Conclusion

At the beginning of this work we announced that the religion whose study we were taking up contained within it the most characteristic elements of the religious life. The exactness of this proposition may now be verified. Howsoever simple the system which we have studied may be, we have found within it all the great ideas and the principal ritual attitudes which are at the basis of even the most advanced religions: the division of things into sacred and profane, the notions of the soul, of spirits, of mythical personalities, and of a national and even international divinity, a negative cult with ascetic practices which are its exaggerated form, rites of oblation and communion, imitative rites, commemorative rites and expiatory rites; nothing essential is lacking. We are thus in a position to hope that the results at which we have arrived are not peculiar to totemism alone, but can aid us in an understanding of what religion in general is.

At the beginning of this work, we said that the religion we were about to study contained the most characteristic elements of religious life. We can now see that this claim is correct. However simple the religious system we studied may be, we found in it all the major ideas and ritual practices that underlie even the most advanced religions. These include the division of things into sacred and profane, and the ideas of the soul, spirits, mythical figures, and a national and even international divinity. They also include a negative cult, whose exaggerated form is ascetic practice, and rites of offering and communion, as well as imitative, commemorative, and expiatory rites. Nothing essential is missing. We can therefore hope that our findings apply not only to totemism but can also help us understand religion in general.

It may be objected that one single religion, whatever its field of extension may be, is too narrow a base for such an induction. We have not dreamed for a moment of ignoring the fact that an extended verification may add to the authority of a theory, but it is equally true that when a law has been proven by one well-made experiment, this proof is valid universally. If in one single case a scientist succeeded in finding out the secret of the life of even the most protoplasmic creature that can be imagined, the truths thus obtained would be applicable to all living beings, even the most advanced. Then if, in our studies of these very humble societies, we have really succeeded in discovering some of the elements out of which the most fundamental religious notions are made up, there is no reason for not extending the most general results of our researches to other religions. In fact, it is inconceivable that the same effect may be due now to one cause, now to another, according to the circumstances, unless the two causes are at bottom only one. A single idea cannot express one reality here and another one there, unless the duality is only apparent. If among certain peoples the ideas of sacredness, the soul and God are to be explained sociologically, it should be presumed scientifically that, in principle, the same explanation is valid for all the peoples among whom these same ideas are found with the same essential characteristics. Therefore, supposing that we have not been deceived, certain at least of our conclusions can be legitimately generalized. The moment has come to disengage these. And an induction of this sort, having at its foundation a clearly defined experiment, is less adventurous than many summary generalizations which, while attempting to reach the essence of religion at once, without resting upon the careful analysis of any religion in particular, greatly risk losing themselves in space.

One might object that a single religion, however widespread, is too narrow a basis for such a generalization. We have never for a moment ignored the fact that wider testing can lend a theory greater authority. But it is equally true that once a law has been proven by one well-designed experiment, the proof is universally valid. Suppose a scientist discovered the secret of life in a single case, even in the simplest imaginable protoplasmic creature. The truths discovered would apply to all living beings, even the most advanced. In our studies of these very simple societies, we may have discovered some elements that make up the most fundamental religious ideas. If so, there is no reason not to apply the most general results of our research to other religions. The same effect cannot conceivably have one cause in some circumstances and another cause in others, unless the two causes are fundamentally one. A single idea cannot express one reality in one place and another elsewhere, unless the difference is only apparent. Among certain peoples, the ideas of sacredness, the soul, and God may be explained in social terms. If so, we should assume, on scientific grounds, that the same explanation applies in principle to all peoples whose ideas share the same essential characteristics. Therefore, if we have not been mistaken, at least some of our conclusions can legitimately be generalized. The time has come to draw out those conclusions. Such a generalization rests on a clearly defined experiment. It is less adventurous than many sweeping generalizations that try to grasp the essence of religion at once. Because those generalizations do not rest on a careful analysis of any particular religion, they run a great risk of losing themselves in empty space.

The theorists who have undertaken to explain religion in rational terms have generally seen in it before all else a system of ideas, corresponding to some determined object. This object has been conceived in a multitude of ways: nature, the infinite, the unknowable, the ideal, etc.; but these differences matter but little. In any case, it was the conceptions and beliefs which were considered as the essential elements of religion. As for the rites, from this point of view they appear to be only an external translation, contingent and material, of these internal states which alone pass as having any intrinsic value. This conception is so commonly held that generally the disputes of which religion is the theme turn about the question whether it can conciliate itself with science or not, that is to say, whether or not there is a place beside our scientific knowledge for another form of thought which would be specifically religious.

Theorists who have tried to explain religion in rational terms have generally seen it primarily as a system of ideas about some particular object. They have understood this object in many ways: nature, the infinite, the unknowable, the ideal, and so on. But these differences matter little. In every case, they have considered ideas and beliefs to be the essential elements of religion. From this point of view, rites appear to be merely an outward, incidental, and material expression of these inner states. Only the inner states are considered valuable in themselves. This view is so common that debates about religion generally focus on whether it can be reconciled with science. In other words, they focus on whether there is room alongside scientific knowledge for a distinctively religious form of thought.

But the believers, the men who lead the religious life and have a direct sensation of what it really is, object to this way of regarding it, saying that it does not correspond to their daily experience. In fact, they feel that the real function of religion is not to make us think, to enrich our knowledge, nor to add to the conceptions which we owe to science others of another origin and another character, but rather, it is to make us act, to aid us to live. The believer who has communicated with his god is not merely a man who sees new truths of which the unbeliever is ignorant; he is a man who is stronger. He feels within him more force, either to endure the trials of existence, or to conquer them. It is as though he were raised above the miseries of the world, because he is raised above his condition as a mere man; he believes that he is saved from evil, under whatever form he may conceive this evil. The first article in every creed is the belief in salvation by faith. But it is hard to see how a mere idea could have this efficacy. An idea is in reality only a part of ourselves; then how could it confer upon us powers superior to those which we have of our own nature? Howsoever rich it might be in affective virtues, it could add nothing to our natural vitality; for it could only release the motive powers which are within us, neither creating them nor increasing them. From the mere fact that we consider an object worthy of being loved and sought after, it does not follow that we feel ourselves stronger afterwards; it is also necessary that this object set free energies superior to these which we ordinarily have at our command and also that we have some means of making these enter into us and unite themselves to our interior lives. Now for that, it is not enough that we think of them; it is also indispensable that we place ourselves within their sphere of action, and that we set ourselves where we may best feel their influence; in a word, it is necessary that we act, and that we repeat the acts thus necessary every time we feel the need of renewing their effects. From this point of view, it is readily seen how that group of regularly repeated acts which form the cult get their importance. In fact, whoever has really practised a religion knows very well that it is the cult which gives rise to these impressions of joy, of interior peace, of serenity, of enthusiasm which are, for the believer, an experimental proof of his beliefs. The cult is not simply a system of signs by which the faith is outwardly translated; it is a collection of the means by which this is created and recreated periodically. Whether it consists in material acts or mental operations, it is always this which is efficacious.

But believers, who live a religious life and know directly what it is, object to this view. They say it does not match their daily experience. They feel that religion’s real function is not to make us think or enrich our knowledge. Nor is it to add ideas of a different origin and character to those we gain from science. Rather, religion makes us act and helps us live. A believer who has communicated with his god does not merely see new truths unknown to the unbeliever. He is stronger. He feels a greater power within him, either to endure life’s trials or to overcome them. It is as if he has risen above the miseries of the world. This is because he has risen above his condition as a mere human being. He believes he is saved from evil, whatever form he believes evil takes. The first article of every creed is the belief in salvation through faith. But it is hard to see how an idea alone could have this effect. An idea is really only a part of ourselves. How, then, could it give us powers beyond those we naturally possess? However rich an idea may be in emotional power, it can add nothing to our natural vitality. It can only release the forces within us that move us to act. It can neither create nor increase them. Simply believing that something is worth loving and seeking does not mean we feel stronger afterward. The object must also release energies greater than those we ordinarily have at our command. We must have some way to take these energies into ourselves and make them part of our inner lives. To do this, thinking about them is not enough. We must also put ourselves within their range of action, where we can best feel their influence. In short, we must act. We must also repeat the necessary acts whenever we feel the need to renew their effects. From this point of view, it is easy to see the importance of the regularly repeated acts that form the cult. Anyone who has truly practiced a religion knows that the cult produces feelings of joy, inner peace, serenity, and enthusiasm. For believers, these feelings are proof of their beliefs based on experience. The cult is not simply a system of signs that outwardly expresses faith. It is a collection of means by which faith is created and periodically recreated. Whether the cult consists of physical acts or mental operations, it is always the cult that produces the effect.

Our entire study rests upon this postulate that the unanimous sentiment of the believers of all times cannot be purely illusory. Together with a recent apologist of the faith¹³⁰¹ we admit that these religious beliefs rest upon a specific experience whose demonstrative value is, in one sense, not one bit inferior to that of scientific experiments, though different from them. We, too, think that "a tree is known by its fruits,"¹³⁰² and that fertility is the best proof of what the roots are worth. But from the fact that a "religious experience," if we choose to call it this, does exist and that it has a certain foundation—and, by the way, is there any experience which has none?—it does not follow that the reality which is its foundation conforms objectively to the idea which believers have of it. The very fact that the fashion in which it has been conceived has varied infinitely in different times is enough to prove that none of these conceptions express it adequately. If a scientist states it as an axiom that the sensations of heat and light which we feel correspond to some objective cause, he does not conclude that this is what it appears to the senses to be. Likewise, even if the impressions which the faithful feel are not imaginary, still they are in no way privileged intuitions; there is no reason for believing that they inform us better upon the nature of their object than do ordinary sensations upon the nature of bodies and their properties. In order to discover what this object consists of, we must submit them to an examination and elaboration analogous to that which has substituted for the sensuous idea of the world another which is scientific and conceptual.

Our entire study rests on the assumption that the shared feelings of believers in all times cannot be purely illusory. Like a recent defender of the faith¹³⁰¹, we accept that religious beliefs rest on a distinct kind of experience. In one sense, this experience has no less value as evidence than scientific experiments, though it differs from them. We, too, think that "a tree is known by its fruits,"¹³⁰² and that fertility is the best proof of the roots’ worth. But the existence of a "religious experience," if we choose to call it that, does not settle the question. Such experience has some basis (and, for that matter, is there any experience that has none?). But it does not follow that the underlying reality objectively matches believers’ ideas of it. Ideas of that reality have varied endlessly across different times. That alone is enough to prove that none of them adequately expresses it. A scientist takes it as an axiom that our sensations of heat and light correspond to some objective cause. But the scientist does not conclude that this cause is what it appears to our senses to be. Likewise, even if believers’ impressions are not imaginary, they are in no way privileged insights. There is no reason to think they tell us more about the nature of their object than ordinary sensations tell us about bodies and their properties. To discover what the object consists of, we must examine and develop these impressions. This process must be like the one that replaced the sensory idea of the world with a scientific and conceptual one.

This is precisely what we have tried to do, and we have seen that this reality, which mythologies have represented under so many different forms, but which is the universal and eternal objective cause of these sensations sui generis out of which religious experience is made, is society. We have shown what moral forces it develops and how it awakens this sentiment of a refuge, of a shield and of a guardian support which attaches the believer to his cult. It is that which raises him outside himself; it is even that which made him. For that which makes a man is the totality of the intellectual property which constitutes civilization, and civilization is the work of society. Thus is explained the preponderating rôle of the cult in all religions, whichever they may be. This is because society cannot make its influence felt unless it is in action, and it is not in action unless the individuals who compose it are assembled together and act in common. It is by common action that it takes consciousness of itself and realizes its position; it is before all else an active co-operation. The collective ideas and sentiments are even possible only owing to these exterior movements which symbolize them, as we have established.¹³⁰³ Then it is action which dominates the religious life, because of the mere fact that it is society which is its source.

This is precisely what we have tried to do. We have seen that this reality is society. Mythologies have represented it in many different forms. Yet society is the universal and eternal objective cause of the sensations sui generis that make up religious experience. We have shown what moral forces society develops. We have also shown how it gives the believer a sense of refuge, protection, and support. This sense binds the believer to religious worship. Society lifts the believer outside himself. It is even what made him. For what makes a person is the whole body of intellectual resources that constitutes civilization, and civilization is society’s work. This explains the dominant role of worship in all religions, whatever they may be. Society can make its influence felt only when it acts. And it acts only when its members gather together and act in common. Through common action, society becomes conscious of itself and realizes its position. Above all, society is active cooperation. As we have established, collective ideas and feelings are possible only because of the outward movements that symbolize them.¹³⁰³ Thus action dominates religious life simply because society is its source.

In addition to all the reasons which have been given to justify this conception, a final one may be added here, which is the result of our whole work. As we have progressed, we have established the fact that the fundamental categories of thought, and consequently of science, are of religious origin. We have seen that the same is true for magic and consequently for the different processes which have issued from it. On the other hand, it has long been known that up until a relatively advanced moment of evolution, moral and legal rules have been indistinguishable from ritual prescriptions. In summing up, then, it may be said that nearly all the great social institutions have been born in religion.¹³⁰⁴ Now in order that these principal aspects of the collective life may have commenced by being only varied aspects of the religious life, it is obviously necessary that the religious life be the eminent form and, as it were, the concentrated expression of the whole collective life. If religion has given birth to all that is essential in society, it is because the idea of society is the soul of religion.

Besides all the reasons already given to support this view, we can add one final reason. It follows from our work as a whole. We have established that the fundamental categories of thought, and therefore of science, have religious origins. We have seen that the same is true of magic and, consequently, of the various practices that developed from it. We have also long known that moral and legal rules remained indistinguishable from ritual prescriptions until a relatively advanced stage of evolution. In short, nearly all the great social institutions were born in religion.¹³⁰⁴ These major aspects of collective life began as different aspects of religious life. For that to be possible, religious life must clearly be the foremost form of collective life and, as it were, its concentrated expression. If religion gave birth to everything essential in society, it is because the idea of society is the soul of religion.

Religious forces are therefore human forces, moral forces. It is true that since collective sentiments can become conscious of themselves only by fixing themselves upon external objects, they have not been able to take form without adopting some of their characteristics from other things: they have thus acquired a sort of physical nature; in this way they have come to mix themselves with the life of the material world, and then have considered themselves capable of explaining what passes there. But when they are considered only from this point of view and in this rôle, only their most superficial aspect is seen. In reality, the essential elements of which these collective sentiments are made have been borrowed by the understanding. It ordinarily seems that they should have a human character only when they are conceived under human forms;¹³⁰⁵ but even the most impersonal and the most anonymous are nothing else than objectified sentiments.

Religious forces are therefore human forces, moral forces. Collective feelings can become aware of themselves only by attaching themselves to external objects. So they could not take shape without taking on some characteristics of other things. In this way, they acquired a kind of physical nature. They thus became mixed up with the life of the material world and came to see themselves as capable of explaining what happens there. But when we consider religious forces only from this point of view and in this role, we see only their most superficial aspect. In reality, the essential elements of these collective feelings have been borrowed by the understanding. We usually think that such feelings have a human character only when we imagine them in human form.¹³⁰⁵ But even the most impersonal and anonymous are nothing more than feelings made into objects.

It is only by regarding religion from this angle that it is possible to see its real significance. If we stick closely to appearances, rites often give the effect of purely manual operations: they are anointings, washings, meals. To consecrate something, it is put in contact with a source of religious energy, just as to-day a body is put in contact with a source of heat or electricity to warm or electrize it; the two processes employed are not essentially different. Thus understood, religious technique seems to be a sort of mystic mechanics. But these material manœuvres are only the external envelope under which the mental operations are hidden. Finally, there is no question of exercising a physical constraint upon blind and, incidentally, imaginary forces, but rather of reaching individual consciousnesses, of giving them a direction and of disciplining them. It is sometimes said that inferior religions are materialistic. Such an expression is inexact. All religions, even the crudest, are in a sense spiritualistic: for the powers they put in play are before all spiritual, and also their principal object is to act upon the moral life. Thus it is seen that whatever has been done in the name of religion cannot have been done in vain: for it is necessarily the society that did it, and it is humanity that has reaped the fruits.

Only by looking at religion from this angle can we see its real significance. If we focus on appearances, rites often seem to be purely physical actions: anointing, washing, or eating. To consecrate something, people put it in contact with a source of religious energy. This is just as we put an object in contact with a source of heat or electricity to warm or electrify it. The two processes are not essentially different. Understood this way, religious practice seems like a kind of mystical mechanics. But these physical actions are only an outer covering for the mental processes beneath them. Ultimately, the point is not to exert physical force on blind forces, which are imaginary anyway. Rather, the point is to reach individual minds, give them direction, and discipline them. People sometimes say that less developed religions are materialistic. That is not quite right. All religions, even the crudest, are spiritual in a sense. The powers they call upon are above all spiritual, and their main purpose is to influence moral life. So whatever has been done in the name of religion cannot have been done in vain. Society itself must have done it, and humanity has reaped the rewards.

But, it is said, what society is it that has thus made the basis of religion? Is it the real society, such as it is and acts before our very eyes, with the legal and moral organization which it has laboriously fashioned during the course of history? This is full of defects and imperfections. In it, evil goes beside the good, injustice often reigns supreme, and the truth is often obscured by error. How could anything so crudely organized inspire the sentiments of love, the ardent enthusiasm and the spirit of abnegation which all religions claim of their followers? These perfect beings which are gods could not have taken their traits from so mediocre, and sometimes even so base a reality.

But, people ask, what society has made up the basis of religion in this way? Is it real society, as we see it exist and act before our eyes? Is it society with the legal and moral organization it has painstakingly built over the course of history? This society is full of flaws and imperfections. In it, evil exists alongside good, injustice often prevails, and error often obscures the truth. How could something so crudely organized inspire the love, passionate enthusiasm, and self-sacrifice that all religions demand of their followers? Gods are perfect beings. They could not have taken their qualities from a reality so mediocre, and sometimes even so base.

But, on the other hand, does someone think of a perfect society, where justice and truth would be sovereign, and from which evil in all its forms would be banished for ever? No one would deny that this is in close relations with the religious sentiment; for, they would say, it is towards the realization of this that all religions strive. But that society is not an empirical fact, definite and observable; it is a fancy, a dream with which men have lightened their sufferings, but in which they have never really lived. It is merely an idea which comes to express our more or less obscure aspirations towards the good, the beautiful and the ideal. Now these aspirations have their roots in us; they come from the very depths of our being; then there is nothing outside of us which can account for them. Moreover, they are already religious in themselves; thus it would seem that the ideal society presupposes religion, far from being able to explain it.¹³⁰⁶

But, on the other hand, what if someone imagines a perfect society? In that society, justice and truth would rule, and evil in all its forms would be banished forever. No one would deny that this vision is closely connected to religious feeling. They would say that all religions strive to bring such a society into being. But that society is not a definite, observable fact. It is a fantasy, a dream that people have used to ease their suffering, but in which they have never actually lived. It is only an idea that expresses our more or less vague aspirations toward goodness, beauty, and the ideal. These aspirations have their roots within us. They come from the depths of our being, so nothing outside us can explain them. Moreover, they are already religious in themselves. So it would seem that the ideal society presupposes religion, rather than being able to explain it.¹³⁰⁶

But, in the first place, things are arbitrarily simplified when religion is seen only on its idealistic side: in its way, it is realistic. There is no physical or moral ugliness, there are no vices or evils which do not have a special divinity. There are gods of theft and trickery, of lust and war, of sickness and of death. Christianity itself, howsoever high the idea which it has made of the divinity may be, has been obliged to give the spirit of evil a place in its mythology. Satan is an essential piece of the Christian system; even if he is an impure being, he is not a profane one. The anti-god, is a god, inferior and subordinated, it is true, but nevertheless endowed with extended powers; he is even the object of rites, at least of negative ones. Thus religion, far from ignoring the real society and making abstraction of it, is in its image; it reflects all its aspects, even the most vulgar and the most repulsive. All is to be found there, and if in the majority of cases we see the good victorious over evil, life over death, the powers of light over the powers of darkness, it is because reality is not otherwise. If the relation between these two contrary forces were reversed, life would be impossible; but, as a matter of fact, it maintains itself and even tends to develop.

First, it is an arbitrary simplification to see religion only in terms of its ideals. In its own way, religion is realistic. Every kind of physical or moral ugliness, every vice and evil, has its own deity. There are gods of theft and trickery, lust and war, sickness and death. Even Christianity, however lofty its idea of divinity, has had to give the spirit of evil a place in its mythology. Satan is an essential part of the Christian system. Although he is an impure being, he is not profane. The anti-god is a god, though an inferior and subordinate one, and he has extensive powers. He is even the object of rites, at least negative ones. So religion does not ignore real society or leave it out of account. Instead, religion is made in society’s image. It reflects every aspect of society, even the most vulgar and repulsive. Everything is found in religion. In most cases, we see good triumph over evil, life over death, and the powers of light over the powers of darkness. That is because reality is no different. If the balance between these opposing forces were reversed, life would be impossible. But in fact, life continues and even tends to develop.

But if, in the midst of these mythologies and theologies we see reality clearly appearing, it is none the less true that it is found there only in an enlarged, transformed and idealized form. In this respect, the most primitive religions do not differ from the most recent and the most refined. For example, we have seen how the Arunta place at the beginning of time a mythical society whose organization exactly reproduces that which still exists to-day; it includes the same clans and phratries, it is under the same matrimonial rules and it practises the same rites. But the personages who compose it are ideal beings, gifted with powers and virtues to which common mortals cannot pretend. Their nature is not only higher, but it is different, since it is at once animal and human. The evil powers there undergo a similar metamorphosis: evil itself is, as it were, made sublime and idealized. The question now raises itself of whence this idealization comes.

But although we can clearly see reality in these mythologies and theologies, it appears only in an enlarged, transformed, and idealized form. In this respect, the most primitive religions are no different from the most recent and refined. For example, we have seen how the Arunta place a mythical society at the beginning of time. Its organization exactly reproduces the one that still exists today. It includes the same clans and phratries, follows the same marriage rules, and practices the same rites. But its members are ideal beings, with powers and virtues beyond the reach of ordinary mortals. Their nature is not only higher but different, since they are both animal and human. Evil powers undergo a similar transformation: evil itself is, as it were, made sublime and idealized. The question now is where this idealization comes from.

Some reply that men have a natural faculty for idealizing, that is to say, of substituting for the real world another different one, to which they transport themselves by thought. But that is merely changing the terms of the problem; it is not resolving it or even advancing it. This systematic idealization is an essential characteristic of religions. Explaining them by an innate power of idealization is simply replacing one word by another which is the equivalent of the first; it is as if they said that men have made religions because they have a religious nature. Animals know only one world, the one which they perceive by experience, internal as well as external. Men alone have the faculty of conceiving the ideal, of adding something to the real. Now where does this singular privilege come from? Before making it an initial fact or a mysterious virtue which escapes science, we must be sure that it does not depend upon empirically determinable conditions.

Some reply that people have a natural ability to idealize. In other words, they can replace the real world with a different one and enter it in thought. But this merely restates the problem. It does not solve the problem or even bring us closer to a solution. This systematic idealization is an essential feature of religions. Explaining religions by an inborn ability to idealize simply replaces one word with another that means the same thing. It is like saying that people have made religions because they have a religious nature. Animals know only one world, the world they perceive through inner and outer experience. Only people can conceive of an ideal and add something to reality. Where does this remarkable privilege come from? Before treating it as a basic fact or a mysterious power beyond science, we must be sure of something. We must be sure that it does not depend on conditions that can be determined through observation.

The explanation of religion which we have proposed has precisely this advantage, that it gives an answer to this question. For our definition of the sacred is that it is something added to and above the real: now the ideal answers to this same definition; we cannot explain one without explaining the other. In fact, we have seen that if collective life awakens religious thought on reaching a certain degree of intensity, it is because it brings about a state of effervescence which changes the conditions of psychic activity. Vital energies are over-excited, passions more active, sensations stronger; there are even some which are produced only at this moment. A man does not recognize himself; he feels himself transformed and consequently he transforms the environment which surrounds him. In order to account for the very particular impressions which he receives, he attributes to the things with which he is in most direct contact properties which they have not, exceptional powers and virtues which the objects of every-day experience do not possess. In a word, above the real world where his profane life passes he has placed another which, in one sense, does not exist except in thought, but to which he attributes a higher sort of dignity than to the first. Thus, from a double point of view it is an ideal world.

The explanation of religion we have proposed has the advantage of answering this question. We define the sacred as something added to reality and placed above it. The ideal fits the same definition. We cannot explain one without explaining the other. We have seen that collective life awakens religious thought when it reaches a certain intensity. It does so because it produces a state of excitement that changes how the mind works. Vital energies become intensely aroused, passions more active, and sensations stronger. Some sensations arise only at such moments. A person no longer recognizes himself. He feels transformed and, as a result, transforms the world around him. To explain the unusual impressions he receives, he attributes qualities to the things closest to him that they do not have. He gives them exceptional powers and virtues that everyday objects do not possess. In short, he places another world above the real world, where he lives his ordinary, nonreligious life. In one sense, this other world exists only in thought. Yet he considers it more dignified than the real world. In both senses, then, it is an ideal world.

The formation of the ideal world is therefore not an irreducible fact which escapes science; it depends upon conditions which observation can touch; it is a natural product of social life. For a society to become conscious of itself and maintain at the necessary degree of intensity the sentiments which it thus attains, it must assemble and concentrate itself. Now this concentration brings about an exaltation of the mental life which takes form in a group of ideal conceptions where is portrayed the new life thus awakened; they correspond to this new set of psychical forces which is added to those which we have at our disposition for the daily tasks of existence. A society can neither create itself nor recreate itself without at the same time creating an ideal. This creation is not a sort of work of supererogation for it, by which it would complete itself, being already formed; it is the act by which it is periodically made and remade. Therefore when some oppose the ideal society to the real society, like two antagonists which would lead us in opposite directions, they materialize and oppose abstractions. The ideal society is not outside of the real society; it is a part of it. Far from being divided between them as between two poles which mutually repel each other, we cannot hold to one without holding to the other. For a society is not made up merely of the mass of individuals who compose it, the ground which they occupy, the things which they use and the movements which they perform, but above all is the idea which it forms of itself. It is undoubtedly true that it hesitates over the manner in which it ought to conceive itself; it feels itself drawn in divergent directions. But these conflicts which break forth are not between the ideal and reality, but between two different ideals, that of yesterday and that of to-day, that which has the authority of tradition and that which has the hope of the future. There is surely a place for investigating whence these ideals evolve; but whatever solution may be given to this problem, it still remains that all passes in the world of the ideal.

The formation of the ideal world is therefore not a basic fact beyond the reach of science. It depends on conditions that can be observed. It is a natural product of social life. A society must come together and concentrate itself to become aware of itself. It must also do so to maintain the resulting feelings at the necessary intensity. This concentration heightens mental life. The heightened mental life takes shape in a set of ideal conceptions that portray the new life it has awakened. These conceptions correspond to a new set of mental forces. These forces add to those available to us for the daily tasks of existence. A society can neither create nor recreate itself without also creating an ideal. Creating an ideal is not an extra task that society undertakes to complete itself once it is already formed. Rather, it is the act through which society is periodically made and remade. Some therefore set the ideal society against the real society, as if they were antagonists pulling us in opposite directions. But in doing so, they treat abstractions as real things and set them against each other. The ideal society is not outside the real society. It is part of the real society. Far from being divided between two poles that repel each other, we cannot hold to one without holding to the other. A society consists of more than the people who make it up, the land they occupy, and the things they use. It consists of more than the actions they perform. Above all, a society is the idea it forms of itself. It is undoubtedly true that a society hesitates over how it should think of itself. It feels itself drawn in different directions. But the conflicts that break out are not between the ideal and reality. They are between two different ideals: yesterday’s ideal and today’s, the ideal backed by tradition and the one that holds hope for the future. There is certainly room to investigate where these ideals come from. But whatever answer is given to that question, everything still takes place in the world of the ideal.

Thus the collective ideal which religion expresses is far from being due to a vague innate power of the individual, but it is rather at the school of collective life that the individual has learned to idealize. It is in assimilating the ideals elaborated by society that he has become capable of conceiving the ideal. It is society which, by leading him within its sphere of action, has made him acquire the need of raising himself above the world of experience and has at the same time furnished him with the means of conceiving another. For society has constructed this new world in constructing itself, since it is society which this expresses. Thus both with the individual and in the group, the faculty of idealizing has nothing mysterious about it. It is not a sort of luxury which a man could get along without, but a condition of his very existence. He could not be a social being, that is to say, he could not be a man, if he had not acquired it. It is true that in incarnating themselves in individuals, collective ideals tend to individualize themselves. Each understands them after his own fashion and marks them with his own stamp; he suppresses certain elements and adds others. Thus the personal ideal disengages itself from the social ideal in proportion as the individual personality develops itself and becomes an autonomous source of action. But if we wish to understand this aptitude, so singular in appearance, of living outside of reality, it is enough to connect it with the social conditions upon which it depends.

The collective ideal expressed by religion does not come from some vague, inborn power of the individual. Rather, individuals learn to imagine ideals through collective life. By absorbing the ideals created by society, they become capable of conceiving an ideal. Society draws individuals into its sphere of activity and makes them feel the need to rise above the world of experience. At the same time, society gives them the means to conceive of another world. For society has constructed this new world in constructing itself, since the new world expresses society. So the ability to imagine ideals is not mysterious, either in individuals or in groups. It is not a kind of luxury that a person could do without. It is a condition of existence itself. Without this ability, a person could not be a social being, that is, a human being. It is true that collective ideals tend to become individualized when they take shape in individuals. Each person understands them in a personal way and leaves a personal mark on them, removing some elements and adding others. Thus, the personal ideal emerges from the social ideal as individual personality develops and becomes an independent source of action. But this seemingly strange ability to live outside reality can be understood by relating it to the social conditions it depends on.

Therefore it is necessary to avoid seeing in this theory of religion a simple restatement of historical materialism: that would be misunderstanding our thought to an extreme degree. In showing that religion is something essentially social, we do not mean to say that it confines itself to translating into another language the material forms of society and its immediate vital necessities. It is true that we take it as evident that social life depends upon its material foundation and bears its mark, just as the mental life of an individual depends upon his nervous system and in fact his whole organism. But collective consciousness is something more than a mere epiphenomenon of its morphological basis, just as individual consciousness is something more than a simple efflorescence of the nervous system. In order that the former may appear, a synthesis sui generis of particular consciousnesses is required. Now this synthesis has the effect of disengaging a whole world of sentiments, ideas and images which, once born, obey laws all their own. They attract each other, repel each other, unite, divide themselves, and multiply, though these combinations are not commanded and necessitated by the condition of the underlying reality. The life thus brought into being even enjoys so great an independence that it sometimes indulges in manifestations with no purpose or utility of any sort, for the mere pleasure of affirming itself. We have shown that this is often precisely the case with ritual activity and mythological thought.¹³⁰⁷

We must therefore avoid treating this theory of religion as a simple restatement of historical materialism. That would be a profound misunderstanding of our thought. When we show that religion is essentially social, we do not mean that it merely translates society's material forms and immediate needs into another language. We do take it as evident that social life depends on its material foundation and bears its mark. Similarly, an individual's mental life depends on the nervous system and, indeed, the whole organism. But collective consciousness is more than a mere byproduct of its structural foundation. Individual consciousness, likewise, is more than a simple outgrowth of the nervous system. For collective consciousness to emerge, individual consciousnesses must come together in a synthesis sui generis (of its own kind). This synthesis releases a whole world of feelings, ideas, and images. Once these arise, they follow laws of their own. They attract and repel one another, unite, divide, and multiply. Yet the condition of the underlying reality does not dictate or require these combinations. The life brought into being in this way is so independent that it sometimes expresses itself without any purpose or use, simply for the pleasure of affirming itself. We have shown that this is often exactly the case with ritual activity and mythological thought.¹³⁰⁷

But if religion is the product of social causes, how can we explain the individual cult and the universalistic character of certain religions? If it is born in foro externo, how has it been able to pass into the inner conscience of the individual and penetrate there ever more and more profoundly? If it is the work of definite and individualized societies, how has it been able to detach itself from them, even to the point of being conceived as something common to all humanity?

But if religion is a product of social causes, how can we explain individual worship and the universal character of certain religions? If religion is born in foro externo, in the external world, how has it entered the individual's inner consciousness? How has it reached ever deeper into that consciousness? If religion is the work of particular, distinct societies, how has it become detached from them? How has it even come to be seen as something common to all humanity?

In the course of our studies, we have met with the germs of individual religion and of religious cosmopolitanism, and we have seen how they were formed; thus we possess the more general elements of the reply which is to be given to this double question.

In our studies, we have encountered the beginnings of individual religion and religious cosmopolitanism. We have seen how they formed. So we have the general elements needed to answer this two-part question.

We have shown how the religious force which animates the clan particularizes itself, by incarnating itself in particular consciousnesses. Thus secondary sacred beings are formed; each individual has his own, made in his own image, associated to his own intimate life, bound up with his own destiny; it is the soul, the individual totem, the protecting ancestor, etc. These beings are the object of rites which the individual can celebrate by himself, outside of any group; this is the first form of the individual cult. To be sure, it is only a very rudimentary cult; but since the personality of the individual is still only slightly marked, and but little value is attributed to it, the cult which expresses it could hardly be expected to be very highly developed as yet. But as individuals have differentiated themselves more and more and the value of an individual has increased, the corresponding cult has taken a relatively greater place in the totality of the religious life and at the same time it is more fully closed to outside influences.

We have shown how the religious force that gives life to the clan takes particular forms in individual minds. In this way, secondary sacred beings are formed. Each individual has sacred beings of their own, made in their own image. These beings are connected to the individual’s inner life and bound up with their destiny. They include the soul, the individual totem, the protecting ancestor, and so on. Individuals can perform rites for these beings on their own, outside any group. This is the first form of individual worship. Of course, this worship is only very rudimentary. But individual personality is still only slightly developed, and little value is placed on it. So the worship that expresses individual personality could hardly be expected to be highly developed yet. But as individuals have become more distinct from one another, and the value of the individual has increased, individual worship has come to occupy a relatively greater place in religious life as a whole. At the same time, it has become more fully closed to outside influences.

Thus the existence of individual cults implies nothing which contradicts or embarrasses the sociological interpretation of religion; for the religious forces to which it addresses itself are only the individualized forms of collective forces. Therefore, even when religion seems to be entirely within the individual conscience, it is still in society that it finds the living source from which it is nourished. We are now able to appreciate the value of the radical individualism which would make religion something purely individual: it misunderstands the fundamental conditions of the religious life. If up to the present it has remained in the stage of theoretical aspirations which have never been realized, it is because it is unrealizable. A philosophy may well be elaborated in the silence of the interior imagination, but not so a faith. For before all else, a faith is warmth, life, enthusiasm, the exaltation of the whole mental life, the raising of the individual above himself. Now how could he add to the energies which he possesses without going outside himself? How could he surpass himself merely by his own forces? The only source of life at which we can morally reanimate ourselves is that formed by the society of our fellow beings; the only moral forces with which we can sustain and increase our own are those which we get from others. Let us even admit that there really are beings more or less analogous to those which the mythologies represent. In order that they may exercise over souls the useful direction which is their reason for existence, it is necessary that men believe in them. Now these beliefs are active only when they are partaken by many. A man cannot retain them any length of time by a purely personal effort; it is not thus that they are born or that they are acquired; it is even doubtful if they can be kept under these conditions. In fact, a man who has a veritable faith feels an invincible need of spreading it: therefore he leaves his isolation, approaches others and seeks to convince them, and it is the ardour of the convictions which he arouses that strengthens his own. It would quickly weaken if it remained alone.

Individual forms of worship therefore do not contradict or undermine the sociological interpretation of religion. The religious forces they address are simply collective forces in an individualized form. So even when religion seems to exist entirely within an individual’s mind, society remains the living source that nourishes it. We can now judge the value of the radical individualism that treats religion as purely individual. It misunderstands the basic conditions of religious life. Until now, this view has remained a theoretical ideal that has never been realized. That is because it cannot be realized. A philosophy may be developed in the quiet of one’s own imagination, but a faith cannot. Above all, faith is warmth, life, and enthusiasm. It is the uplifting of the whole mental life, raising the individual above himself. But how could a person gain more energy without going outside himself? How could he surpass himself through his own powers alone? The only source of life where we can renew ourselves morally is the society of our fellow beings. The only moral forces that can sustain and strengthen our own are those we receive from others. Let us even assume that beings somewhat like those described in mythologies really do exist. To provide the useful guidance to souls that is their reason for existing, these beings must be believed in. But such beliefs are active only when many people share them. A person cannot maintain them for long through personal effort alone. That is not how such beliefs arise or how people acquire them. It is even doubtful whether they can be maintained under these conditions. In fact, a person with genuine faith feels an irresistible need to spread it. He therefore leaves his isolation, approaches others, and tries to convince them. The passion of the convictions he awakens in others strengthens his own faith. His faith would quickly weaken if it remained his alone.

It is the same with religious universalism as with this individualism. Far from being an exclusive attribute of certain very great religions, we have found it, not at the base, it is true, but at the summit of the Australian system. Bunjil, Daramulun or Baiame are not simple tribal gods; each of them is recognized by a number of different tribes. In a sense, their cult is international. This conception is therefore very near to that found in the most recent theologies. So certain writers have felt it their duty to deny its authenticity, howsoever incontestable this may be.

The same is true of religious universalism as of this individualism. Far from being exclusive to certain very great religions, religious universalism appears in the Australian system. We found it, admittedly, not at the base of the system, but at its summit. Bunjil, Daramulun, and Baiame are not merely tribal gods. Each is recognized by a number of different tribes. In a sense, the worship of these gods is international. This conception is therefore very close to those found in the most recent theologies. So certain writers have felt obliged to deny its authenticity, however incontestable it may be.

And we have been able to show how this has been formed.

And we have shown how this was formed.

Neighbouring tribes of a similar civilization cannot fail to be in constant relations with each other. All sorts of circumstances give an occasion for it: besides commerce, which is still rudimentary, there are marriages; these international marriages are very common in Australia. In the course of these meetings, men naturally become conscious of the moral relationship which united them. They have the same social organization, the same division into phratries, clans and matrimonial classes; they practise the same rites of initiation, or wholly similar ones. Mutual loans and treaties result in reinforcing these spontaneous resemblances. The gods to which these manifestly identical institutions were attached could hardly have remained distinct in their minds. Everything tended to bring them together and consequently, even supposing that each tribe elaborated the notion independently, they must necessarily have tended to confound themselves with each other. Also, it is probable that it was in inter-tribal assemblies that they were first conceived. For they are chiefly the gods of initiation, and in the initiation ceremonies, the different tribes are usually represented. So if sacred beings are formed which are connected with no geographically determined society, that is not because they have an extra-social origin. It is because there are other groups above these geographically determined ones, whose contours are less clearly marked: they have no fixed frontiers, but include all sorts of more or less neighbouring and related tribes. The particular social life thus created tends to spread itself over an area with no definite limits. Naturally the mythological personages who correspond to it have the same character; their sphere of influence is not limited; they go beyond the particular tribes and their territory. They are the great international gods.

Neighboring tribes with similar cultures must be in constant contact. All sorts of circumstances bring them together. Besides trade, which is still rudimentary, there are marriages between tribes. Such marriages are very common in Australia. At these meetings, people naturally become aware of the moral ties between them. They have the same social organization and the same division into phratries, clans, and marriage classes. They practice the same initiation rites, or rites very much like them. Borrowing from one another and making agreements strengthen these natural similarities. The gods associated with these clearly identical institutions could hardly have remained distinct in their minds. Everything tended to bring the gods together. So even if each tribe developed its idea of a god independently, the gods must have tended to merge. It is also likely that these gods were first conceived at gatherings of different tribes. For they are chiefly gods of initiation, and different tribes are usually represented at initiation ceremonies. Thus, if sacred beings arise that are not tied to any society defined by geography, that does not mean they have an origin outside society. It is because other groups exist above these geographically defined societies. The boundaries of these larger groups are less clearly marked. They have no fixed borders, but include all sorts of tribes that are more or less related and live near one another. The particular social life created in this way tends to spread over an area with no definite limits. Naturally, the mythological figures that correspond to this social life have the same character. Their sphere of influence has no limits. They extend beyond individual tribes and their territories. They are the great international gods.

Now there is nothing in this situation which is peculiar to Australian societies. There is no people and no state which is not a part of another society, more or less unlimited, which embraces all the peoples and all the States with which the first comes in contact, either directly or indirectly; there is no national life which is not dominated by a collective life of an international nature. In proportion as we advance in history, these international groups acquire a greater importance and extent. Thus we see how, in certain cases, this universalistic tendency has been able to develop itself to the point of affecting not only the higher ideas of the religious system, but even the principles upon which it rests.

There is nothing unique to Australian societies about this situation. Every people and every state is part of a larger society, whose boundaries are more or less open. This larger society includes all the peoples and states with which the first has direct or indirect contact. Every nation's life is shaped by a collective life that extends across national borders. As history progresses, these international groups grow in importance and size. So we can see how, in some cases, this universal tendency has developed far enough to affect a religious system's highest ideas and even its basic principles.

Thus there is something eternal in religion which is destined to survive all the particular symbols in which religious thought has successively enveloped itself. There can be no society which does not feel the need of upholding and reaffirming at regular intervals the collective sentiments and the collective ideas which make its unity and its personality. Now this moral remaking cannot be achieved except by the means of reunions, assemblies and meetings where the individuals, being closely united to one another, reaffirm in common their common sentiments; hence come ceremonies which do not differ from regular religious ceremonies, either in their object, the results which they produce, or the processes employed to attain these results. What essential difference is there between an assembly of Christians celebrating the principal dates of the life of Christ, or of Jews remembering the exodus from Egypt or the promulgation of the decalogue, and a reunion of citizens commemorating the promulgation of a new moral or legal system or some great event in the national life?

So there is something eternal in religion, destined to outlast all the particular symbols religious thought has taken on over time. Every society needs to regularly uphold and reaffirm the shared feelings and ideas that give it unity and identity. But this moral renewal can happen only through gatherings and meetings. There, people come together closely and reaffirm their shared feelings. These gatherings give rise to ceremonies no different from ordinary religious ceremonies in their purpose, results, or methods. What essential difference is there between an assembly of Christians celebrating the main events in the life of Christ, Jews remembering the exodus from Egypt or the giving of the Ten Commandments, and citizens gathering to commemorate the introduction of a new moral or legal system or a great event in national life?

If we find a little difficulty to-day in imagining what these feasts and ceremonies of the future could consist in, it is because we are going through a stage of transition and moral mediocrity. The great things of the past which filled our fathers with enthusiasm do not excite the same ardour in us, either because they have come into common usage to such an extent that we are unconscious of them, or else because they no longer answer to our actual aspirations; but as yet there is nothing to replace them. We can no longer impassionate ourselves for the principles in the name of which Christianity recommended to masters that they treat their slaves humanely, and, on the other hand, the idea which it has formed of human equality and fraternity seems to us to-day to leave too large a place for unjust inequalities. Its pity for the outcast seems to us too Platonic; we desire another which would be more practicable; but as yet we cannot clearly see what it should be nor how it could be realized in facts. In a word, the old gods are growing old or already dead, and others are not yet born. This is what rendered vain the attempt of Comte with the old historic souvenirs artificially revived; it is life itself, and not a dead past which can produce a living cult. But this state of incertitude and confused agitation cannot last for ever. A day will come when our societies will know again those hours of creative effervescence, in the course of which new ideas arise and new formulæ are found which serve for a while as a guide to humanity; and when these hours shall have been passed through once, men will spontaneously feel the need of reliving them from time to time in thought, that is to say, of keeping alive their memory by means of celebrations which regularly reproduce their fruits. We have already seen how the French Revolution established a whole cycle of holidays to keep the principles with which it was inspired in a state of perpetual youth. If this institution quickly fell away, it was because the revolutionary faith lasted but a moment, and deceptions and discouragements rapidly succeeded the first moments of enthusiasm. But though the work may have miscarried, it enables us to imagine what might have happened in other conditions; and everything leads us to believe that it will be taken up again sooner or later. There are no gospels which are immortal, but neither is there any reason for believing that humanity is incapable of inventing new ones. As to the question of what symbols this new faith will express itself with, whether they will resemble those of the past or not, and whether or not they will be more adequate for the reality which they seek to translate, that is something which surpasses the human faculty of foresight and which does not appertain to the principal question.

If we find it a little difficult to imagine future feasts and ceremonies, it is because we are passing through a period of transition and moral mediocrity. The great things of the past filled our fathers with enthusiasm, but they no longer inspire the same passion in us. Some have become so commonplace that we no longer notice them. Others no longer answer to our present aspirations. Yet nothing has taken their place. We can no longer feel passionate about the principles that led Christianity to urge masters to treat their slaves humanely. At the same time, its idea of human equality and fraternity seems to us to leave too much room for unjust inequalities. Its pity for the outcast seems too removed from practical action. We want a more practical kind of pity, but we cannot yet clearly see what form it should take or how it could be put into practice. In short, the old gods are growing old or are already dead, and new ones have not yet been born. This is why Comte’s attempt to revive old historical memories artificially was futile. Life itself, not a dead past, can produce a living form of worship. But this state of uncertainty and confused agitation cannot last forever. A day will come when our societies again experience times of creative excitement. During such times, new ideas arise and new principles are formulated, guiding humanity for a while. Once people have lived through such times, they will naturally feel the need to revisit them in thought. They will keep their memory alive through celebrations that regularly bring their achievements to life again. We have already seen how the French Revolution established a whole cycle of holidays. These were meant to keep the principles that inspired the Revolution forever young. If this institution quickly fell away, it was because revolutionary faith lasted only a moment. Disappointment and discouragement quickly followed the first moments of enthusiasm. But though the effort may have failed, it lets us imagine what might have happened under other conditions. Everything leads us to believe that the effort will be taken up again sooner or later. No gospels are immortal, but neither is there any reason to believe that humanity cannot invent new ones. What symbols will express this new faith? Will they resemble those of the past? Will they be better suited to expressing the reality they seek to represent? These questions are beyond our power to foresee and do not bear on the main question.

But feasts and rites, in a word, the cult, are not the whole religion. This is not merely a system of practices, but also a system of ideas whose object is to explain the world; we have seen that even the humblest have their cosmology. Whatever connection there may be between these two elements of the religious life, they are still quite different. The one is turned towards action, which it demands and regulates; the other is turned towards thought, which it enriches and organizes. Then they do not depend upon the same conditions, and consequently it may be asked if the second answers to necessities as universal and as permanent as the first.

But feasts and rites, in short, religious worship, are not the whole of religion. Religion is not just a system of practices. It is also a system of ideas that seeks to explain the world. We have seen that even the simplest religions have their own accounts of the universe. Whatever connection these two elements of religious life may have, they are still quite different. Religious practice is directed toward action, which it calls for and regulates. Religious ideas are directed toward thought, which they enrich and organize. The two elements therefore depend on different conditions. So we may ask whether religious ideas meet needs as universal and lasting as those met by religious practice.

When specific characteristics are attributed to religious thought, and when it is believed that its function is to express, by means peculiar to itself, an aspect of reality which evades ordinary knowledge as well as science, one naturally refuses to admit that religion can ever abandon its speculative rôle. But our analysis of the facts does not seem to have shown this specific quality of religion. The religion which we have just studied is one of those whose symbols are the most disconcerting for the reason. There all appears mysterious. These beings which belong to the most heterogeneous groups at the same time, who multiply without ceasing to be one, who divide without diminishing, all seem, at first view, to belong to an entirely different world from the one where we live; some have even gone so far as to say that the mind which constructed them ignored the laws of logic completely. Perhaps the contrast between reason and faith has never been more thorough. Then if there has ever been a moment in history when their heterogeneousness should have stood out clearly, it is here. But contrary to all appearances, as we have pointed out, the realities to which religious speculation is then applied are the same as those which later serve as the subject of reflection for philosophers: they are nature, man, society. The mystery which appears to surround them is wholly superficial and disappears before a more painstaking observation: it is enough merely to set aside the veil with which mythological imagination has covered them for them to appear such as they really are. Religion sets itself to translate these realities into an intelligible language which does not differ in nature from that employed by science; the attempt is made by both to connect things with each other, to establish internal relations between them, to classify them and to systematize them. We have even seen that the essential ideas of scientific logic are of religious origin. It is true that in order to utilize them, science gives them a new elaboration; it purges them of all accidental elements; in a general way, it brings a spirit of criticism into all its doings, which religion ignores; it surrounds itself with precautions to "escape precipitation and bias," and to hold aside the passions, prejudices and all subjective influences. But these perfectionings of method are not enough to differentiate it from religion. In this regard, both pursue the same end; scientific thought is only a more perfect form of religious thought. Thus it seems natural that the second should progressively retire before the first, as this becomes better fitted to perform the task.

When people believe that religious thought has distinctive qualities, they naturally resist the idea that religion could ever give up its role in explaining reality. They believe that religion uses its own special means to express an aspect of reality beyond ordinary knowledge and science. But our analysis of the facts does not seem to have revealed this distinctive quality in religion. The religion we have just studied has symbols that are among the most baffling to reason. Everything in it appears mysterious. Its beings belong to the most diverse groups at the same time. They multiply without ceasing to be one, and they divide without becoming fewer. At first, they all seem to belong to a world entirely different from our own. Some have even said that the minds that created them ignored the laws of logic completely. Perhaps the contrast between reason and faith has never been greater. If there has ever been a point in history when their differences should have been clear, it is here. But despite appearances, the realities that religious thought seeks to explain are the same ones philosophers later consider. As we have noted, they are nature, humanity, and society. The mystery that seems to surround them is entirely superficial. It disappears on closer inspection. We need only set aside the veil drawn over them by mythological imagination. Then they appear as they really are. Religion tries to express these realities in language that makes them understandable. This language is not different in nature from the language of science. Both religion and science try to connect things, establish relationships among them, classify them, and organize them into a system. We have even seen that the essential ideas of scientific logic have religious origins. It is true that science refines these ideas before using them. It removes all incidental elements from them. More generally, science brings a critical spirit to everything it does, a spirit that religion lacks. Science takes precautions to "escape precipitation and bias" and to keep passions, prejudices, and all subjective influences at bay. But these improvements in method are not enough to make science different in kind from religion. In this respect, both pursue the same goal. Scientific thought is simply a more perfected form of religious thought. It therefore seems natural that religious thought should gradually give way to scientific thought, as science becomes better able to perform the task.

And there is no doubt that this regression has taken place in the course of history. Having left religion, science tends to substitute itself for this latter in all that which concerns the cognitive and intellectual functions. Christianity has already definitely consecrated this substitution in the order of material things. Seeing in matter that which is profane before all else, it readily left the knowledge of this to another discipline, tradidit mundum hominum disputationi, "He gave the world over to the disputes of men"; it is thus that the natural sciences have been able to establish themselves and make their authority recognized without very great difficulty. But it could not give up the world of souls so easily; for it is before all over souls that the god of the Christians aspires to reign. That is why the idea of submitting the psychic life to science produced the effect of a sort of profanation for a long time; even to-day it is repugnant to many minds. However, experimental and comparative psychology is founded and to-day we must reckon with it. But the world of the religious and moral life is still forbidden. The great majority of men continue to believe that here there is an order of things which the mind cannot penetrate except by very special ways. Hence comes the active resistance which is met with every time that someone tries to treat religious and moral phenomena scientifically. But in spite of these oppositions, these attempts are constantly repeated and this persistence even allows us to foresee that this final barrier will finally give way and that science will establish herself as mistress even in this reserved region.

There is no doubt that this decline has occurred over the course of history. Having emerged from religion, science tends to replace it in all matters concerning knowledge and thought. Christianity has already firmly accepted this replacement in matters concerning the material world. Christianity regarded matter as above all profane, so it readily left the study of matter to another discipline. As the saying goes, tradidit mundum hominum disputationi, "He gave the world over to the disputes of men". The natural sciences were thus able to establish themselves and gain recognition for their authority without much difficulty. But Christianity could not give up the world of souls so easily. Above all, the Christian god seeks to rule over souls. That is why, for a long time, the idea of studying mental life scientifically seemed like a kind of profanation. Even today, many people find the idea offensive. However, experimental and comparative psychology has been established, and today we must take it into account. But the world of religious and moral life remains forbidden territory. The great majority of people still believe that the mind can understand these matters only in very special ways. As a result, anyone who tries to study religious and moral phenomena scientifically meets with active resistance. But despite this opposition, people continue to make such attempts. Their persistence even allows us to foresee that this final barrier will eventually fall. Science will then establish its authority even in this reserved territory.

That is what the conflict between science and religion really amounts to. It is said that science denies religion in principle. But religion exists; it is a system of given facts; in a word, it is a reality. How could science deny this reality? Also, in so far as religion is action, and in so far as it is a means of making men live, science could not take its place, for even if this expresses life, it does not create it; it may well seek to explain the faith, but by that very act it presupposes it. Thus there is no conflict except upon one limited point. Of the two functions which religion originally fulfilled, there is one, and only one, which tends to escape it more and more: that is its speculative function. That which science refuses to grant to religion is not its right to exist, but its right to dogmatize upon the nature of things and the special competence which it claims for itself for knowing man and the world. As a matter of fact, it does not know itself. It does not even know what it is made of, nor to what need it answers. It is itself a subject for science, so far is it from being able to make the law for science! And from another point of view, since there is no proper subject for religious speculation outside that reality to which scientific reflection is applied, it is evident that this former cannot play the same rôle in the future that it has played in the past.

That is what the conflict between science and religion really comes down to. People say that science rejects religion in principle. But religion exists. It is a system of established facts. In short, it is a reality. How could science deny that reality? And insofar as religion is action and a way of helping people live, science cannot take its place. Science may express life, but it does not create life. It may try to explain faith, but in doing so it assumes that faith exists. The conflict, then, concerns only one limited point. Religion originally served two functions, but only one is increasingly passing beyond its reach: its function of explaining the nature of things. Science does not deny religion’s right to exist. It denies religion’s right to make dogmatic claims about the nature of things. It also denies the special ability religion claims to have to understand humanity and the world. In fact, religion does not understand itself. It does not even know what it consists of or what need it answers. Far from being able to lay down the law for science, religion is itself a subject for science! Moreover, religious speculation has no proper subject outside the reality that science studies. So it is clear that religious speculation cannot play the same role in the future that it has played in the past.

However, it seems destined to transform itself rather than to disappear.

However, it seems likely to change rather than disappear.

We have said that there is something eternal in religion: it is the cult and the faith. Men cannot celebrate ceremonies for which they see no reason, nor can they accept a faith which they in no way understand. To spread itself or merely to maintain itself, it must be justified, that is to say, a theory must be made of it. A theory of this sort must undoubtedly be founded upon the different sciences, from the moment when these exist; first of all, upon the social sciences, for religious faith has its origin in society; then upon psychology, for society is a synthesis of human consciousnesses; and finally upon the sciences of nature, for man and society are a part of the universe and can be abstracted from it only artificially. But howsoever important these facts taken from the constituted sciences may be, they are not enough; for faith is before all else an impetus to action, while science, no matter how far it may be pushed, always remains at a distance from this. Science is fragmentary and incomplete; it advances but slowly and is never finished; but life cannot wait. The theories which are destined to make men live and act are therefore obliged to pass science and complete it prematurely. They are possible only when the practical exigencies and the vital necessities which we feel without distinctly conceiving them push thought in advance, beyond that which science permits us to affirm. Thus religions, even the most rational and laicized, cannot and never will be able to dispense with a particular form of speculation which, though having the same subjects as science itself, cannot be really scientific: the obscure intuitions of sensation and sentiment too often take the place of logical reasons. On one side, this speculation resembles that which we meet with in the religions of the past; but on another, it is different. While claiming and exercising the right of going beyond science, it must commence by knowing this and by inspiring itself with it. Ever since the authority of science was established, it must be reckoned with; one can go farther than it under the pressure of necessity, but he must take his direction from it. He can affirm nothing that it denies, deny nothing that it affirms, and establish nothing that is not directly or indirectly founded upon principles taken from it. From now on, the faith no longer exercises the same hegemony as formerly over the system of ideas that we may continue to call religion. A rival power rises up before it which, being born of it, ever after submits it to its criticism and control. And everything makes us foresee that this control will constantly become more extended and efficient, while no limit can be assigned to its future influence.

We have said that something in religion is eternal: worship and faith. People cannot hold ceremonies when they see no reason for them. Nor can they accept a faith they do not understand at all. For a faith to spread or even survive, it must be justified. That is, a theory must be developed to explain it. Once the various sciences exist, a theory of this kind must surely be based on them. First come the social sciences, because religious faith originates in society. Next comes psychology, because society brings human consciousnesses together into a whole. Finally come the natural sciences, because people and society are part of the universe. They can be separated from it only artificially. But however important the facts established by these sciences may be, they are not enough. Faith is above all a force that moves people to act. Science, however far it advances, always remains at a distance from action. Science is fragmentary and incomplete. It advances slowly and is never finished, but life cannot wait. Theories meant to guide people in living and acting must therefore go beyond science and complete it prematurely. Such theories are possible only when practical demands and vital needs push thought ahead. We feel these demands and needs without clearly understanding them, and they push thought beyond what science allows us to assert. Thus religions, even the most rational and secular, cannot now and will never be able to do without a particular kind of speculation. This speculation deals with the same subjects as science, but it cannot be truly scientific. Vague intuitions arising from sensation and feeling too often take the place of logical reasons. In one respect, this speculation resembles what we find in the religions of the past. But in another respect, it differs. Though it claims and exercises the right to go beyond science, it must begin by understanding science and drawing inspiration from it. Ever since science gained authority, it has had to be reckoned with. Under the pressure of necessity, one may go beyond science, but one must take direction from it. One can affirm nothing that science denies and deny nothing that science affirms. Nor can one establish anything that is not directly or indirectly based on principles drawn from science. From now on, faith no longer has the same dominance it once had over the system of ideas we may still call religion. A rival power stands before faith. Born from faith, this power now subjects it to criticism and control. Everything leads us to expect that this control will become ever broader and more effective. We can set no limit on its future influence.

But if the fundamental notions of science are of a religious origin, how has religion been able to bring them forth? At first sight, one does not see what relations there can be between religion and logic. Or, since the reality which religious thought expresses is society, the question can be stated in the following terms, which make the entire difficulty appear even better: what has been able to make social life so important a source for the logical life? It seems as though nothing could have predestined it to this rôle, for it certainly was not to satisfy their speculative needs that men associated themselves together.

But if the fundamental ideas of science come from religion, how could religion have produced them? At first, it is hard to see any connection between religion and logic. Religious thought expresses the reality of society, so we can put the question another way. This makes the difficulty even clearer: what could have made social life such an important source of logical thought? Nothing seems to have destined social life for this role. People certainly did not come together to satisfy their need for abstract thought.

Perhaps we shall be found over bold in attempting so complex a question here. To treat it as it should be treated, the sociological conditions of knowledge should be known much better than they actually are; we are only beginning to catch glimpses of some of them. However, the question is so grave, and so directly implied in all that has preceded, that we must make an effort not to leave it without an answer. Perhaps it is not impossible, even at present, to state some general principles which may at least aid in the solution.

Perhaps we will be considered too bold to take on such a complex question here. To treat the question properly, we would need to know much more about the social conditions of knowledge. We are only beginning to glimpse some of them. However, the question is so serious, and so directly implied by all that has come before, that we must try to answer it. Perhaps even now we can state some general principles that may at least help us find a solution.

Logical thought is made up of concepts. Seeking how society can have played a rôle in the genesis of logical thought thus reduces itself to seeking how it can have taken a part in the formation of concepts.

Logical thought is made up of concepts. So, to understand how society may have helped create logical thought, we must ask how it may have helped form concepts.

If, as is ordinarily the case, we see in the concept only a general idea, the problem appears insoluble. By his own power, the individual can compare his conceptions and images, disengage that which they have in common, and thus, in a word, generalize. Then it is hard to see why this generalization should be possible only in and through society. But, in the first place, it is inadmissible that logical thought is characterized only by the greater extension of the conceptions of which it is made up. If particular ideas have nothing logical about them, why should it be different with general ones? The general exists only in the particular; it is the particular simplified and impoverished. Then the first could have no virtues or privileges which the second has not. Inversely, if conceptual thought can be applied to the class, species or variety, howsoever restricted these may be, why can it not be extended to the individual, that is to say, to the limit towards which the conception tends, proportionately as its extension diminishes? As a matter of fact, there are many concepts which have only individuals as their object. In every sort of religion, gods are individualities distinct from each other; however, they are conceived, not perceived. Each people represents its historic or legendary heroes in fashions which vary with the time. Finally, every one of us forms an idea of the individuals with whom he comes in contact, of their character, of their appearance, their distinctive traits and their moral and physical temperaments: these notions, too, are real concepts. It is true that in general they are formed crudely enough; but even among scientific concepts, are there a great many that are perfectly adequate for their object? In this direction, there are only differences of degree between them.

If we see a concept as merely a general idea, as we usually do, the problem seems impossible to solve. On their own, individuals can compare their ideas and images, identify what they have in common, and thus generalize. It is then hard to see why people could generalize only in and through society. But first, we cannot accept that logical thought is distinguished only by the broader scope of its ideas. If particular ideas have nothing logical about them, why should general ideas be any different? The general exists only in the particular. It is the particular made simpler and poorer. So the general can have no virtues or advantages that the particular does not have. Conversely, conceptual thought can be applied to a class, species, or variety, however restricted. If so, why can it not be extended to the individual? The individual is the limit a concept approaches as its scope narrows. In fact, many concepts have only individuals as their objects. In every kind of religion, gods are individuals distinct from one another. Yet people conceive of them rather than perceive them. Each people represents its historical or legendary heroes in ways that vary over time. Finally, each of us forms an idea of the individuals we encounter. We form ideas of their character, appearance, distinctive traits, and moral and physical temperaments. These ideas, too, are real concepts. They are generally formed rather crudely. But even among scientific concepts, are many perfectly adequate to their objects? In this respect, the differences between them are only differences of degree.

Therefore the concept must be defined by other characteristics. It is opposed to sensual representations of every order—sensations, perceptions or images—by the following properties.

Therefore, the concept must be defined by other characteristics. The following properties distinguish it from all sensory representations, including sensations, perceptions, and images.

Sensual representations are in a perpetual flux; they come after each other like the waves of a river, and even during the time that they last, they do not remain the same thing. Each of them is an integral part of the precise instant when it takes place. We are never sure of again finding a perception such as we experienced it the first time; for if the thing perceived has not changed, it is we who are no longer the same. On the contrary, the concept is, as it were, outside of time and change; it is in the depths below all this agitation; it might be said that it is in a different portion of the mind, which is serener and calmer. It does not move of itself, by an internal and spontaneous evolution, but, on the contrary, it resists change. It is a manner of thinking that, at every moment of time, is fixed and crystallized.¹³⁰⁸ In so far as it is what it ought to be, it is immutable. If it changes, it is not because it is its nature to do so, but because we have discovered some imperfection in it; it is because it had to be rectified. The system of concepts with which we think in everyday life is that expressed by the vocabulary of our mother tongue; for every word translates a concept. Now language is something fixed; it changes but very slowly, and consequently it is the same with the conceptual system which it expresses. The scholar finds himself in the same situation in regard to the special terminology employed by the science to which he has consecrated himself, and hence in regard to the special scheme of concepts to which this terminology corresponds. It is true that he can make innovations, but these are always a sort of violence done to the established ways of thinking.

Sensory impressions are constantly changing. They follow one another like waves in a river, and even while they last, they do not remain the same. Each impression is an inseparable part of the exact moment in which it occurs. We can never be sure of experiencing a perception again just as we did the first time. Even if the thing we perceive has not changed, we are no longer the same. A concept, by contrast, is as if outside time and change. It lies in the depths beneath all this activity. We might say it belongs to a different part of the mind, one that is more serene and calm. A concept does not change on its own through some spontaneous inner process. On the contrary, it resists change. It is a way of thinking that is fixed and crystallized at every moment.¹³⁰⁸ To the extent that a concept is what it ought to be, it is unchanging. If it changes, that is not because change is part of its nature. It changes because we have discovered an imperfection in it and had to correct it. The system of concepts we use in everyday thought is expressed in the vocabulary of our native language. Every word expresses a concept. Language is fixed and changes very slowly. So the same is true of the system of concepts it expresses. A scholar is in the same position regarding the specialized terms used in the science they have devoted themselves to. The same is therefore true of the system of concepts that corresponds to those terms. The scholar can, of course, introduce innovations. But these always do a kind of violence to established ways of thinking.

And at the same time that it is relatively immutable, the concept is universal, or at least capable of becoming so. A concept is not my concept; I hold it in common with other men, or, in any case, can communicate it to them. It is impossible for me to make a sensation pass from my consciousness into that of another; it holds closely to my organism and personality and cannot be detached from them. All that I can do is to invite others to place themselves before the same object as myself and to leave themselves to its action. On the other hand, conversation and all intellectual communication between men is an exchange of concepts. The concept is an essentially impersonal representation; it is through it that human intelligences communicate.¹³⁰⁹

At the same time, a concept is relatively unchanging and universal, or at least capable of becoming universal. A concept is not mine alone. I share it with other people, or at least can communicate it to them. I cannot transfer a sensation from my consciousness to someone else’s. A sensation is closely tied to my body and personality and cannot be separated from them. All I can do is invite others to face the same object and let it act on them. By contrast, conversation and all intellectual communication between people involve an exchange of concepts. A concept is essentially an impersonal representation. It is through concepts that human minds communicate.¹³⁰⁹

The nature of the concept, thus defined, bespeaks its origin. If it is common to all, it is the work of the community. Since it bears the mark of no particular mind, it is clear that it was elaborated by a unique intelligence, where all others meet each other, and after a fashion, come to nourish themselves. If it has more stability than sensations or images, it is because the collective representations are more stable than the individual ones; for while an individual is conscious even of the slight changes which take place in his environment, only events of a greater gravity can succeed in affecting the mental status of a society. Every time that we are in the presence of a type¹³¹⁰ of thought or action which is imposed uniformly upon particular wills or intelligences, this pressure exercised over the individual betrays the intervention of the group. Also, as we have already said, the concepts with which we ordinarily think are those of our vocabulary. Now it is unquestionable that language, and consequently the system of concepts which it translates, is the product of a collective elaboration. What it expresses is the manner in which society as a whole represents the facts of experience. The ideas which correspond to the diverse elements of language are thus collective representations.

The nature of the concept, as defined here, reveals its origin. If a concept is shared by all, it is the work of the community. Since it bears the mark of no particular mind, it must have been developed by a single intelligence. In this intelligence, all other minds meet and, in a way, draw nourishment. If a concept is more stable than sensations or images, that is because collective representations are more stable than individual ones. An individual is aware of even slight changes in their surroundings. But only more serious events can affect a society’s mental state. Whenever a type¹³¹⁰ of thought or action is imposed uniformly on individual wills or minds, this pressure reveals the group’s influence. Also, as we have already said, the concepts we ordinarily use in thinking are those of our vocabulary. Language is unquestionably the product of collective effort. So, too, is the system of concepts that language expresses. Language expresses how society as a whole represents the facts of experience. The ideas corresponding to the different elements of language are therefore collective representations.

Even their contents bear witness to the same fact. In fact, there are scarcely any words among those which we usually employ whose meaning does not pass, to a greater or less extent, the limits of our personal experience. Very frequently a term expresses things which we have never perceived or experiences which we have never had or of which we have never been the witnesses. Even when we know some of the objects which it concerns, it is only as particular examples that they serve to illustrate the idea which they would never have been able to form by themselves. Thus there is a great deal of knowledge condensed in the word which I never collected, and which is not individual; it even surpasses me to such an extent that I cannot even completely appropriate all its results. Which of us knows all the words of the language he speaks and the entire signification of each?

Even their contents point to the same fact. Almost every word we usually use means more than our personal experience can encompass. Very often, a word refers to things we have never perceived or experiences we have never had or witnessed. Even when we know some of the objects a word refers to, those objects are only particular examples. They illustrate an idea that they could never have formed on their own. A word therefore contains a great deal of knowledge that I never gathered and that is not individual. This knowledge goes so far beyond me that I cannot even fully take in everything it contains. Which of us knows every word in the language we speak and the full meaning of each one?

This remark enables us to determine the sense in which we mean to say that concepts are collective representations. If they belong to a whole social group, it is not because they represent the average of the corresponding individual representations; for in that case they would be poorer than the latter in intellectual content, while, as a matter of fact, they contain much that surpasses the knowledge of the average individual. They are not abstractions which have a reality only in particular consciousnesses, but they are as concrete representations as an individual could form of his own personal environment: they correspond to the way in which this very special being, society, considers the things of its own proper experience. If, as a matter of fact, the concepts are nearly always general ideas, and if they express categories and classes rather than particular objects, it is because the unique and variable characteristics of things interest society but rarely; because of its very extent, it can scarcely be affected by more than their general and permanent qualities. Therefore it is to this aspect of affairs that it gives its attention: it is a part of its nature to see things in large and under the aspect which they ordinarily have. But this generality is not necessary for them, and, in any case, even when these representations have the generic character which they ordinarily have, they are the work of society and are enriched by its experience.

This point helps us explain what we mean by saying that concepts are collective representations. If concepts belong to an entire social group, it is not because they are averages of corresponding individual representations. If they were, they would have less intellectual content than individual representations. In fact, concepts contain much that goes beyond the knowledge of the average individual. Concepts are not abstractions that exist only in individual minds. They are as concrete as the representations an individual might form of their own surroundings. Concepts reflect how that very special being, society, sees the things it experiences. Concepts are, in fact, almost always general ideas. They express categories and classes rather than particular objects. This is because society is rarely interested in the unique and changing characteristics of things. Because society is so large, it can hardly be affected by anything beyond their general and permanent qualities. So society pays attention to these qualities. By its nature, it sees things broadly and as they ordinarily appear. But concepts do not have to be general. In any case, even when they have their usual general character, they are society’s creations and are enriched by its experience.

That is what makes conceptual thought so valuable for us. If concepts were only general ideas, they would not enrich knowledge a great deal, for, as we have already pointed out, the general contains nothing more than the particular. But if before all else they are collective representations, they add to that which we can learn by our own personal experience all that wisdom and science which the group has accumulated in the course of centuries. Thinking by concepts, is not merely seeing reality on its most general side, but it is projecting a light upon the sensation which illuminates it, penetrates it and transforms it. Conceiving something is both learning its essential elements better and also locating it in its place; for each civilization has its organized system of concepts which characterizes it. Before this scheme of ideas, the individual is in the same situation as the νοῦς of Plato before the world of Ideas. He must assimilate them to himself, for he must have them to hold intercourse with others; but the assimilation is always imperfect. Each of us sees them after his own fashion. There are some which escape us completely and remain outside of our circle of vision; there are others of which we perceive certain aspects only. There are even a great many which we pervert in holding, for as they are collective by nature, they cannot become individualized without being retouched, modified, and consequently falsified. Hence comes the great trouble we have in understanding each other, and the fact that we even lie to each other without wishing to: it is because we all use the same words without giving them the same meaning.

That is what makes conceptual thought so valuable to us. If concepts were only general ideas, they would add little to our knowledge. As we have already noted, the general contains nothing more than the particular. But concepts are above all collective representations. They add to our personal experience all the wisdom and science the group has accumulated over centuries. Thinking in concepts is not merely seeing reality in its most general form. It also casts a light on sensation, illuminating, penetrating, and transforming it. To conceive of something is both to understand its essential elements better and to place it in context. Each civilization has its own organized system of concepts that gives it a distinctive character. Before this system of ideas, the individual stands in the same position as Plato’s νοῦς before the world of Ideas. Individuals must make these concepts their own because they need them to communicate with others. But they never do so perfectly. Each of us sees the concepts in our own way. Some escape us completely and remain outside our field of vision. We see only certain aspects of others. We even distort a great many concepts when we adopt them. Because concepts are collective by nature, they cannot become individual without being altered, modified, and therefore falsified. This is why we have such difficulty understanding one another, and why we even lie to one another without meaning to. We all use the same words without giving them the same meaning.

We are now able to see what the part of society in the genesis of logical thought is. This is possible only from the moment when, above the fugitive conceptions which they owe to sensuous experience, men have succeeded in conceiving a whole world of stable ideas, the common ground of all intelligences. In fact, logical thinking is always impersonal thinking, and is also thought sub species ætrnitatis—as though for all time. Impersonality and stability are the two characteristics of truth. Now logical life evidently presupposes that men know, at least confusedly, that there is such a thing as truth, distinct from sensuous appearances. But how have they been able to arrive at this conception? We generally talk as though it should have spontaneously presented itself to them from the moment they opened their eyes upon the world. However, there is nothing in immediate experience which could suggest it; everything even contradicts it. Thus the child and the animal have no suspicion of it. History shows that it has taken centuries for it to disengage and establish itself. In our Western world, it was with the great thinkers of Greece that it first became clearly conscious of itself and of the consequences which it implies; when the discovery was made, it caused an amazement which Plato has translated into magnificent language. But if it is only at this epoch that the idea is expressed in philosophic formulæ, it was necessarily pre-existent in the stage of an obscure sentiment. Philosophers have sought to elucidate this sentiment, but they have not succeeded. In order that they might reflect upon it and analyse it, it was necessary that it be given them, and that they seek to know whence it came, that is to say, in what experience it was founded. This is in collective experience. It is under the form of collective thought that impersonal thought is for the first time revealed to humanity; we cannot see by what other way this revelation could have been made. From the mere fact that society exists, there is also, outside of the individual sensations and images, a whole system of representations which enjoy marvellous properties. By means of them, men understand each other and intelligences grasp each other. They have within them a sort of force or moral ascendancy, in virtue of which they impose themselves upon individual minds. Hence the individual at least obscurely takes account of the fact that above his private ideas, there is a world of absolute ideas according to which he must shape his own; he catches a glimpse of a whole intellectual kingdom in which he participates, but which is greater than he. This is the first intuition of the realm of truth. From the moment when he first becomes conscious of these higher ideas, he sets himself to scrutinizing their nature; he asks whence these pre-eminent representations hold their prerogatives and, in so far as he believes that he has discovered their causes, he undertakes to put these causes into action for himself, in order that he may draw from them by his own force the effects which they produce; that is to say, he attributes to himself the right of making concepts. Thus the faculty of conception has individualized itself. But to understand its origins and function, it must be attached to the social conditions upon which it depends.

We can now see the role society plays in the origin of logical thought. Logical thought becomes possible only when people can conceive of a whole world of stable ideas, beyond the fleeting conceptions they gain from sensory experience. These ideas are common ground for all minds. In fact, logical thinking is always impersonal. It is also thought sub species ætrnitatis, as though for all time. Impersonality and stability are the two characteristics of truth. Clearly, then, logical thought presupposes that people know, however vaguely, that truth exists and is distinct from sensory appearances. But how did people arrive at this idea? We usually speak as though it must have occurred to them as soon as they opened their eyes to the world. Yet nothing in immediate experience could suggest it. Indeed, everything in immediate experience contradicts it. Thus, children and animals have no inkling of it. History shows that it took centuries for the idea to emerge and establish itself. In our Western world, the great thinkers of Greece were the first to become clearly aware of the idea and its consequences. When they made the discovery, it caused an amazement that Plato expressed in magnificent language. But although the idea was first expressed in philosophical terms at this time, it must already have existed as a vague feeling. Philosophers have tried to clarify this feeling, but they have not succeeded. Before they could reflect on and analyze the feeling, they had to encounter it. They then had to ask where it came from, that is, what experience it was based on. The answer is collective experience. Impersonal thought first reveals itself to humanity in the form of collective thought. We cannot see how it could have been revealed in any other way. The mere existence of society gives rise to a whole system of representations outside individual sensations and images. These representations have remarkable properties. Through them, people understand one another, and minds connect with one another. The representations have a kind of force or moral authority that makes them impose themselves on individual minds. As a result, individuals become at least vaguely aware of a world of absolute ideas above their private ideas. They must shape their own ideas according to these absolute ideas. They glimpse a whole intellectual realm in which they take part, but which is greater than they are. This is the first glimpse of the realm of truth. As soon as people become aware of these higher ideas, they begin to examine their nature. They ask where these superior representations get their special authority. To the extent that they believe they have discovered the causes of that authority, they try to put those causes to work themselves. They do so in order to produce the same effects through their own efforts. In other words, they claim the right to make concepts. In this way, the capacity to form concepts has become individual. But to understand its origins and function, we must connect it to the social conditions on which it depends.

It may be objected that we show the concept in one of its aspects only, and that its unique rôle is not the assuring of a harmony among minds, but also, and to a greater extent, their harmony with the nature of things. It seems as though it had a reason for existence only on condition of being true, that is to say, objective, and as though its impersonality were only a consequence of its objectivity. It is in regard to things, thought of as adequately as possible, that minds ought to communicate. Nor do we deny that the evolution of concepts has been partially in this direction. The concept which was first held as true because it was collective tends to be no longer collective except on condition of being held as true: we demand its credentials of it before according it our confidence. But we must not lose sight of the fact that even to-day the great majority of the concepts which we use are not methodically constituted; we get them from language, that is to say, from common experience, without submitting them to any criticism. The scientifically elaborated and criticized concepts are always in the very slight minority. Also, between them and those which draw all their authority from the fact that they are collective, there are only differences of degree. A collective representation presents guarantees of objectivity by the fact that it is collective: for it is not without sufficient reason that it has been able to generalize and maintain itself with persistence. If it were out of accord with the nature of things, it would never have been able to acquire an extended and prolonged empire over intellects. At bottom, the confidence inspired by scientific concepts is due to the fact that they can be methodically controlled. But a collective representation is necessarily submitted to a control that is repeated indefinitely; the men who accept it verify it by their own experience. Therefore, it could not be wholly inadequate for its subject. It is true that it may express this by means of imperfect symbols; but scientific symbols themselves are never more than approximative. It is precisely this principle which is at the basis of the method which we follow in the study of religious phenomena: we take it as an axiom that religious beliefs, howsoever strange their appearance may be at times, contain a truth which must be discovered.¹³¹¹

It may be objected that we have shown only one aspect of the concept. Its role is not only to bring minds into harmony with one another. It also, and to a greater extent, brings them into harmony with the nature of things. It seems that a concept has a reason to exist only if it is true, that is, objective. Its impersonality also seems to follow from its objectivity. Minds should communicate about things as accurately understood as possible. We do not deny that concepts have developed partly in this direction. A concept was first considered true because it was collective. Now it tends to be collective only if it is considered true. We demand its credentials before we place our trust in it. But we must not forget that even today most concepts we use are not formed methodically. We get them from language, that is, from common experience, without examining them critically. Concepts developed and critically examined by science remain a very small minority. Moreover, these concepts differ only in degree from those whose authority rests entirely on their collective character. A collective representation offers some assurance of objectivity simply because it is collective. There must be sufficient reason for its widespread and lasting acceptance. If it were at odds with the nature of things, it could never have held such broad and lasting sway over minds. Ultimately, we trust scientific concepts because they can be methodically tested. But a collective representation is necessarily tested over and over again. The people who accept it check it against their own experience. So it could not be wholly inadequate to its subject. It may express that subject through imperfect symbols. But scientific symbols themselves are always only approximations. This principle is precisely the basis of our method for studying religious phenomena. We take it as an axiom that religious beliefs, however strange they may sometimes appear, contain a truth that must be discovered.¹³¹¹

On the other hand, it is not at all true that concepts, even when constructed according to the rules of science, get their authority uniquely from their objective value. It is not enough that they be true to be believed. If they are not in harmony with the other beliefs and opinions, or, in a word, with the mass of the other collective representations, they will be denied; minds will be closed to them; consequently it will be as though they did not exist. To-day it is generally sufficient that they bear the stamp of science to receive a sort of privileged credit, because we have faith in science. But this faith does not differ essentially from religious faith. In the last resort, the value which we attribute to science depends upon the idea which we collectively form of its nature and rôle in life; that is as much as to say that it expresses a state of public opinion. In all social life, in fact, science rests upon opinion. It is undoubtedly true that this opinion can be taken as the object of a study and a science made of it; this is what sociology principally consists in. But the science of opinion does not make opinions; it can only observe them and make them more conscious of themselves. It is true that by this means it can lead them to change, but science continues to be dependent upon opinion at the very moment when it seems to be making its laws; for, as we have already shown, it is from opinion that it holds the force necessary to act upon opinion.¹³¹²

On the other hand, concepts do not gain their authority solely from their objective value, even when formed according to scientific rules. Being true is not enough to make people believe them. If concepts do not agree with other beliefs and opinions, or with the body of collective representations, people will reject them. Minds will be closed to them. As a result, it will be as though the concepts did not exist. Today, concepts generally receive a kind of privileged acceptance simply because they carry the stamp of science. This is because we have faith in science. But this faith is not essentially different from religious faith. Ultimately, the value we place on science depends on our collective idea of its nature and role in life. In other words, that value expresses the state of public opinion. In all social life, in fact, science rests on opinion. Opinion can undoubtedly be studied and made the subject of a science. This is what sociology mainly consists of. But the science of opinion does not create opinions. It can only observe them and make them more conscious of themselves. By doing so, sociology can indeed lead opinions to change. But science remains dependent on opinion even when it seems to be laying down laws for opinion. As we have already shown, science draws from opinion the force it needs to act on opinion.¹³¹²

Saying that concepts express the manner in which society represents things is also saying that conceptual thought is coeval with humanity itself. We refuse to see in it the product of a more or less retarded culture. A man who did not think with concepts would not be a man, for he would not be a social being. If reduced to having only individual perceptions, he would be indistinguishable from the beasts. If it has been possible to sustain the contrary thesis, it is because concepts have been defined by characteristics which are not essential to them. They have been identified with general ideas¹³¹³ and with clearly limited and circumscribed general ideas.¹³¹⁴ In these conditions it has possibly seemed as though the inferior societies had no concepts properly so called; for they have only rudimentary processes of generalization and the ideas which they use are not generally very well defined. But the greater part of our concepts are equally indetermined; we force ourselves to define them only in discussions or when doing careful work. We have also seen that conceiving is not generalizing. Thinking conceptually is not simply isolating and grouping together the common characteristics of a certain number of objects; it is relating the variable to the permanent, the individual to the social. And since logical thought commences with the concept, it follows that it has always existed; there is no period in history when men have lived in a chronic confusion and contradiction. To be sure, we cannot insist too much upon the different characteristics which logic presents at different periods in history; it develops like the societies themselves. But howsoever real these differences may be, they should not cause us to neglect the similarities, which are no less essential.

To say that concepts express how society represents things is also to say that conceptual thought is as old as humanity itself. We reject the idea that it is the product of a culture that developed relatively late. A person who did not think in concepts would not be human, because they would not be a social being. If they had only individual perceptions, they would be indistinguishable from animals. The opposite view has been possible because concepts have been defined by characteristics that are not essential to them. Concepts have been equated with general ideas¹³¹³ and with general ideas that have clear limits and boundaries.¹³¹⁴ Defined this way, concepts might have seemed absent from societies considered inferior. For those societies have only rudimentary ways of generalizing, and the ideas they use are generally not well defined. But most of our concepts are equally vague. We make an effort to define them only in discussions or when doing careful work. We have also seen that forming concepts is not the same as generalizing. Thinking in concepts is not simply isolating and grouping the common characteristics of a number of objects. It means relating the variable to the permanent, the individual to the social. Since logical thought begins with the concept, it follows that logical thought has always existed. There has been no period in history when people lived in a constant state of confusion and contradiction. Of course, we cannot place too much emphasis on the different forms logic takes at different times in history. Logic develops just as societies do. But however real these differences are, they should not lead us to neglect the similarities, which are no less essential.

We are now in a position to take up a final question which has already been raised in our introduction¹³¹⁵ and which has been taken as understood in the remainder of this work. We have seen that at least some of the categories are social things. The question is where they got this character.

We can now turn to a final question. We raised it in the introduction¹³¹⁵ and have treated it as settled throughout the rest of this work. We have seen that at least some categories are social. The question is how they came to be social.

Undoubtedly it will be easily understood that since they are themselves concepts, they are the work of the group. It can even be said that there are no other concepts which present to an equal degree the signs by which a collective representation is recognized. In fact, their stability and impersonality are such that they have often passed as being absolutely universal and immutable. Also, as they express the fundamental conditions for an agreement between minds, it seems evident that they have been elaborated by society.

It will surely be easy to understand that, since they are concepts, they are the work of the group. Indeed, no other concepts show the marks of a collective representation to the same degree. They are so stable and impersonal that they have often been considered absolutely universal and unchanging. They also express the basic conditions needed for minds to agree. It therefore seems clear that society developed them.

But the problem concerning them is more complex, for they are social in another sense and, as it were in the second degree. They not only come from society, but the things which they express are of a social nature. Not only is it society which has founded them, but their contents are the different aspects of the social being: the category of class was at first indistinct from the concept of the human group; it is the rhythm of social life which is at the basis of the category of time; the territory occupied by the society furnished the material for the category of space; it is the collective force which was the prototype of the concept of efficient force, an essential element in the category of causality. However, the categories are not made to be applied only to the social realm; they reach out to all reality. Then how is it that they have taken from society the models upon which they have been constructed?

But the problem concerning these categories is more complex. They are social in another sense too, as if on a second level. They not only come from society, but also express things that are social in nature. Society not only established them, but their contents are the different aspects of social life. The category of class was at first indistinguishable from the concept of a human group. The rhythm of social life is the basis of the category of time. The territory occupied by society provided the material for the category of space. Collective force was the model for the concept of a force that produces effects, an essential element of causality. Yet the categories are not meant to apply only to the social realm. They extend to all reality. How, then, did they come to be built on models drawn from society?

It is because they are the pre-eminent concepts, which have a preponderating part in our knowledge. In fact, the function of the categories is to dominate and envelop all the other concepts: they are permanent moulds for the mental life. Now for them to embrace such an object, they must be founded upon a reality of equal amplitude.

It is because they are the most important concepts and play a dominant role in our knowledge. The categories shape and encompass all other concepts. They are lasting molds for mental life. To encompass such a vast object, they must be founded on a reality of equal scope.

Undoubtedly the relations which they express exist in an implicit way in individual consciousnesses. The individual lives in time, and, as we have said, he has a certain sense of temporal orientation. He is situated at a determined point in space, and it has even been held, and sustained with good reasons, that all sensations have something special about them.¹³¹⁶ He has a feeling of resemblances; similar representations are brought together and the new representation formed by their union has a sort of generic character. We also have the sensation of a certain regularity in the order of the succession of phenomena; even an animal is not incapable of this. However, all these relations are strictly personal for the individual who recognizes them, and consequently the notion of them which he may have can in no case go beyond his own narrow horizon. The generic images which are formed in my consciousness by the fusion of similar images represent only the objects which I have perceived directly; there is nothing there which could give me the idea of a class, that is to say, of a mould including the whole group of all possible objects which satisfy the same condition. Also, it would be necessary to have the idea of group in the first place, and the mere observations of our interior life could never awaken that in us. But, above all, there is no individual experience, howsoever extended and prolonged it may be, which could give a suspicion of the existence of a whole class which would embrace every single being, and to which other classes are only co-ordinated or subordinated species. This idea of all, which is at the basis of the classifications which we have just cited, could not have come from the individual himself, who is only a part in relation to the whole and who never attains more than an infinitesimal fraction of reality. And yet there is perhaps no other category of greater importance; for as the rôle of the categories is to envelop all the other concepts, the category par excellence would seem to be this very concept of totality. The theorists of knowledge ordinarily postulate it as if it came of itself, while it really surpasses the contents of each individual consciousness taken alone to an infinite degree.

The relations they express undoubtedly exist implicitly in individual minds. Each person lives in time and, as we have said, has some sense of temporal orientation. Each person occupies a particular point in space. It has even been argued, with good reason, that all sensations have something distinctive about them.¹³¹⁶ A person has a sense of resemblance. Similar representations come together, and the new representation formed by their union has a kind of general character. We also sense a certain regularity in the sequence of events. Even an animal is capable of sensing this. However, all these relations are strictly personal to the individual who recognizes them. Consequently, the individual's understanding of them can never extend beyond a narrow personal horizon. The general images formed in my mind by the merging of similar images represent only objects I have directly perceived. Nothing in them could give me the idea of a class. A class is a mold containing the whole group of possible objects that meet the same condition. Moreover, I would first need the idea of a group. Simply observing my inner life could never give me that idea. Above all, no individual experience, however extensive or prolonged, could suggest the existence of a class encompassing every single being. All other classes are merely species, either coordinated with one another or subordinate to this encompassing class. This idea of all underlies the classifications we have just cited. It could not have come from the individual. The individual is only a part in relation to the whole and never reaches more than an infinitesimal fraction of reality. Yet perhaps no other category is more important. The role of categories is to encompass all other concepts. So the category par excellence would seem to be the very concept of totality. Theorists of knowledge ordinarily assume the concept of totality as if it arose on its own. In fact, it exceeds the contents of any individual mind taken alone to an infinite degree.

For the same reasons, the space which I know by my senses, of which I am the centre and where everything is disposed in relation to me, could not be space in general, which contains all extensions and where these are co-ordinated by personal guide-lines which are common to everybody. In the same way, the concrete duration which I feel passing within me and with me could not give me the idea of time in general: the first expresses only the rhythm of my individual life; the second should correspond to the rhythm of a life which is not that of any individual in particular, but in which all participate.¹³¹⁷ In the same way, finally, the regularities which I am able to conceive in the manner in which my sensations succeed one another may well have a value for me; they explain how it comes about that when I am given the first of two phenomena whose concurrence I have observed, I tend to expect the other. But this personal state of expectation could not be confounded with the conception of a universal order of succession which imposes itself upon all minds and all events.

For the same reasons, the space I know through my senses cannot be space in general. I am at the center of the space I sense, and everything in it is arranged in relation to me. Space in general contains all extensions, arranged according to shared points of reference. Similarly, the actual passage of time that I feel within me and alongside me cannot give me the idea of time in general. The time I feel expresses only the rhythm of my individual life. Time in general should correspond to the rhythm of a life that belongs to no individual in particular, but in which everyone participates.¹³¹⁷ Finally, I can also conceive of patterns in the order in which my sensations follow one another. These patterns may have value for me. They explain why I tend to expect one phenomenon when I experience another that I have observed occurring with it. But this personal state of expectation cannot be confused with the idea of a universal order of succession that applies to all minds and all events.

Since the world expressed by the entire system of concepts is the one that society regards, society alone can furnish the most general notions with which it should be represented. Such an object can be embraced only by a subject which contains all the individual subjects within it. Since the universe does not exist except in so far as it is thought of, and since it is not completely thought of except by society, it takes a place in this latter; it becomes a part of society's interior life, while this is the totality, outside of which nothing exists. The concept of totality is only the abstract form of the concept of society: it is the whole which includes all things, the supreme class which embraces all other classes. Such is the final principle upon which repose all these primitive classifications where beings from every realm are placed and classified in social forms, exactly like men.¹³¹⁸ But if the world is inside of society, the space which this latter occupies becomes confounded with space in general. In fact, we have seen how each thing has its assigned place in social space, and the degree to which this space in general differs from the concrete expanses which we perceive is well shown by the fact that this localization is wholly ideal and in no way resembles what it would have been if it had been dictated to us by sensuous experience alone.¹³¹⁹ For the same reason, the rhythm of collective life dominates and embraces the varied rhythms of all the elementary lives from which it results; consequently the time which it expresses dominates and embraces all particular durations. It is time in general. For a long time the history of the world has been only another aspect of the history of society. The one commences with the other; the periods of the first are determined by the periods of the second. This impersonal and total duration is measured, and the guide-lines in relation to which it is divided and organized are fixed by the movements of concentration or dispersion of society; or, more generally, the periodical necessities for a collective renewal. If these critical instants are generally attached to some material phenomenon, such as the regular recurrence of such or such a star or the alternation of the seasons, it is because objective signs are necessary to make this essentially social organization intelligible to all. In the same way, finally, the causal relation, from the moment when it is collectively stated by the group, becomes independent of every individual consciousness; it rises above all particular minds and events. It is a law whose value depends upon no person. We have already shown how it is clearly thus that it seems to have originated.

The whole system of concepts expresses the world as society sees it. So only society can provide the most general notions needed to represent that world. Only a subject that contains all individual subjects can encompass such an object. The universe exists only insofar as it is thought of, and only society thinks of it completely. So the universe has a place within society. It becomes part of society’s inner life, while society is the totality outside which nothing exists. The concept of totality is simply the abstract form of the concept of society. It is the whole that includes all things, the highest class that contains all other classes. This is the ultimate principle behind all those primitive classifications. They place and classify beings from every realm in social forms, just as they classify people.¹³¹⁸ But if the world is within society, the space society occupies becomes identified with space in general. In fact, we have seen how each thing has its assigned place in social space. This placement is entirely ideal. It is nothing like what it would have been if it had come from sensory experience alone. This shows how far space in general differs from the concrete expanses we perceive.¹³¹⁹ For the same reason, the rhythm of collective life dominates and encompasses the different rhythms of all the individual lives that produce it. So the time expressed by collective life dominates and encompasses all particular durations. It is time in general. For a long time, the history of the world has been only another aspect of the history of society. The history of the world begins when the history of society begins. Its periods are determined by the periods of society’s history. This impersonal, total duration is measured by the times when society gathers together or disperses. These movements also establish the reference points by which this duration is divided and organized. More generally, these reference points are established by the periodic needs of society to renew itself collectively. These critical moments are generally linked to some physical phenomenon. Examples include the regular return of a particular star or the change of seasons. This is because objective signs are needed to make this essentially social organization understandable to everyone. Finally, the same is true of the causal relation. Once the group states it collectively, it becomes independent of every individual consciousness. It rises above all individual minds and events. It is a law whose validity depends on no person. We have already shown that this clearly seems to be how it originated.

Another reason explains why the constituent elements of the categories should have been taken from social life: it is because the relations which they express could not have been learned except in and through society. If they are in a sense immanent in the life of an individual, he has neither a reason nor the means for learning them, reflecting upon them and forming them into distinct ideas. In order to orient himself personally in space and to know at what moments he should satisfy his various organic needs, he has no need of making, once and for all, a conceptual representation of time and space. Many animals are able to find the road which leads to places with which they are familiar; they come back at a proper moment without knowing any of the categories; sensations are enough to direct them automatically. They would also be enough for men, if their sensations had to satisfy only individual needs. To recognize the fact that one thing resembles another which we have already experienced, it is in no way necessary that we arrange them all in groups and species: the way in which similar images call up each other and unite is enough to give the feeling of resemblance. The impression that a certain thing has already been seen or experienced implies no classification. To recognize the things which we should seek or from which we should flee, it would not be necessary to attach the effects of the two to their causes by a logical bond, if individual conveniences were the only ones in question. Purely empirical sequences and strong connections between the concrete representations would be as sure guides for the will. Not only is it true that the animal has no others, but also our own personal conduct frequently supposes nothing more. The prudent man is the one who has a very clear sensation of what must be done, but which he would ordinarily be quite incapable of stating as a general law.

Another reason explains why the elements of the categories must have come from social life. The relationships they express could only have been learned in and through society. In one sense, these relationships are part of an individual’s life. But the individual has neither a reason nor the means to learn about them, reflect on them, and form distinct ideas of them. To find their way in space and know when to satisfy their various bodily needs, individuals do not need fixed concepts of time and space. Many animals can find their way to familiar places and return at the right time without knowing any of the categories. Sensations are enough to guide them automatically. Sensations would also be enough for humans, if they only had to satisfy individual needs. To recognize that one thing resembles another we have experienced, we do not need to sort everything into groups and species. Similar images evoke and combine with one another, and that is enough to give us a sense of resemblance. The impression that we have seen or experienced something before does not require classification. To recognize what we should seek or avoid, we would not need to connect effects to their causes by a logical bond, if only individual interests were at stake. Sequences known purely through experience and strong connections between mental images of concrete things would guide our choices just as reliably. Animals not only have no other guides, but our own personal conduct often relies on nothing more. A prudent person has a very clear sense of what must be done, but would ordinarily be quite unable to state it as a general law.

It is a different matter with society. This is possible only when the individuals and things which compose it are divided into certain groups, that is to say, classified, and when these groups are classified in relation to each other. Society supposes a self-conscious organization which is nothing other than a classification. This organization of society naturally extends itself to the place which this occupies. To avoid all collisions, it is necessary that each particular group have a determined portion of space assigned to it: in other terms, it is necessary that space in general be divided, differentiated, arranged, and that these divisions and arrangements be known to everybody. On the other hand, every summons to a celebration, a hunt or a military expedition implies fixed and established dates, and consequently that a common time is agreed upon, which everybody conceives in the same fashion. Finally, the co-operation of many persons with the same end in view is possible only when they are in agreement as to the relation which exists between this end and the means of attaining it, that is to say, when the same causal relation is admitted by all the co-operators in the enterprise. It is not surprising, therefore, that social time, social space, social classes and causality should be the basis of the corresponding categories, since it is under their social forms that these different relations were first grasped with a certain clarity by the human intellect.

Society is different. It is possible only when the individuals and things that make it up are divided into groups, or classified. These groups must also be classified in relation to one another. Society requires a self-conscious organization, which is simply a system of classification. This organization naturally extends to the space society occupies. To avoid all conflicts, each group must be assigned a specific area. In other words, space as a whole must be divided, differentiated, and arranged, and everyone must know these divisions and arrangements. Likewise, every call to a celebration, a hunt, or a military expedition requires a fixed and established date. So everyone must agree on a common measure of time and understand it in the same way. Finally, people can cooperate toward a common goal only if they agree on the relationship between that goal and the means of achieving it. In other words, everyone involved must accept the same causal relationship. It is therefore not surprising that social time, social space, social classes, and causality form the basis of the corresponding categories. The human intellect first grasped these different relations with some clarity in their social forms.

In summing up, then, we must say that society is not at all the illogical or a-logical, incoherent and fantastic being which it has too often been considered. Quite on the contrary, the collective consciousness is the highest form of the psychic life, since it is the consciousness of the consciousnesses. Being placed outside of and above individual and local contingencies, it sees things only in their permanent and essential aspects, which it crystallizes into communicable ideas. At the same time that it sees from above, it sees farther; at every moment of time, it embraces all known reality; that is why it alone can furnish the mind with the moulds which are applicable to the totality of things and which make it possible to think of them. It does not create these moulds artificially; it finds them within itself; it does nothing but become conscious of them. They translate the ways of being which are found in all the stages of reality but which appear in their full clarity only at the summit, because the extreme complexity of the psychic life which passes there necessitates a greater development of consciousness. Attributing social origins to logical thought is not debasing it or diminishing its value or reducing it to nothing more than a system of artificial combinations; on the contrary, it is relating it to a cause which implies it naturally. But this is not saying that the ideas elaborated in this way are at once adequate for their object. If society is something universal in relation to the individual, it is none the less an individuality itself, which has its own personal physiognomy and its idiosyncrasies; it is a particular subject and consequently particularizes whatever it thinks of. Therefore collective representations also contain subjective elements, and these must be progressively rooted out, if we are to approach reality more closely. But howsoever crude these may have been at the beginning, the fact remains that with them the germ of a new mentality was given, to which the individual could never have raised himself by his own efforts: by them the way was opened to a stable, impersonal and organized thought which then had nothing to do except to develop its nature.

In summary, society is not the illogical or nonlogical, incoherent and fantastic being it has too often been thought to be. On the contrary, collective consciousness is the highest form of mental life, since it is the consciousness of individual consciousnesses. It stands outside and above individual and local circumstances. So it sees things only in their lasting and essential aspects, which it crystallizes into ideas that can be communicated. Because it sees from above, it also sees farther. At every moment, it encompasses all known reality. That is why it alone can provide the mind with forms that apply to all things and make thinking about them possible. Collective consciousness does not create these forms artificially. It finds them within itself and simply becomes aware of them. The forms express ways of being found at every level of reality. But these ways of being appear with full clarity only at the highest level. This is because the extreme complexity of mental life at that level requires a greater development of consciousness. To say that logical thought has social origins is not to demean it, diminish its value, or reduce it to a system of artificial combinations. On the contrary, it is to connect logical thought with a cause that naturally involves it. But this does not mean that the ideas developed in this way are immediately adequate to their objects. Society is universal in relation to the individual. Yet it is also an individual entity, with its own distinctive character and peculiarities. It is a particular subject and therefore gives a particular character to whatever it thinks about. Collective representations therefore also contain subjective elements. These must be gradually removed if we are to get closer to reality. However crude these collective representations may have been at first, they contained the beginnings of a new way of thinking. Individuals could never have reached this way of thinking through their own efforts. These representations opened the way to stable, impersonal, organized thought, which then only had to develop according to its nature.

Also, the causes which have determined this development do not seem to be specifically different from those which gave it its initial impulse. If logical thought tends to rid itself more and more of the subjective and personal elements which it still retains from its origin, it is not because extra-social factors have intervened; it is much rather because a social life of a new sort is developing. It is this international life which has already resulted in universalizing religious beliefs. As it extends, the collective horizon enlarges; the society ceases to appear as the only whole, to become a part of a much vaster one, with indetermined frontiers, which is susceptible of advancing indefinitely. Consequently things can no longer be contained in the social moulds according to which they were primitively classified; they must be organized according to principles which are their own, so logical organization differentiates itself from the social organization and becomes autonomous. Really and truly human thought is not a primitive fact; it is the product of history; it is the ideal limit towards which we are constantly approaching, but which in all probability we shall never succeed in reaching.

Also, the causes behind this development do not seem fundamentally different from those that first set it in motion. Logical thought still retains subjective and personal elements from its origins. If it tends to shed more and more of these elements, that is not because factors outside society have intervened. Rather, it is because a new kind of social life is developing. This international life has already made religious beliefs universal. As international life expands, the collective horizon widens. Society no longer appears to be the only whole. It becomes part of a much larger whole, with undefined boundaries and the capacity to expand indefinitely. As a result, things can no longer fit into the social molds in which they were originally classified. They must be organized according to their own principles. So logical organization becomes distinct from social organization and takes on a life of its own. Truly human thought does not exist from the beginning. It is a product of history. It is the ideal limit we are constantly approaching, but in all probability will never reach.

Thus it is not at all true that between science on the one hand, and morals and religion on the other, there exists that sort of antinomy which has so frequently been admitted, for the two forms of human activity really come from one and the same source. Kant understood this very well, and therefore he made the speculative reason and the practical reason two different aspects of the same faculty. According to him, what makes their unity is the fact that the two are directed towards the universal. Rational thinking is thinking according to the laws which are imposed upon all reasonable beings; acting morally is conducting one's self according to those maxims which can be extended without contradiction to all wills. In other words, science and morals imply that the individual is capable of raising himself above his own peculiar point of view and of living an impersonal life. In fact, it cannot be doubted that this is a trait common to all the higher forms of thought and action. What Kant's system does not explain, however, is the origin of this sort of contradiction which is realized in man. Why is he forced to do violence to himself by leaving his individuality, and, inversely, why is the impersonal law obliged to be dissipated by incarnating itself in individuals? Is it answered that there are two antagonistic worlds in which we participate equally, the world of matter and sense on the one hand, and the world of pure and impersonal reason on the other? That is merely repeating the question in slightly different terms, for what we are trying to find out is why we must lead these two existences at the same time. Why do these two worlds, which seem to contradict each other, not remain outside of each other, and why must they mutually penetrate one another in spite of their antagonism? The only explanation which has ever been given of this singular necessity is the hypothesis of the Fall, with all the difficulties which it implies, and which need not be repeated here. On the other hand, all mystery disappears the moment that it is recognized that impersonal reason is only another name given to collective thought. For this is possible only through a group of individuals; it supposes them, and in their turn, they suppose it, for they can continue to exist only by grouping themselves together. The kingdom of ends and impersonal truths can realize itself only by the co-operation of particular wills, and the reasons for which these participate in it are the same as those for which they co-operate. In a word, there is something impersonal in us because there is something social in all of us, and since social life embraces at once both representations and practices, this impersonality naturally extends to ideas as well as to acts.

It is therefore not true that science is fundamentally opposed to morals and religion, as people have so often assumed. Both forms of human activity come from the same source. Kant understood this well. He therefore treated speculative reason and practical reason as two different aspects of the same faculty. According to Kant, their unity lies in the fact that both are directed toward what is universal. To think rationally is to think according to laws that apply to all rational beings. To act morally is to follow principles that can be applied to all wills without contradiction. In other words, science and morals both imply that individuals can rise above their own particular points of view and live impersonal lives. Indeed, this is without doubt a feature shared by all higher forms of thought and action. What Kant's system does not explain, however, is the origin of this kind of contradiction within human beings. Why must we do violence to ourselves by leaving our individuality behind? And conversely, why must the impersonal law be dispersed by taking form in individuals? Is the answer that we belong equally to two opposing worlds? One is the world of matter and the senses, and the other is the world of pure, impersonal reason. But that merely repeats the question in slightly different words. What we are trying to discover is why we must live both lives at once. Why do these two worlds, which seem to contradict each other, not remain separate? Why must they enter into each other despite their opposition? The only explanation ever given for this strange necessity is the hypothesis of the Fall. That hypothesis brings with it all the difficulties that need not be repeated here. On the other hand, the mystery disappears once we recognize that impersonal reason is simply another name for collective thought. Collective thought is possible only through a group of individuals. It depends on them, and they in turn depend on it. For they can continue to exist only by joining together. The kingdom of ends and impersonal truths can be realized only through the cooperation of individual wills. The reasons those wills participate in this kingdom are the same as the reasons they cooperate. In short, there is something impersonal in us because there is something social in all of us. Social life includes both representations and practices, so this impersonality naturally extends to ideas as well as actions.

Perhaps some will be surprised to see us connect the most elevated forms of thought with society: the cause appears quite humble, in consideration of the value which we attribute to the effect. Between the world of the senses and appetites on the one hand, and that of reason and morals on the other, the distance is so considerable that the second would seem to have been able to add itself to the first only by a creative act. But attributing to society this preponderating rôle in the genesis of our nature is not denying this creation; for society has a creative power which no other observable being can equal. In fact, all creation, if not a mystical operation which escapes science and knowledge, is the product of a synthesis. Now if the synthesis of particular conceptions which take place in each individual consciousness are already and of themselves productive of novelties, how much more efficacious these vast syntheses of complete consciousnesses which make society must be! A society is the most powerful combination of physical and moral forces of which nature offers us an example. Nowhere else is an equal richness of different materials, carried to such a degree of concentration, to be found. Then it is not surprising that a higher life disengages itself which, by reacting upon the elements of which it is the product, raises them to a higher plane of existence and transforms them.

Perhaps some will be surprised that we connect the highest forms of thought with society. Society seems a humble cause, given the value we place on its effect. The world of the senses and appetites seems far removed from the world of reason and morals. The second would seem capable of joining the first only through an act of creation. But giving society this leading role in the formation of our nature does not deny such creation. Society has a creative power unmatched by any other observable being. In fact, all creation is the product of a synthesis, unless it is a mystical operation beyond science and knowledge. The synthesis of ideas within each individual consciousness already produces new things on its own. How much more effective, then, must be the vast syntheses of whole consciousnesses that make up society! Society is the most powerful combination of physical and moral forces found in nature. Nowhere else can we find such a rich variety of elements concentrated to the same degree. So it is not surprising that a higher form of life emerges from society. This higher life acts in turn on the elements that produced it, raising them to a higher plane of existence and transforming them.

Thus sociology appears destined to open a new way to the science of man. Up to the present, thinkers were placed before this double alternative: either explain the superior and specific faculties of men by connecting them to the inferior forms of his being, the reason to the senses, or the mind to matter, which is equivalent to denying their uniqueness; or else attach them to some super-experimental reality which was postulated, but whose existence could be established by no observation. What put them in this difficulty was the fact that the individual passed as being the finis naturæ—the ultimate creation of nature; it seemed that there was nothing beyond him, or at least nothing that science could touch. But from the moment when it is recognized that above the individual there is society, and that this is not a nominal being created by reason, but a system of active forces, a new manner of explaining men becomes possible. To conserve his distinctive traits it is no longer necessary to put them outside experience. At least, before going to this last extremity, it would be well to see if that which surpasses the individual, though it is within him, does not come from this super-individual reality which we experience in society. To be sure, it cannot be said at present to what point these explanations may be able to reach, and whether or not they are of a nature to resolve all the problems. But it is equally impossible to mark in advance a limit beyond which they cannot go. What must be done is to try the hypothesis and submit it as methodically as possible to the control of facts. This is what we have tried to do.

Sociology thus seems destined to open a new path for the science of human beings. Until now, thinkers faced two alternatives. They could explain human beings’ higher, distinctive abilities by linking them to lower forms of existence. They could link reason to the senses, or mind to matter. But doing so was equivalent to denying what made those abilities unique. Or thinkers could link those abilities to a reality beyond experience, whose existence they assumed but could not establish through observation. Thinkers faced this difficulty because they regarded the individual as the finis naturæ, the ultimate creation of nature. There seemed to be nothing beyond the individual, or at least nothing that science could study. But a new way of explaining human beings becomes possible once we recognize that society stands above the individual. Society is not merely a name invented by reason. It is a system of active forces. We no longer need to place human beings’ distinctive traits outside experience to preserve them. At least, before going to that last extreme, we should consider another possibility. What surpasses the individual, though it exists within the individual, may come from the reality beyond the individual that we experience in society. To be sure, we cannot yet say how far these explanations may reach, or whether they can resolve all the problems. But it is equally impossible to set a limit in advance on how far they can go. We must test the hypothesis and check it against the facts as methodically as possible. That is what we have tried to do.