only because they have aided in forming them.

In fact, if left to themselves, individual minds are closed to one another. They can communicate only through signs that express their inner states. But communication must become real communion, a merging of all individual feelings into one shared feeling. For this to happen, the signs expressing those feelings must themselves merge into a single result. When this result appears, it tells individuals that they are in harmony and makes them aware of their moral unity. By giving the same cry, saying the same word, or making the same gesture toward an object, they come to act and feel in unison. Individual representations also produce physical reactions in the body that are not without importance. However, we can think of individual representations apart from these reactions. The reactions accompany or follow the representations, but they do not make them what they are. Collective representations are quite different. They depend on minds acting and reacting upon one another. They are the product of these actions and reactions, which are possible only through physical means. These physical means do more than reveal the mental state associated with them. They also help create it. Individual minds can come into contact and communicate with one another only by reaching outside themselves. But they can do this only through movements. So it is the sameness of these movements that gives the group awareness of itself and, consequently, brings it into existence. Once this sameness is established and the movements take a fixed form, they serve to symbolize the corresponding representations. But they symbolize those representations only because they helped form them.

Moreover, without symbols, social sentiments could have only a precarious existence. Though very strong as long as men are together and influence each other reciprocally, they exist only in the form of recollections after the assembly has ended, and when left to themselves, these become feebler and feebler; for since the group is now no longer present and active, individual temperaments easily regain the upper hand. The violent passions which may have been released in the heart of a crowd fall away and are extinguished when this is dissolved, and men ask themselves with astonishment how they could ever have been so carried away from their normal character. But if the movements by which these sentiments are expressed are connected with something that endures, the sentiments themselves become more durable. These other things are constantly bringing them to mind and arousing them; it is as though the cause which excited them in the first place continued to act. Thus these systems of emblems, which are necessary if society is to become conscious of itself, are no less indispensable for assuring the continuation of this consciousness.

Moreover, without symbols, shared feelings could survive only precariously. They are very strong as long as people are together and influence one another. But after the gathering ends, they exist only as memories. Left to themselves, these memories grow weaker and weaker. Because the group is no longer present and active, individual temperaments easily regain the upper hand. The intense passions that may have erupted in a crowd fade and die out when it disperses. People then ask themselves in astonishment how they could have acted so far out of character. But if the actions that express these feelings are connected to something lasting, the feelings themselves become more durable. These lasting things constantly remind people of the feelings and stir them up again. It is as if the cause that first aroused the feelings were still at work. Thus, these systems of emblems are necessary for society to become conscious of itself. They are just as essential for keeping that consciousness alive.

So we must refrain from regarding these symbols as simple artifices, as sorts of labels attached to representations already made, in order to make them more manageable: they are an integral part of them. Even the fact that collective sentiments are thus attached to things completely foreign to them is not purely conventional: it illustrates under a conventional form a real characteristic of social facts, that is, their transcendence over individual minds. In fact, it is known that social phenomena are born, not in individuals, but in the group. Whatever part we may take in their origin, each of us receives them from without.⁷²⁰ So when we represent them to ourselves as emanating from a material object, we do not completely misunderstand their nature. Of course they do not come from the specific thing to which we connect them, but nevertheless, it is true that their origin is outside of us. If the moral force sustaining the believer does not come from the idol he adores or the emblem he venerates, still it is from outside of him, as he is well aware. The objectivity of its symbol only translates its externalness.

So we must not regard these symbols as mere devices, like labels attached to ready-made ideas to make them easier to handle. The symbols are an essential part of the ideas. Collective feelings are attached to things entirely unrelated to them, but even this is not purely a matter of convention. In a conventional form, it illustrates a real feature of social facts: they exist beyond individual minds. We know that social phenomena arise in the group, not in individuals. Whatever part we may play in their origin, each of us receives them from outside ourselves.⁷²⁰ So when we imagine that social phenomena come from a material object, we do not completely misunderstand their nature. Of course, they do not come from the particular thing we connect them with. But their origin is still outside us. The moral force that sustains a believer does not come from the idol he worships or the emblem he honors. Still, that force comes from outside him, as he well knows. The symbol is an object outside the believer, and this simply expresses the fact that the force is external.

Thus social life, in all its aspects and in every period of its history, is made possible only by a vast symbolism. The material emblems and figurative representations with which we are more especially concerned in our present study, are one form of this; but there are many others. Collective sentiments can just as well become incarnate in persons or formulæ: some formulæ are flags, while there are persons, either real or mythical, who are symbols. But there is one sort of emblem which should make an early appearance without reflection or calculation: this is tattooing. Indeed, well-known facts demonstrate that it is produced almost automatically in certain conditions. When men of an inferior culture are associated in a common life, they are frequently led, by an instinctive tendency, as it were, to paint or cut upon the body, images that bear witness to their common existence. According to a text of Procopius, the early Christians printed on their skin the name of Christ or the sign of the cross;⁷²¹ for a long time, the groups of pilgrims going to Palestine were also tattooed on the arm or wrist with designs representing the cross or the monogram of Christ.⁷²² This same usage is also reported among the pilgrims going to certain holy places in Italy.⁷²³ A curious case of spontaneous tattooing is given by Lombroso: twenty young men in an Italian college, when on the point of separating, decorated themselves with tattoos recording, in various ways, the years they had spent together.⁷²⁴ The same fact has frequently been observed among the soldiers in the same barracks, the sailors in the same boat, or the prisoners in the same jail.⁷²⁵ It will be understood that especially where methods are still rudimentary, tattooing should be the most direct and expressive means by which the communion of minds can be affirmed. The best way of proving to one's self and to others that one is a member of a certain group is to place a distinctive mark on the body. The proof that this is the reason for the existence of the totemic image is the fact, which we have already mentioned, that it does not seek to reproduce the aspect of the thing it is supposed to represent. It is made up of lines and points to which a wholly conventional significance is attributed.⁷²⁶ Its object is not to represent or bring to mind a determined object, but to bear witness to the fact that a certain number of individuals participate in the same moral life.

Thus, social life in all its aspects and at every period of its history is possible only through extensive symbolism. The material emblems and visual representations that chiefly concern us in this study are one form of symbolism. But there are many others. Shared feelings can also take shape in people or formulas. Some formulas are flags, while some people, real or mythical, are symbols. But one kind of emblem should appear early, without thought or calculation: tattooing. Indeed, well-known facts show that tattooing arises almost automatically under certain conditions. When people of a less developed culture share a common life, they often paint or cut images into their bodies. They seem to do this through an instinctive tendency, and the images testify to their shared existence. According to a text by Procopius, early Christians marked their skin with the name of Christ or the sign of the cross.⁷²¹ For a long time, groups of pilgrims going to Palestine also had tattoos on their arms or wrists. These designs represented the cross or the monogram of Christ.⁷²² The same practice is also reported among pilgrims going to certain holy places in Italy.⁷²³ Lombroso gives a curious example of spontaneous tattooing. Twenty young men at an Italian college were about to go their separate ways. They tattooed themselves with designs that recorded, in various ways, the years they had spent together.⁷²⁴ The same practice has often been observed among soldiers in the same barracks, sailors on the same boat, or prisoners in the same jail.⁷²⁵ It is easy to see why tattooing should be the most direct and expressive way to affirm a shared spirit, especially where methods are still rudimentary. The best way to show oneself and others that one belongs to a group is to place a distinctive mark on the body. We have already noted a fact that proves this is the reason the totemic image exists: it does not try to reproduce the appearance of the thing it is supposed to represent. It consists of lines and points given a wholly conventional meaning.⁷²⁶ Its purpose is not to represent or call to mind a particular object. Rather, it testifies that a certain number of individuals share the same moral life.

Moreover, the clan is a society which is less able than any other to do without an emblem or symbol, for there is almost no other so lacking in consistency. The clan cannot be defined by its chief, for if central authority is not lacking, it is at least uncertain and unstable.⁷²⁷ Nor can it be defined by the territory it occupies, for the population, being nomad,⁷²⁸ is not closely attached to any special locality. Also, owing to the exogamic law, husband and wife must be of different totems; so wherever the totem is transmitted in the maternal line—and this system of filiation is still the most general one⁷²⁹—the children are of a different clan from their father, though living near to him. Therefore we find representatives of a number of different clans in each family, and still more in each locality. The unity of the group is visible, therefore, only in the collective name borne by all the members, and in the equally collective emblem reproducing the object designated by this name. A clan is essentially a reunion of individuals who bear the same name and rally around the same sign. Take away the name and the sign which materializes it, and the clan is no longer representable. Since the group is possible only on this condition, both the institution of the emblem and the part it takes in the life of the group are thus explained.

Moreover, a clan needs an emblem or symbol more than almost any other society, because it has so little internal unity. A clan cannot be defined by its chief. Even where central authority exists, it is uncertain and unstable.⁷²⁷ Nor can a clan be defined by its territory. Its people are nomadic,⁷²⁸ so they are not closely attached to any particular place. The law of exogamy also requires husbands and wives to have different totems. Wherever totems are passed down through the mother, children therefore belong to a different clan from their father, though they live near him. This system of descent is still the most common.⁷²⁹ As a result, each family contains members of several clans, and each locality contains even more. The group’s unity is visible only in the shared name all its members bear and in the shared emblem. This emblem depicts the object named. A clan is essentially a gathering of individuals who share a name and come together around the same sign. Take away the name and the sign that gives it material form, and the clan can no longer be represented. The group is possible only with a name and a sign. This explains both why the emblem exists and the role it plays in the group’s life.

It remains to ask why these names and emblems were taken almost exclusively from the animal and vegetable kingdoms, but especially from the former.

We still need to ask why these names and emblems came almost exclusively from animals and plants, especially animals.

It seems probable to us that the emblem has played a more important part than the name. In any case, the written sign still holds a more central place in the life of the clan to-day than does the spoken sign. Now the basis of an emblematic image can be found only in something susceptible of being represented by a design. On the other hand, these things had to be those with which the men of the clan were the most immediately and habitually coming in contact. Animals fulfilled this condition to a pre-eminent degree. For these nations of hunters and fishers, the animal constituted an essential element of the economic environment. In this connection plants had only a secondary place for they can hold only a secondary place as food as long as they are not cultivated. Moreover, the animal is more closely associated with the life of men than the plant is, if only because of the natural kinship uniting these two to each other. On the other hand, the sun, moon and stars are too far away, they give the effect of belonging to another world.⁷³⁰ Also, as long as the constellations were not distinguished and classified, the starry vault did not offer a sufficient diversity of clearly differentiated things to be able to mark all the clans and sub-clans of a tribe; but, on the contrary, the variety of the flora, and especially of the fauna, was almost inexhaustible. Therefore celestial bodies, in spite of their brilliancy and the sharp impression they make upon the senses, were unfitted for the rôle of totems, while animals and plants seemed predestined to it.

It seems likely to us that the emblem has played a more important role than the name. In any case, the written sign still holds a more central place in clan life today than the spoken sign. An emblematic image can only be based on something that can be shown in a design. Moreover, these things had to be what the men of the clan encountered most directly and regularly. Animals met this condition especially well. For these nations of hunters and fishers, animals were an essential part of their economic environment. Plants were less important in this respect because they can only be a secondary food source as long as they are not cultivated. Animals are also more closely connected with human life than plants are. This is so, if only because of the natural kinship between animals and humans. The sun, moon, and stars, on the other hand, are too far away. They seem to belong to another world.⁷³⁰ Also, as long as the constellations were not distinguished and classified, the starry sky lacked enough clearly distinct things to mark all the clans and sub-clans of a tribe. By contrast, the variety of plants, and especially animals, was almost inexhaustible. So, despite their brightness and the strong impression they make on the senses, celestial bodies were unsuitable as totems. Animals and plants, meanwhile, seemed destined for that role.

Ah observation of Strehlow even allows us to state precisely the way in which these emblems were probably chosen. He says that he has noticed that the totemic centres are generally situated near a mountain, spring or gorge where the animals serving as totems to the group gather in abundance, and he cites a certain number of examples of this fact.⁷³¹ Now these totemic centres are surely the consecrated places where the meetings of the clan are held. So it seems as though each group had taken as its insignia the animal or plant that was the commonest in the vicinity of the place where it had the habit of meeting.⁷³²

An observation by Strehlow even allows us to say exactly how these emblems were probably chosen. He says he has noticed that totemic centers are generally near a mountain, spring, or gorge. In these places, the animals that serve as the group’s totems gather in abundance. He cites several examples of this.⁷³¹ Now, these totemic centers are surely the sacred places where the clan meets. So it seems that each group chose as its emblem the animal or plant most common near its usual meeting place.⁷³²

This conception of totemism will give us the explanation of a very curious trait of human mentality which, even though more marked formerly than to-day, has not yet disappeared and which, in any case, has been of considerable importance in the history of human thought. It will furnish still another occasion for showing how logical evolution is closely connected with religious evolution and how it, like this latter, depends upon social conditions.⁷³³

This understanding of totemism will explain a very curious feature of human thinking. Although more pronounced in the past than today, this feature has not disappeared. In any case, it has been very important in the history of human thought. This understanding will also provide another opportunity to show how closely the development of logic is connected to the development of religion. Like the development of religion, the development of logic depends on social conditions.⁷³³

If there is one truth which appears to be absolutely certain to-day, it is that beings differing not only in their outward appearance but also in their most essential properties, such as minerals, plants, animals and men, cannot be considered equivalent and interchangeable. Long usage, which scientific culture has still more firmly embedded in our minds, has taught us to establish barriers between the kingdoms, whose existence transformism itself does not deny; for though this admits that life may have arisen from non-living matter and men from animals, still, it does not fail to recognize the fact that living beings, once formed, are different from minerals, and men different from animals. Within each kingdom the same barriers separate the different classes: we cannot conceive of one mineral having the same distinctive characteristics as another, or of one animal species having those of another species. But these distinctions, which seem so natural to us, are in no way primitive. In the beginning, all the kingdoms are confounded with each other. Rocks have a sex; they have the power of begetting; the sun, moon and stars are men or women who feel and express human sentiments, while men, on the contrary, are thought of as animals or plants. This state of confusion is found at the basis of all mythologies. Hence comes the ambiguous character of the beings portrayed in the mythologies; they can be classified in no definite group, for they participate at the same time in the most opposed groups. It is also readily admitted that they can go from one into another; and for a long time men believed that they were able to explain the origin of things by these transmutations.

If one truth seems absolutely certain today, it is that minerals, plants, animals, and humans are not equivalent or interchangeable. They differ not only in appearance but also in their most essential properties. Long experience has taught us to draw boundaries between these kingdoms. Scientific knowledge has made these boundaries even firmer in our minds. Even transformism, the theory that species change over time, does not deny these boundaries. Although it allows that life may have arisen from nonliving matter and humans from animals, it still recognizes their differences. Once living beings have formed, they are different from minerals, and humans are different from animals. Within each kingdom, similar boundaries separate the different classes. We cannot imagine one mineral having the same distinctive characteristics as another, or one animal species having those of another. But these distinctions, which seem so natural to us, are not primitive at all. In the beginning, all the kingdoms are mixed together. Rocks have a sex and can reproduce. The sun, moon, and stars are men or women who feel and express human emotions. Humans, in turn, are thought of as animals or plants. This state of confusion lies at the foundation of all mythologies. It gives the beings portrayed in mythologies their ambiguous character. They cannot be assigned to any definite group because they belong at once to the most opposed groups. It is also readily accepted that these beings can pass from one group into another. For a long time, people believed they could explain the origin of things through these transformations.

That the anthropomorphic instinct, with which the animists have endowed primitive men, cannot explain their mental condition is shown by the nature of the confusions of which they are guilty. In fact, these do not come from the fact that men have immoderately extended the human kingdom to the point of making all the others enter into it, but from the fact that they confound the most disparate kingdoms. They have not conceived the world in their own image any more than they have conceived themselves in the world's image: they have done both at the same time. Into the idea they have formed of things, they have undoubtedly made human elements enter; but into the idea they have formed of themselves, they have made enter elements coming from things.

The nature of these confusions shows that the anthropomorphic instinct cannot explain the mental condition of primitive people. Animists have attributed this instinct to them. The confusions do not arise because people have extended the human realm so far that it includes every other realm. Rather, they arise because people confuse the most different realms. They have imagined the world in their own image no more than they have imagined themselves in the world’s image. They have done both at once. They have undoubtedly included human elements in their idea of things. But they have also included elements from things in their idea of themselves.

Yet there is nothing in experience which could suggest these connections and confusions. As far as the observation of the senses is able to go, everything is different and disconnected. Nowhere do we really see beings mixing their natures and metamorphosing themselves into each other. It is therefore necessary that some exceptionally powerful cause should have intervened to transfigure reality in such a way as to make it appear under an aspect that is not really its own.

Yet nothing in experience could suggest these connections and confusions. As far as our senses can observe, everything is different and separate. We never actually see beings combining their natures or changing into one another. Therefore, some exceptionally powerful cause must have intervened and transformed reality, making it appear different from what it really is.

It is religion that was the agent of this transfiguration; it is religious beliefs that have substituted for the world, as it is perceived by the senses, another different one. This is well shown by the case of totemism. The fundamental thing in this religion is that the men of the clan and the different beings whose form the totemic emblems reproduce pass as being made of the same essence. Now when this belief was once admitted, the bridge between the different kingdoms was already built. The man was represented as a sort of animal or plant; the plants and animals were thought of as the relatives of men, or rather, all these beings, so different for the senses, were thought of as participating in a single nature. So this remarkable aptitude for confusing things that seem to be obviously distinct comes from the fact that the first forces with which the human intellect has peopled the world were elaborated by religion. Since these were made up of elements taken from the different kingdoms, men conceived a principle common to the most heterogeneous things, which thus became endowed with a sole and single essence.

Religion brought about this transformation. Religious beliefs replaced the world perceived by the senses with a different one. Totemism shows this clearly. The central belief of this religion is that clan members share the same essence as the beings depicted in their totemic emblems. Once this belief was accepted, a bridge had already been built between the different kingdoms of nature. A person was seen as a kind of animal or plant. Plants and animals were thought of as relatives of humans. More precisely, all these beings, though so different to the senses, were thought to share a single nature. This explains the remarkable ability to confuse things that seem obviously distinct. The first forces with which the human mind filled the world were created by religion. These forces were made up of elements drawn from the different kingdoms of nature. So people conceived of a principle common to the most diverse things, which thus came to share a single essence.

But we also know that these religious conceptions are the result of determined social causes. Since the clan cannot exist without a name and an emblem, and since this emblem is always before the eyes of men, it is upon this, and the objects whose image it is, that the sentiments which society arouses in its members are fixed. Men were thus compelled to represent the collective force, whose action they felt, in the form of the thing serving as flag to the group. Therefore, in the idea of this force were mixed up the most different kingdoms; in one sense, it was essentially human, since it was made up of human ideas and sentiments; but at the same time, it could not fail to appear as closely related to the animate or inanimate beings who gave it its outward form. Moreover, the cause whose action we observe here is not peculiar to totemism; there is no society where it is not active. In a general way, a collective sentiment can become conscious of itself only by being fixed upon some material object;⁷³⁴ but by this very fact, it participates in the nature of this object, and reciprocally, the object participates in its nature. So it was social necessity which brought about the fusion of notions appearing distinct at first, and social life has facilitated this fusion by the great mental effervescences it determines.⁷³⁵ This is one more proof that logical understanding is a function of society, for it takes the forms and attitudes that this latter presses upon it.

But we also know that these religious beliefs result from specific social causes. A clan cannot exist without a name and an emblem. Since its members always see the emblem, the feelings society arouses in them become attached to it and to the objects it represents. People were therefore compelled to imagine the collective force they felt acting upon them in the form of the thing serving as the group’s flag. As a result, their idea of this force combined very different realms. In one sense, the force was essentially human, since it consisted of human ideas and feelings. But it also inevitably seemed closely related to the living or nonliving things that gave it its outward form. Moreover, the cause at work here is not unique to totemism. It is active in every society. In general, a collective feeling can become conscious of itself only by becoming attached to a material object.⁷³⁴ But this means that the feeling takes on the nature of the object, and the object takes on the nature of the feeling. Thus, social necessity brought about the fusion of ideas that at first seemed distinct. Social life has also made this fusion easier through the intense mental excitement it creates.⁷³⁵ This is further proof that logical understanding is a function of society. Logical understanding takes the forms and attitudes that society impresses upon it.

It is true that this logic is disconcerting for us. Yet we must be careful not to depreciate it: howsoever crude it may appear to us, it has been an aid of the greatest importance in the intellectual evolution of humanity. In fact, it is through it that the first explanation of the world has been made possible. Of course the mental habits it implies prevented men from seeing reality as their senses show it to them; but as they show it, it has the grave inconvenience of allowing of no explanation. For to explain is to attach things to each other and to establish relations between them which make them appear to us as functions of each other and as vibrating sympathetically according to an internal law founded in their nature. But sensations, which see nothing except from the outside, could never make them disclose these relations and internal bonds; the intellect alone can create the notion of them. When I learn that A regularly precedes B, my knowledge is increased by a new fact; but my intelligence is not at all satisfied with a statement which does not show its reason. I commence to understand only if it is possible for me to conceive B in a way that makes it appear to me as something that is not foreign to A, and as united to A by some relation of kinship. The great service that religions have rendered to thought is that they have constructed a first representation of what these relations of kinship between things may be. In the circumstances under which it was attempted, the enterprise could obviously attain only precarious results. But then, does it ever attain any that are definite, and is it not always necessary to reconsider them? And also, it is less important to succeed than to try. The essential thing was not to leave the mind enslaved to visible appearances, but to teach it to dominate them and to connect what the senses separated; for from the moment when men have an idea that there are internal connections between things, science and philosophy become possible. Religion opened up the way for them. But if it has been able to play this part, it is only because it is a social affair. In order to make a law for the impressions of the senses and to substitute a new way of representing reality for them, thought of a new sort had to be founded: this is collective thought. If this alone has had this efficacy, it is because of the fact that to create a world of ideals through which the world of experienced realities would appear transfigured, a super-excitation of the intellectual forces was necessary, which is possible only in and through society.

This logic is certainly unsettling to us. Yet we must be careful not to dismiss it. However crude it may seem, it has been enormously important to humanity’s intellectual development. In fact, it made the first explanation of the world possible. The habits of mind behind this logic kept people from seeing reality as their senses showed it to them. But reality as the senses show it has a serious disadvantage: it allows for no explanation. To explain things is to connect them and establish relationships between them. These relationships make the things appear to depend on one another and respond to one another. They seem to do so according to an internal law grounded in their nature. But the senses see things only from the outside. They could never reveal these relationships and internal bonds. Only the intellect can create the idea of them. When I learn that A regularly comes before B, I have learned a new fact. But my intellect is not satisfied by a statement that gives no reason for this order. I begin to understand only if I can conceive of B as something related to A, not foreign to it. Religion has done a great service to thought by creating a first picture of what these relationships between things might be. Given the circumstances in which this was attempted, the results could obviously only be uncertain. But are the results ever definitive? Must they not always be reconsidered? Besides, trying is less important than succeeding? The essential thing was not to leave the mind enslaved to visible appearances. It was to teach the mind to master appearances and connect what the senses kept apart. Once people have the idea that things are connected internally, science and philosophy become possible. Religion opened the way for them. But religion could play this role only because it is a social affair. Thought of a new kind had to be established to govern the impressions of the senses. It also had to replace those impressions with a new way of representing reality. This new kind of thought is collective thought. Only collective thought has had this power because creating a world of ideals required an extraordinary stimulation of intellectual powers. Through that world of ideals, the world of experienced reality would appear transformed. Such stimulation is possible only in and through society.

So it is far from true that this mentality has no connection with ours. Our logic was born of this logic. The explanations of contemporary science are surer of being objective because they are more methodical and because they rest on more carefully controlled observations, but they do not differ in nature from those which satisfy primitive thought. To-day, as formerly, to explain is to show how one thing participates in one or several others. It has been said that the participations of this sort implied by the mythologies violate the principle of contradiction and that they are by that opposed to those implied by scientific explanations.⁷³⁶ Is not the statement that a man is a kangaroo or the sun a bird, equal to identifying the two with each other? But our manner of thought is not different when we say of heat that it is a movement, or of light that it is a vibration of the ether, etc. Every time that we unite heterogeneous terms by an internal bond, we forcibly identify contraries. Of course the terms we unite are not those which the Australian brings together; we choose them according to different criteria and for different reasons; but the processes by which the mind puts them in connection do not differ essentially.

So it is far from true that this way of thinking has no connection with ours. Our logic grew out of it. The explanations of modern science are more certain to be objective. This is because they are more methodical and based on more carefully controlled observations. But they do not differ in nature from the explanations that satisfy primitive thought. Today, as in the past, to explain something is to show how it participates in one or more other things. Some have said that the participations implied by mythologies violate the principle of contradiction. They claim that these participations therefore differ from those implied by scientific explanations.⁷³⁶ If we say that a man is a kangaroo or that the sun is a bird, are we not treating the two as identical? But our way of thinking is no different when we say that heat is movement or that light is a vibration of the ether, and so on. Whenever we link different kinds of things by an internal bond, we necessarily treat opposites as identical. Of course, the things we link are not the things the Australian brings together. We choose them by different standards and for different reasons. But the mental processes that connect them do not differ essentially.

It is true that if primitive thought had that sort of general and systematic indifference to contradictions which has been attributed to it,⁷³⁷ it would be in open contradiction on this point with modern thought, which is always careful to remain consistent with itself. But we do not believe that it is possible to characterize the mentality of inferior societies by a single and exclusive inclination for indistinction. If the primitive confounds things which we distinguish, he also distinguishes things which we connect together, and he even conceives these distinctions in the form of sharp and clear-cut oppositions. Between two things which are classified in two different phratries, there is not only separation, but even antagonism.⁷³⁸ For this reason, the same Australian who confounds the sun and the white cockatoo, opposes this latter to the black cockatoo as to its contrary. The two seem to him to belong to two separate classes between which there is nothing in common. A still more marked opposition is that existing between sacred things and profane things. They repel and contradict each other with so much force that the mind refuses to think of them at the same time. They mutually expel each other from the consciousness.

It is true that some have attributed a general and systematic indifference to contradictions to primitive thought.⁷³⁷ If that were true, primitive thought would directly contradict modern thought, which is always careful to remain consistent. But we do not believe that the mentality of inferior societies can be characterized by a single, exclusive tendency to blur distinctions. Primitive people may confuse things that we distinguish. But they also distinguish things that we connect, and even see these distinctions as sharp, clear-cut oppositions. Two things classified in different phratries are not merely separate. They are even opposed to each other.⁷³⁸ For this reason, the same Australian who confuses the sun with the white cockatoo sees the white cockatoo as the opposite of the black cockatoo. To him, the two cockatoos belong to separate classes that have nothing in common. The opposition between sacred and profane things is even stronger. They repel and contradict each other so strongly that the mind refuses to think of them at the same time. Each drives the other out of consciousness.

Thus between the logic of religious thought and that of scientific thought there is no abyss. The two are made up of the same elements, though inequally and differently developed. The special characteristic of the former seems to be its natural taste for immoderate confusions as well as sharp contrasts. It is voluntarily excessive in each direction. When it connects, it confounds; when it distinguishes, it opposes. It knows no shades and measures, it seeks extremes; it consequently employs logical mechanisms with a certain awkwardness, but it ignores none of them.

There is no great divide between the logic of religious thought and that of scientific thought. Both are made up of the same elements, though these elements have developed differently and to different degrees. Religious thought seems to have a natural taste for both excessive confusion and sharp contrasts. It deliberately goes too far in both directions. When it connects things, it mixes them up. When it distinguishes them, it sets them against each other. It recognizes no shades or degrees and seeks extremes. As a result, it uses logical methods somewhat awkwardly, but it ignores none of them.