INTRODUCTION: RELIGIOUS SOCIOLOGY AND THE THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE

In this book we propose to study the most primitive and simple religion which is actually known, to make an analysis of it, and to attempt an explanation of it. A religious system may be said to be the most primitive which we can observe when it fulfils the two following conditions: in the first place, when it is found in a society whose organization is surpassed by no others in simplicity;¹ and secondly, when it is possible to explain it without making use of any element borrowed from a previous religion.

In this book, we aim to study, analyze, and try to explain the simplest and most primitive religion known today. An observable religious system may be called the most primitive if it meets two conditions. First, it must be found in a society whose organization is as simple as any other.¹ Second, it must be possible to explain the religion without using any element borrowed from an earlier religion.

We shall set ourselves to describe the organization of this system with all the exactness and fidelity that an ethnographer or an historian could give it. But our task will not be limited to that: sociology raises other problems than history or ethnography. It does not seek to know the passed forms of civilization with the sole end of knowing them and reconstructing them. But rather, like every positive science, it has as its object the explanation of some actual reality which is near to us, and which consequently is capable of affecting our ideas and our acts: this reality is man, and more precisely, the man of to-day, for there is nothing which we are more interested in knowing. Then we are not going to study a very archaic religion simply for the pleasure of telling its peculiarities and its singularities. If we have taken it as the subject of our research, it is because it has seemed to us better adapted than any other to lead to an understanding of the religious nature of man, that is to say, to show us an essential and permanent aspect of humanity.

We will describe the organization of this system as accurately and faithfully as an ethnographer or historian could. But our task will not stop there. Sociology raises different questions from history or ethnography. It does not study past forms of civilization solely to understand and reconstruct them. Rather, like every empirical science, sociology aims to explain some present reality close to us, one that can affect our ideas and actions. That reality is human beings, and more precisely, human beings today. There is nothing we are more interested in understanding. So we will not study a very ancient religion simply for the pleasure of describing its peculiar and unusual features. We have chosen it as our subject because it seemed better suited than any other to help us understand human religious nature. In other words, it seemed best suited to reveal an essential and lasting aspect of humanity.

But this proposition is not accepted before the raising of strong objections. It seems very strange that one must turn back, and be transported to the very beginnings of history, in order to arrive at an understanding of humanity as it is at present. This manner of procedure seems particularly paradoxical in the question which concerns us. In fact, the various religions generally pass as being quite unequal in value and dignity; it is said that they do not all contain the same quota of truth. Then it seems as though one could not compare the highest forms of religious thought with the lowest, without reducing the first to the level of the second. If we admit that the crude cults of the Australian tribes can help us to understand Christianity, for example, is that not supposing that this latter religion proceeds from the same mentality as the former, that it is made up of the same superstitions and rests upon the same errors? This is how the theoretical importance which has sometimes been attributed to primitive religions has come to pass as a sign of a systematic hostility to all religion, which, by prejudging the results of the study, vitiates them in advance.

But this proposition faces strong objections. It seems very strange that we must go back to the beginnings of history to understand humanity as it is today. This approach seems especially paradoxical when it comes to the question before us. Religions are generally considered very unequal in value and dignity. People say that they do not all contain the same amount of truth. So it seems that comparing the highest forms of religious thought with the lowest would reduce the former to the level of the latter. If we accept that the crude religious practices of Australian tribes can help us understand Christianity, for example, are we not assuming that Christianity comes from the same mentality? Are we not assuming that it consists of the same superstitions and rests on the same errors? For this reason, the theoretical importance sometimes given to primitive religions has come to be seen as a sign of systematic hostility to all religion. Such hostility judges the results of the study in advance and undermines them before the study begins.

There is no occasion for asking here whether or not there are scholars who have merited this reproach, and who have made religious history and ethnology a weapon against religion. In any case, a sociologist cannot hold such a point of view. In fact, it is an essential postulate of sociology that a human institution cannot rest upon an error and a lie, without which it could not exist. If it were not founded in the nature of things, it would have encountered in the facts a resistance over which it could never have triumphed. So when we commence the study of primitive religions, it is with the assurance that they hold to reality and express it; this principle will be seen to re-enter again and again in the course of the analyses and discussions which follow, and the reproach which we make against the schools from which we have separated ourselves is that they have ignored it. When only the letter of the formulæ is considered, these religious beliefs and practices undoubtedly seem disconcerting at times, and one is tempted to attribute them to some sort of a deep-rooted error. But one must know how to go underneath the symbol to the reality which it represents and which gives it its meaning. The most barbarous and the most fantastic rites and the strangest myths translate some human need, some aspect of life, either individual or social. The reasons with which the faithful justify them may be, and generally are, erroneous; but the true reasons do not cease to exist, and it is the duty of science to discover them.

There is no need to ask here whether some scholars deserve this criticism. Some may have used religious history and ethnology as weapons against religion. In any case, a sociologist cannot take that view. Sociology rests on the essential assumption that a human institution cannot exist if it is based on error and lies. If an institution were not grounded in the nature of things, it would meet insurmountable resistance from the facts. So when we begin studying primitive religions, we do so with the assurance that they are rooted in reality and express it. This principle will appear again and again in the analyses and discussions that follow. We criticize the schools of thought we have rejected because they ignored it. If we look only at the literal wording of religious beliefs and practices, they can undoubtedly seem puzzling. We may be tempted to attribute them to some deep-rooted error. But we must learn to look beneath the symbol to the reality it represents and that gives it meaning. The most barbarous and fantastic rites and the strangest myths express some human need or aspect of life, individual or social. The reasons believers give to justify them may be, and generally are, wrong. But true reasons still exist, and science must discover them.

In reality, then, there are no religions which are false. All are true in their own fashion; all answer, though in different ways, to the given conditions of human existence. It is undeniably possible to arrange them in a hierarchy. Some can be called superior to others, in the sense that they call into play higher mental functions, that they are richer in ideas and sentiments, that they contain more concepts with fewer sensations and images, and that their arrangement is wiser. But howsoever real this greater complexity and this higher ideality may be, they are not sufficient to place the corresponding religions in different classes. All are religions equally, just as all living beings are equally alive, from the most humble plastids up to man. So when we turn to primitive religions it is not with the idea of depreciating religion in general, for these religions are no less respectable than the others. They respond to the same needs, they play the same rôle, they depend upon the same causes; they can also well serve to show the nature of the religious life, and consequently to resolve the problem which we wish to study.

In reality, then, no religions are false. All are true in their own way. All respond to the given conditions of human existence, though in different ways. Religions can undoubtedly be ranked. Some can be called superior to others because they engage higher mental functions and are richer in ideas and feelings. They contain more concepts and fewer sensations and images, and they are organized more wisely. But however real this greater complexity and higher level of abstract thought may be, they do not place these religions in different classes. All are equally religions, just as all living things are equally alive, from the simplest plastids to human beings. So when we turn to primitive religions, we do not mean to belittle religion in general. These religions are no less respectable than the others. They respond to the same needs, play the same role, and depend on the same causes. They can also serve to show the nature of religious life and thus help resolve the problem we wish to study.

But why give them a sort of prerogative? Why choose them in preference to all others as the subject of our study?—It is merely for reasons of method.

But why give them a special status? Why choose them over all others as the subject of our study? The reasons are purely methodological.

In the first place, we cannot arrive at an understanding of the most recent religions except by following the manner in which they have been progressively composed in history. In fact, historical analysis is the only means of explanation which it is possible to apply to them. It alone enables us to resolve an institution into its constituent elements, for it shows them to us as they are born in time, one after another. On the other hand, by placing every one of them in the condition where it was born, it puts into our hands the only means we have of determining the causes which gave rise to it. Every time that we undertake to explain something human, taken at a given moment in history—be it a religious belief, a moral precept, a legal principle, an æsthetic style or an economic system—it is necessary to commence by going back to its most primitive and simple form, to try to account for the characteristics by which it was marked at that time, and then to show how it developed and became complicated little by little, and how it became that which it is at the moment in question. One readily understands the importance which the determination of the point of departure has for this series of progressive explanations, for all the others are attached to it. It was one of Descartes's principles that the first ring has a predominating place in the chain of scientific truths. But there is no question of placing at the foundation of the science of religions an idea elaborated after the cartesian manner, that is to say, a logical concept, a pure possibility, constructed simply by force of thought. What we must find is a concrete reality, and historical and ethnological observation alone can reveal that to us. But even if this cardinal conception is obtained by a different process than that of Descartes, it remains true that it is destined to have a considerable influence on the whole series of propositions which the science establishes. Biological evolution has been conceived quite differently ever since it has been known that monocellular beings do exist. In the same way, the arrangement of religious facts is explained quite differently, according as we put naturism, animism or some other religious form at the beginning of the evolution. Even the most specialized scholars, if they are unwilling to confine themselves to a task of pure erudition, and if they desire to interpret the facts which they analyse, are obliged to choose one of these hypotheses, and make it their starting-point. Whether they desire it or not, the questions which they raise necessarily take the following form: how has naturism or animism been led to take this particular form, here or there, or to enrich itself or impoverish itself in such and such a fashion? Since it is impossible to avoid taking sides on this initial problem, and since the solution given is destined to affect the whole science, it must be attacked at the outset: that is what we propose to do.

First, we can understand the most recent religions only by tracing how they gradually took shape in history. In fact, historical analysis is the only way we can explain them. It alone allows us to break an institution down into its component elements, because it shows them arising one after another over time. By placing each element in the conditions in which it arose, it also gives us our only means of determining its causes. Whenever we try to explain something human at a given moment in history, we must begin with its earliest and simplest form. This applies to a religious belief, a moral rule, a legal principle, an artistic style, or an economic system. We must try to explain its characteristics at that early stage. Then we must show how it developed and gradually became more complex, until it became what it was at the time in question. The starting point is clearly important to this series of explanations, because all the later explanations depend on it. Descartes held that the first link in the chain of scientific truths has a leading place. But we do not propose to base the science of religions on an idea developed in the Cartesian manner. Such an idea would be a logical concept, a mere possibility constructed by thought alone. We must find a concrete reality, and only historical and ethnological observation can reveal it to us. Even though we arrive at this central conception by a different method from Descartes's, it will still greatly influence the whole series of propositions that the science establishes. Since the discovery that single-celled beings exist, biological evolution has been understood quite differently. Similarly, our explanation of how religious facts are arranged depends on whether we place naturism, animism, or some other religious form at the beginning of their evolution. Even the most specialized scholars must choose one of these hypotheses as their starting point if they want to interpret the facts they study, rather than confine themselves to a purely scholarly task. Whether they want to or not, their questions necessarily take this form: how did naturism or animism come to take this particular form in one place or another, or become richer or poorer in one way or another? We cannot avoid taking a position on this initial problem, and the answer will affect the whole science. We must therefore address it at the outset. That is what we propose to do.

Besides this, outside of these indirect reactions, the study of primitive religions has of itself an immediate interest which is of primary importance.

Besides these indirect effects, the study of primitive religions is itself of immediate and primary importance.

If it is useful to know what a certain particular religion consists in, it is still more important to know what religion in general is. This is the problem which has aroused the interest of philosophers in all times; and not without reason, for it is of interest to all humanity. Unfortunately, the method which they generally employ is purely dialectic: they confine themselves to analysing the idea which they make for themselves of religion, except as they illustrate the results of this mental analysis by examples borrowed from the religions which best realize their ideal. But even if this method ought to be abandoned, the problem remains intact, and the great service of philosophy is to have prevented its being suppressed by the disdain of scholars. Now it is possible to attack it in a different way. Since all religions can be compared to each other, and since all are species of the same class, there are necessarily many elements which are common to all. We do not mean to speak simply of the outward and visible characteristics which they all have equally, and which make it possible to give them a provisional definition from the very outset of our researches; the discovery of these apparent signs is relatively easy, for the observation which it demands does not go beneath the surface of things. But these external resemblances suppose others which are profound. At the foundation of all systems of beliefs and of all cults there ought necessarily to be a certain number of fundamental representations or conceptions and of ritual attitudes which, in spite of the diversity of forms which they have taken, have the same objective significance and fulfil the same functions everywhere. These are the permanent elements which constitute that which is permanent and human in religion; they form all the objective contents of the idea which is expressed when one speaks of religion in general. How is it possible to pick them out?

If it is useful to know what a particular religion consists of, it is even more important to know what religion in general is. This question has interested philosophers throughout history, and for good reason. It concerns all humanity. Unfortunately, their usual method relies purely on reasoning. They limit themselves to analyzing their own idea of religion. They then illustrate the results with examples from the religions that best fit their ideal. But even if this method should be abandoned, the question remains. Philosophy has done a great service by preventing scholars from dismissing it with contempt. Now the question can be approached differently. All religions can be compared, and all are types within the same class. So they must have many elements in common. We do not mean only the outward, visible features they all share. These allow us to give religion a provisional definition at the very start of our research. Finding these apparent signs is relatively easy, because it requires only observation of the surface of things. But these outward similarities point to deeper ones. At the foundation of all systems of belief and worship, there must be certain basic ideas and ritual attitudes. Despite the different forms they have taken, they have the same objective significance and serve the same functions everywhere. These are the lasting elements that make religion enduring and human. They make up the entire objective content of the idea expressed when we speak of religion in general. How can we identify them?

Surely it is not by observing the complex religions which appear in the course of history. Every one of these is made up of such a variety of elements that it is very difficult to distinguish what is secondary from what is principal, the essential from the accessory. Suppose that the religion considered is like that of Egypt, India or the classical antiquity. It is a confused mass of many cults, varying according to the locality, the temples, the generations, the dynasties, the invasions, etc. Popular superstitions are there confused with the purest dogmas. Neither the thought nor the activity of the religion is evenly distributed among the believers; according to the men, the environment and the circumstances, the beliefs as well as the rites are thought of in different ways. Here they are priests, there they are monks, elsewhere they are laymen; there are mystics and rationalists, theologians and prophets, etc. In these conditions it is difficult to see what is common to all. In one or another of these systems it is quite possible to find the means of making a profitable study of some particular fact which is specially developed there, such as sacrifice or prophecy, monasticism or the mysteries; but how is it possible to find the common foundation of the religious life underneath the luxuriant vegetation which covers it? How is it possible to find, underneath the disputes of theology, the variations of ritual, the multiplicity of groups and the diversity of individuals, the fundamental states characteristic of religious mentality in general?

Surely we cannot do this by studying the complex religions that appear throughout history. Each contains such a variety of elements that it is hard to distinguish the principal from the secondary, the essential from the incidental. Consider a religion like that of Egypt, India, or classical antiquity. Each is a confused mass of many cults. These vary with the locality, the temple, the generation, the dynasty, invasions, and so on. Popular superstitions are mixed with the purest doctrines. Religious thought and practice are not distributed evenly among believers. People understand beliefs and rites differently, depending on the person, the setting, and the circumstances. Some are priests, some are monks, and others are laypeople. There are mystics and rationalists, theologians and prophets, and so on. Under these conditions, it is hard to see what all these religions have in common. One or another may offer a useful way to study a particular feature that is especially developed there. Such a feature might be sacrifice or prophecy, monasticism or the mysteries. But how can we find the common foundation of religious life beneath the lush vegetation that covers it? Beneath theological disputes, variations in ritual, the many groups, and the diversity of individuals, how can we find the basic states of mind that characterize religious thought in general?

Things are quite different in the lower societies. The slighter development of individuality, the small extension of the group, the homogeneity of external circumstances, all contribute to reducing the differences and variations to a minimum. The group has an intellectual and moral conformity of which we find but rare examples in the more advanced societies. Everything is common to all. Movements are stereotyped; everybody performs the same ones in the same circumstances, and this conformity of conduct only translates the conformity of thought. Every mind being drawn into the same eddy, the individual type nearly confounds itself with that of the race. And while all is uniform, all is simple as well. Nothing is deformed like these myths, all composed of one and the same theme which is endlessly repeated, or like these rites made up of a small number of gestures repeated again and again. Neither the popular imagination nor that of the priests has had either the time or the means of refining and transforming the original substance of the religious ideas and practices; these are shown in all their nudity, and offer themselves to an examination, it requiring only the slightest effort to lay them open. That which is accessory or secondary, the development of luxury, has not yet come to hide the principal elements.² All is reduced to that which is indispensable, to that without which there could be no religion. But that which is indispensable is also that which is essential, that is to say, that which we must know before all else.

Things are quite different in less developed societies. Individuality is less developed, the group is small, and external circumstances are much the same. All these factors keep differences and variations to a minimum. The group has an intellectual and moral conformity rarely found in more advanced societies. Everything is shared by all. People’s movements follow fixed patterns. Everyone performs the same movements in the same circumstances, and this conformity of conduct simply reflects conformity of thought. Every mind is caught up in the same current, so the individual type almost merges with that of the race. And while everything is uniform, everything is simple as well. Nothing is as unformed as these myths, all built on a single theme repeated endlessly. The same is true of these rites, made up of a few gestures repeated again and again. Neither ordinary people nor priests have had the time or means to refine and transform the original substance of religious ideas and practices. These ideas and practices are shown in all their nakedness and are open to examination. It takes only the slightest effort to uncover them. Secondary or incidental features, such as elaborate embellishments, have not yet hidden the main elements.² Everything is reduced to what is indispensable, to what no religion could exist without. But what is indispensable is also essential. It is what we must know before anything else.

Primitive civilizations offer privileged cases, then, because they are simple cases. That is why, in all fields of human activity, the observations of ethnologists have frequently been veritable revelations, which have renewed the study of human institutions. For example, before the middle of the nineteenth century, everybody was convinced that the father was the essential element of the family; no one had dreamed that there could be a family organization of which the paternal authority was not the keystone. But the discovery of Bachofen came and upset this old conception. Up to very recent times it was regarded as evident that the moral and legal relations of kindred were only another aspect of the psychological relations which result from a common descent; Bachofen and his successors, MacLennan, Morgan and many others still laboured under this misunderstanding. But since we have become acquainted with the nature of the primitive clan, we know that, on the contrary, relationships cannot be explained by consanguinity. To return to religions, the study of only the most familiar ones had led men to believe for a long time that the idea of god was characteristic of everything that is religious. Now the religion which we are going to study presently is, in a large part, foreign to all idea of divinity; the forces to which the rites are there addressed are very different from those which occupy the leading place in our modern religions, yet they aid us in understanding these latter forces. So nothing is more unjust than the disdain with which too many historians still regard the work of ethnographers. Indeed, it is certain that ethnology has frequently brought about the most fruitful revolutions in the different branches of sociology. It is for this same reason that the discovery of unicellular beings, of which we just spoke, has transformed the current idea of life. Since in these very simple beings, life is reduced to its essential traits, these are less easily misunderstood.

Primitive civilizations offer especially useful cases because they are simple. That is why ethnologists’ observations have often been genuine revelations in every field of human activity. They have renewed the study of human institutions. For example, before the middle of the nineteenth century, everyone believed that the father was essential to the family. No one had imagined that a family could be organized without paternal authority as its foundation. But Bachofen’s discovery overturned this old idea. Until very recently, people took another idea for granted. They believed that the moral and legal relationships between kin were simply another aspect of the psychological ties created by common descent. Bachofen and his successors, MacLennan, Morgan, and many others, still shared this misunderstanding. But now that we know the nature of the primitive clan, we know that kinship cannot be explained by blood ties. To return to religion, people had long studied only the most familiar religions. This led them to believe that the idea of god was characteristic of everything religious. But the religion we will study shortly is, for the most part, unrelated to any idea of divinity. Its rites are directed toward forces very different from those central to our modern religions. Yet these forces help us understand the forces central to modern religions. So nothing is more unjust than the disdain with which too many historians still regard ethnographers’ work. Indeed, ethnology has certainly often brought about the most fruitful revolutions in the different branches of sociology. For the same reason, the discovery of single celled organisms, which we just discussed, has transformed the prevailing idea of life. In these very simple organisms, life is reduced to its essential traits, so those traits are less easily misunderstood.

But primitive religions do not merely aid us in disengaging the constituent elements of religion; they also have the great advantage that they facilitate the explanation of it. Since the facts there are simpler, the relations between them are more apparent. The reasons with which men account for their acts have not yet been elaborated and denatured by studied reflection; they are nearer and more closely related to the motives which have really determined these acts. In order to understand an hallucination perfectly, and give it its most appropriate treatment, a physician must know its original point of departure. Now this event is proportionately easier to find if he can observe it near its beginnings. The longer the disease is allowed to develop, the more it evades observation; that is because all sorts of interpretations have intervened as it advanced, which tend to force the original state into the background, and across which it is frequently difficult to find the initial one. Between a systematized hallucination and the first impressions which gave it birth, the distance is often considerable. It is the same thing with religious thought. In proportion as it progresses in history, the causes which called it into existence, though remaining active, are no longer perceived, except across a vast scheme of interpretations which quite transform them. Popular mythologies and subtile theologies have done their work: they have superimposed upon the primitive sentiments others which are quite different, and which, though holding to the first, of which they are an elaborated form, only allow their true nature to appear very imperfectly. The psychological gap between the cause and the effect, between the apparent cause and the effective cause, has become more considerable and more difficult for the mind to leap. The remainder of this book will be an illustration and a verification of this remark on method. It will be seen how, in the primitive religions, the religious fact still visibly carries the mark of its origins: it would have been well-nigh impossible to infer them merely from the study of the more developed religions.

But primitive religions do more than help us identify the basic elements of religion. They also have the great advantage of making religion easier to explain. The facts are simpler, so the connections between them are clearer. The reasons people give for their actions have not yet been elaborated and distorted by deliberate reflection. They are closer to the motives that actually led to those actions. To understand a hallucination fully and treat it in the most appropriate way, a physician must know where it began. The closer to its beginnings the physician can observe it, the easier its starting point is to find. The longer the illness develops, the harder it is to observe its starting point. That is because all sorts of interpretations have emerged as the illness has progressed. These tend to push the original state into the background. It is often difficult to see through them to find that original state. A fully developed hallucination is often far removed from the first impressions that gave rise to it. The same is true of religious thought. As religious thought develops through history, the causes that brought it into being remain active. But they can be seen only through a vast system of interpretations that completely transforms them. Popular mythologies and subtle theologies have done their work. They have added new feelings to the original ones, and these new feelings are quite different. Although they remain connected to the original feelings and are an elaboration of them, they reveal their true nature only imperfectly. The psychological gap has grown between cause and effect, between the apparent cause and the actual cause. It has become harder for the mind to bridge. The rest of this book will illustrate and confirm this point about method. We will see how, in primitive religions, religious facts still visibly bear the mark of their origins. It would have been almost impossible to infer those origins merely by studying more developed religions.

The study which we are undertaking is therefore a way of taking up again, but under new conditions, the old problem of the origin of religion. To be sure, if by origin we are to understand the very first beginning, the question has nothing scientific about it, and should be resolutely discarded. There was no given moment when religion began to exist, and there is consequently no need of finding a means of transporting ourselves thither in thought. Like every human institution, religion did not commence anywhere. Therefore, all speculations of this sort are justly discredited; they can only consist in subjective and arbitrary constructions which are subject to no sort of control. But the problem which we raise is quite another one. What we want to do is to find a means of discerning the ever-present causes upon which the most essential forms of religious thought and practice depend. Now for the reasons which were just set forth, these causes are proportionately more easily observable as the societies where they are observed are less complicated. That is why we try to get as near as possible to the origins.³ It is not that we ascribe particular virtues to the lower religions. On the contrary, they are rudimentary and gross; we cannot make of them a sort of model which later religions only have to reproduce. But even their grossness makes them instructive, for they thus become convenient for experiments, as in them, the facts and their relations are easily seen. In order to discover the laws of the phenomena which he studies, the physicist tries to simplify these latter and rid them of their secondary characteristics. For that which concerns institutions, nature spontaneously makes the same sort of simplifications at the beginning of history. We merely wish to put these to profit. Undoubtedly we can only touch very elementary facts by this method. When we shall have accounted for them as far as possible, the novelties of every sort which have been produced in the course of evolution will not yet be explained. But while we do not dream of denying the importance of the problems thus raised, we think that they will profit by being treated in their turn, and that it is important to take them up only after those of which we are going to undertake the study at present.

Our study therefore takes up the old problem of the origin of religion again, but under new conditions. If “origin” means the very first beginning, the question is not scientific and should be firmly rejected. There was no single moment when religion began to exist. So there is no need to find a way to transport ourselves back to that moment in thought. Like every human institution, religion did not begin at any single point. All speculation of this kind is rightly discredited. It can only produce subjective and arbitrary theories that cannot be tested. But the problem we raise is quite different. We want to find a way to identify the ever-present causes behind the most essential forms of religious thought and practice. For the reasons just given, these causes are easier to observe in less complicated societies. That is why we try to get as close as possible to the origins.³ We do not attribute any special virtues to the lower religions. On the contrary, they are rudimentary and crude. We cannot treat them as models that later religions need only reproduce. But their very crudity makes them instructive. It makes them convenient for experiments, because the facts and their relationships are easy to see. To discover the laws governing the phenomena they study, physicists try to simplify them and remove their secondary features. In the case of institutions, nature makes similar simplifications on its own at the beginning of history. We merely want to take advantage of them. No doubt this method can reach only very elementary facts. Even when we have explained those facts as fully as possible, all kinds of developments produced during evolution will remain unexplained. We do not dream of denying the importance of the problems these developments raise. But we think it will be useful to address them in their turn, after the problems we are about to study.

But our study is not of interest merely for the science of religion. In fact, every religion has one side by which it overlaps the circle of properly religious ideas, and there, the study of religious phenomena gives a means of renewing the problems which, up to the present, have only been discussed among philosophers.

But our study is not only of interest to the science of religion. In fact, every religion has an aspect that extends beyond strictly religious ideas. So studying religious phenomena offers a way to revisit problems that, until now, have been discussed only by philosophers.

For a long time it has been known that the first systems of representations with which men have pictured to themselves the world and themselves were of religious origin. There is no religion that is not a cosmology at the same time that it is a speculation upon divine things. If philosophy and the sciences were born of religion, it is because religion began by taking the place of the sciences and philosophy. But it has been less frequently noticed that religion has not confined itself to enriching the human intellect, formed beforehand, with a certain number of ideas; it has contributed to forming the intellect itself. Men owe to it not only a good part of the substance of their knowledge, but also the form in which this knowledge has been elaborated.

For a long time, we have known that the first ways people understood the world and themselves came from religion. Every religion offers an account of the universe as well as ideas about divine things. If philosophy and the sciences were born from religion, it is because religion originally took their place. But people have less often noticed that religion did more than add ideas to an already formed human intellect. It also helped form the intellect itself. People owe religion not only a good part of what they know, but also the form in which they developed that knowledge.

At the roots of all our judgments there are a certain number of essential ideas which dominate all our intellectual life; they are what philosophers since Aristotle have called the categories of the understanding: ideas of time, space,⁴ class, number, cause, substance, personality, etc. They correspond to the most universal properties of things. They are like the solid frame which encloses all thought; this does not seem to be able to liberate itself from them without destroying itself, for it seems that we cannot think of objects that are not in time and space, which have no number, etc. Other ideas are contingent and unsteady; we can conceive of their being unknown to a man, a society or an epoch; but these others appear to be nearly inseparable from the normal working of the intellect. They are like the framework of the intelligence. Now when primitive religious beliefs are systematically analysed, the principal categories are naturally found. They are born in religion and of religion; they are a product of religious thought. This is a statement that we are going to have occasion to make many times in the course of this work.

At the root of all our judgments are certain essential ideas that govern our entire intellectual life. Since Aristotle, philosophers have called them the categories of the understanding. They include ideas of time, space,⁴ class, number, cause, substance, personality, and so on. These categories correspond to the most universal properties of things. They are like a solid frame that surrounds all thought. Thought does not seem able to break free of them without destroying itself. For it seems that we cannot think of objects that exist outside time and space, have no number, and so on. Other ideas are contingent and unstable. We can imagine a person, a society, or an era not knowing them. But the categories seem nearly inseparable from the normal workings of the intellect. They are like the framework of intelligence. When we systematically analyze primitive religious beliefs, we naturally find the main categories. They are born in and from religion. They are a product of religious thought. We will have occasion to make this claim many times throughout this work.

This remark has some interest of itself already; but here is what gives it its real importance.

This observation is interesting in itself. But here is what makes it truly important.

The general conclusion of the book which the reader has before him is that religion is something eminently social. Religious representations are collective representations which express collective realities; the rites are a manner of acting which take rise in the midst of the assembled groups and which are destined to excite, maintain or recreate certain mental states in these groups. So if the categories are of religious origin, they ought to participate in this nature common to all religious facts; they too should be social affairs and the product of collective thought. At least—for in the actual condition of our knowledge of these matters, one should be careful to avoid all radical and exclusive statements—it is allowable to suppose that they are rich in social elements.

The general conclusion of this book is that religion is fundamentally social. Religious representations are collective representations that express collective realities. Rites are ways of acting that arise among assembled groups. They are meant to arouse, maintain, or recreate certain mental states in those groups. So if the categories have a religious origin, they should share this nature common to all religious facts. They too should be social matters and products of collective thought. At least, it is reasonable to suppose that the categories contain many social elements. Given our current knowledge of these matters, we should be careful to avoid sweeping or exclusive claims.

Even at present, these can be imperfectly seen in some of them. For example, try to represent what the notion of time would be without the processes by which we divide it, measure it or express it with objective signs, a time which is not a succession of years, months, weeks, days and hours! This is something nearly unthinkable. We cannot conceive of time, except on condition of distinguishing its different moments. Now what is the origin of this differentiation? Undoubtedly, the states of consciousness which we have already experienced can be reproduced in us in the same order in which they passed in the first place; thus portions of our past become present again, though being clearly distinguished from the present. But howsoever important this distinction may be for our private experience, it is far from being enough to constitute the notion or category of time. This does not consist merely in a commemoration, either partial or integral, of our past life. It is an abstract and impersonal frame which surrounds, not only our individual existence, but that of all humanity. It is like an endless chart, where all duration is spread out before the mind, and upon which all possible events can be located in relation to fixed and determined guide lines. It is not my time that is thus arranged; it is time in general, such as it is objectively thought of by everybody in a single civilization. That alone is enough to give us a hint that such an arrangement ought to be collective. And in reality, observation proves that these indispensable guide lines, in relation to which all things are temporally located, are taken from social life. The divisions into days, weeks, months, years, etc., correspond to the periodical recurrence of rites, feasts, and public ceremonies.⁵ A calendar expresses the rhythm of the collective activities, while at the same time its function is to assure their regularity.⁶

Even now, these can be seen imperfectly in some of them. For example, try to imagine what our idea of time would be without the ways we divide, measure, or represent it with objective signs. Imagine time that is not a succession of years, months, weeks, days, and hours! This is almost impossible to imagine. We cannot conceive of time unless we distinguish its different moments. So where does this distinction come from? Without doubt, we can relive past states of consciousness in the same order in which we first experienced them. In this way, parts of our past become present again, though we clearly distinguish them from the present. But however important this distinction may be to our private experience, it is far from enough to form the idea or category of time. The idea of time is not merely a partial or complete recollection of our past lives. Time is an abstract, impersonal framework that surrounds not only our individual lives but the existence of all humanity. It is like an endless chart on which all duration is laid out before the mind. All possible events can be placed on it in relation to fixed and definite reference points. It is not my time that is arranged in this way. It is time in general, as everyone in a single civilization thinks of it objectively. That alone suggests that such an arrangement must be collective. And indeed, observation shows that these essential reference points for placing everything in time come from social life. The divisions into days, weeks, months, years, and so on correspond to the regular recurrence of rites, feasts, and public ceremonies.⁵ A calendar expresses the rhythm of collective activities. At the same time, its function is to ensure that they occur regularly.⁶

It is the same thing with space. As Hamelin has shown,⁷ space is not the vague and indetermined medium which Kant imagined; if purely and absolutely homogeneous, it would be of no use, and could not be grasped by the mind. Spatial representation consists essentially in a primary co-ordination of the data of sensuous experience. But this co-ordination would be impossible if the parts of space were qualitatively equivalent and if they were really interchangeable. To dispose things spatially there must be a possibility of placing them differently, of putting some at the right, others at the left, these above, those below, at the north of or at the south of, east or west of, etc., etc., just as to dispose states of consciousness temporally there must be a possibility of localizing them at determined dates. That is to say that space could not be what it is if it were not, like time, divided and differentiated. But whence come these divisions which are so essential? By themselves, there are neither right nor left, up nor down, north nor south, etc. All these distinctions evidently come from the fact that different sympathetic values have been attributed to various regions. Since all the men of a single civilization represent space in the same way, it is clearly necessary that these sympathetic values, and the distinctions which depend upon them, should be equally universal, and that almost necessarily implies that they be of social origin.⁸

The same is true of space. As Hamelin has shown,⁷ space is not the vague and undefined medium Kant imagined. If space were completely uniform, it would be useless and impossible for the mind to grasp. Our idea of space consists essentially in an initial ordering of the information we receive through our senses. But this ordering would be impossible if all parts of space were alike in quality and truly interchangeable. To arrange things in space, we must be able to place them differently. We must be able to put some on the right and others on the left, some above and others below, or to the north, south, east, west, and so on. Likewise, to arrange states of consciousness in time, we must be able to assign them to specific dates. In other words, space could not be what it is unless it were divided and differentiated, like time. But where do these essential divisions come from? By themselves, there is no right or left, up or down, north or south, and so on. All these distinctions evidently arise because different emotional values have been assigned to different regions. Everyone in a given civilization understands space in the same way. These emotional values and the distinctions based on them must therefore be equally universal. That almost necessarily implies that they have a social origin.⁸

Besides that, there are cases where this social character is made manifest. There are societies in Australia and North America where space is conceived in the form of an immense circle, because the camp has a circular form;⁹ and this spatial circle is divided up exactly like the tribal circle, and is in its image. There are as many regions distinguished as there are clans in the tribe, and it is the place occupied by the clans inside the encampment which has determined the orientation of these regions. Each region is defined by the totem of the clan to which it is assigned. Among the Zuñi, for example, the pueblo contains seven quarters; each of these is a group of clans which has had a unity: in all probability it was originally a single clan which was later subdivided. Now their space also contains seven quarters, and each of these seven quarters of the world is in intimate connection with a quarter of the pueblo, that is to say with a group of clans.¹⁰ "Thus," says Cushing, "one division is thought to be in relation with the north, another represents the west, another the south," etc.¹¹ Each quarter of the pueblo has its characteristic colour, which symbolizes it; each region has its colour, which is exactly the same as that of the corresponding quarter. In the course of history the number of fundamental clans has varied; the number of the fundamental regions of space has varied with them. Thus the social organization has been the model for the spatial organization and a reproduction of it. It is thus even up to the distinction between right and left which, far from being inherent in the nature of man in general, is very probably the product of representations which are religious and therefore collective.¹²

Besides, there are cases where the social character of space is clear. In some societies in Australia and North America, space is imagined as an immense circle because the camp is circular.⁹ This circle of space is divided exactly like the tribal circle and is modeled on it. There are as many regions as there are clans in the tribe. The positions of the clans within the camp determine the orientation of these regions. Each region is defined by the totem of the clan to which it is assigned. Among the Zuñi, for example, the pueblo has seven quarters. Each quarter is a group of clans that has formed a unit. In all probability, each group was originally a single clan that was later divided. Their space also has seven quarters. Each of these seven quarters of the world is closely connected to a quarter of the pueblo, that is, to a group of clans.¹⁰ "Thus," says Cushing, "one division is thought to be in relation with the north, another represents the west, another the south," etc.¹¹ Each quarter of the pueblo has a characteristic color that symbolizes it. Each region has a color that is exactly the same as that of the corresponding quarter. Over the course of history, the number of fundamental clans has varied. The number of fundamental regions of space has varied along with it. Thus, social organization has served as the model for spatial organization, which reproduces it. This is true even of the distinction between right and left. Far from being inherent in human nature in general, this distinction is very probably the product of religious and therefore collective representations.¹²

Analogous proofs will be found presently in regard to the ideas of class, force, personality and efficacy. It is even possible to ask if the idea of contradiction does not also depend upon social conditions. What makes one tend to believe this is that the empire which the idea has exercised over human thought has varied with times and societies. To-day the principle of identity dominates scientific thought; but there are vast systems of representations which have played a considerable rôle in the history of ideas where it has frequently been set aside: these are the mythologies, from the grossest up to the most reasonable.¹³ There, we are continually coming upon beings which have the most contradictory attributes simultaneously, who are at the same time one and many, material and spiritual, who can divide themselves up indefinitely without losing anything of their constitution; in mythology it is an axiom that the part is worth the whole. These variations through which the rules which seem to govern our present logic have passed prove that, far from being engraven through all eternity upon the mental constitution of men, they depend, at least in part, upon factors that are historical and consequently social. We do not know exactly what they are, but we may presume that they exist.¹⁴

Similar evidence will follow concerning the ideas of class, force, personality, and efficacy. We might even ask whether the idea of contradiction also depends on social conditions. This seems possible because the influence of this idea on human thought has varied across times and societies. Today, the principle of identity dominates scientific thought. But it has often been set aside in the vast systems of representations that have played a considerable role in the history of ideas. These systems are mythologies, from the crudest to the most reasonable.¹³ In them, we constantly encounter beings that have the most contradictory attributes at the same time. They are at once one and many, material and spiritual. They can divide themselves indefinitely without losing anything of their makeup. In mythology, it is an axiom that the part is worth the whole. The rules that seem to govern our present logic have varied in these ways. These variations show that the rules are not engraved forever on the human mind. Rather, they depend, at least in part, on historical and therefore social factors. We do not know exactly what these factors are, but we may presume that they exist.¹⁴

This hypothesis once admitted, the problem of knowledge is posed in new terms.

Once we accept this hypothesis, the problem of knowledge takes on a new form.

Up to the present there have been only two doctrines in the field. For some, the categories cannot be derived from experience: they are logically prior to it and condition it. They are represented as so many simple and irreducible data, imminent in the human mind by virtue of its inborn constitution. For this reason they are said to be a priori. Others, however, hold that they are constructed and made up of pieces and bits, and that the individual is the artisan of this construction.¹⁵

Until now, there have been only two doctrines on this question. Some hold that the categories cannot come from experience. They are logically prior to experience and make it possible. In this view, the categories are simple and irreducible elements inherent in the human mind because of its inborn nature. For this reason, they are called a priori. Others, however, hold that the categories are built up from separate pieces, and that each individual constructs them.¹⁵

But each solution raises grave difficulties.

But each solution presents serious difficulties.

Is the empirical thesis the one adopted? Then it is necessary to deprive the categories of all their characteristic properties. As a matter of fact they are distinguished from all other knowledge by their universality and necessity. They are the most general concepts which exist, because they are applicable to all that is real, and since they are not attached to any particular object they are independent of every particular subject; they constitute the common field where all minds meet. Further, they must meet there, for reason, which is nothing more than all the fundamental categories taken together, is invested with an authority which we could not set aside if we would. When we attempt to revolt against it, and to free ourselves from some of these essential ideas, we meet with great resistances. They do not merely depend upon us, but they impose themselves upon us. Now empirical data present characteristics which are diametrically opposed to these. A sensation or an image always relies upon a determined object, or upon a collection of objects of the same sort, and expresses the momentary condition of a particular consciousness; it is essentially individual and subjective. We therefore have considerable liberty in dealing with the representations of such an origin. It is true that when our sensations are actual, they impose themselves upon us in fact. But by right we are free to conceive them otherwise than they really are, or to represent them to ourselves as occurring in a different order from that where they are really produced. In regard to them nothing is forced upon us except as considerations of another sort intervene. Thus we find that we have here two sorts of knowledge, which are like the two opposite poles of the intelligence. Under these conditions forcing reason back upon experience causes it to disappear, for it is equivalent to reducing the universality and necessity which characterize it to pure appearance, to an illusion which may be useful practically, but which corresponds to nothing in reality; consequently it is denying all objective reality to the logical life, whose regulation and organization is the function of the categories. Classical empiricism results in irrationalism; perhaps it would even be fitting to designate it by this latter name.

Do we adopt the empirical thesis? If so, we must strip the categories of all their defining properties. In fact, the categories differ from all other knowledge because they are universal and necessary. They are the most general concepts that exist because they apply to everything real. Since they are not tied to any particular object, they are independent of every particular subject. They form the common ground where all minds meet. Minds must meet there, because reason has an authority we could not reject even if we wanted to. Reason is nothing more than all the fundamental categories taken together. When we try to rebel against reason and free ourselves from some of these essential ideas, we meet great resistance. These ideas do not merely depend on us. They impose themselves on us. Empirical data, however, have exactly the opposite characteristics. A sensation or image always depends on a particular object or a group of objects of the same kind. It expresses the momentary state of a particular consciousness. It is essentially individual and subjective. We therefore have considerable freedom in dealing with representations that originate in this way. It is true that when we actually experience sensations, they impose themselves on us in fact. But in principle, we are free to imagine them differently from how they really are. We can also imagine them occurring in a different order from their actual order. Nothing is imposed on us in this respect unless other kinds of considerations come into play. So we have two kinds of knowledge that are like opposite poles of the intellect. Under these conditions, reducing reason to experience makes reason disappear. It reduces the universality and necessity that characterize reason to mere appearances. They become an illusion that may be useful in practice but corresponds to nothing in reality. As a result, reducing reason to experience denies all objective reality to logical life. The function of the categories is to regulate and organize that life. Classical empiricism leads to irrationalism. Perhaps irrationalism would even be a fitting name for it.

In spite of the sense ordinarily attached to the name, the apriorists have more respect for the facts. Since they do not admit it as a truth established by evidence that the categories are made up of the same elements as our sensual representations, they are not obliged to impoverish them systematically, to draw from them all their real content, and to reduce them to nothing more than verbal artifices. On the contrary, they leave them all their specific characteristics. The apriorists are the rationalists; they believe that the world has a logical aspect which the reason expresses excellently. But for all that, it is necessary for them to give the mind a certain power of transcending experience and of adding to that which is given to it directly; and of this singular power they give neither explanation nor justification. For it is no explanation to say that it is inherent in the nature of the human intellect. It is necessary to show whence we hold this surprising prerogative and how it comes that we can see certain relations in things which the examination of these things cannot reveal to us. Saying that only on this condition is experience itself possible changes the problem perhaps, but does not answer it. For the real question is to know how it comes that experience is not sufficient unto itself, but presupposes certain conditions which are exterior and prior to it, and how it happens that these conditions are realized at the moment and in the manner that is desirable. To answer these questions it has sometimes been assumed that above the reason of individuals there is a superior and perfect reason from which the others emanate and from which they get this marvellous power of theirs, by a sort of mystic participation: this is the divine reason. But this hypothesis has at least the one grave disadvantage of being deprived of all experimental control; thus it does not satisfy the conditions demanded of a scientific hypothesis. More than that, the categories of human thought are never fixed in any one definite form; they are made, unmade and remade incessantly; they change with places and times. On the other hand, the divine reason is immutable. How can this immutability give rise to this incessant variability?

Despite what the name usually suggests, the apriorists have more respect for the facts. They do not accept as self-evident that the categories are made up of the same elements as our sensory representations. They are therefore not obliged to systematically strip the categories of all their real content. Nor must they reduce them to mere verbal devices. On the contrary, they preserve all the categories' distinctive characteristics. The apriorists are rationalists. They believe that the world has a logical aspect, which reason expresses exceptionally well. But to hold this view, they must give the mind a certain power to go beyond experience. The mind must be able to add to what is directly given to it. They offer neither an explanation nor a justification for this remarkable power. It explains nothing to say that this power is inherent in the nature of the human intellect. They must show where we get this surprising privilege. They must also show how we can see relations in things that examining the things themselves cannot reveal. Saying that experience itself is possible only on this condition perhaps changes the problem, but it does not answer it. The real question is why experience is not sufficient in itself. Why does experience presuppose certain conditions outside it and prior to it? And how are these conditions fulfilled when and how they need to be? To answer these questions, some have assumed that a superior and perfect reason exists above the reason of individuals. Individual minds arise from this higher reason. Through a kind of mystical participation, they receive their marvelous power from it. This higher reason is divine reason. But this hypothesis has at least one serious disadvantage: it cannot be tested by experience. It therefore does not meet the requirements of a scientific hypothesis. More than that, the categories of human thought are never fixed in one definite form. They are constantly made, unmade, and remade. They change with place and time. Divine reason, on the other hand, is unchanging. How can this unchanging reason give rise to such constant variation?

Such are the two conceptions that have been pitted against each other for centuries; and if this debate seems to be eternal, it is because the arguments given are really about equivalent. If reason is only a form of individual experience, it no longer exists. On the other hand, if the powers which it has are recognized but not accounted for, it seems to be set outside the confines of nature and science. In the face of these two opposed objections the mind remains uncertain. But if the social origin of the categories is admitted, a new attitude becomes possible, which we believe will enable us to escape both of the opposed difficulties.

These are the two ideas that have been opposed for centuries. The debate seems endless because the arguments on both sides are about equally strong. If reason is only a form of individual experience, then reason no longer exists. On the other hand, if we recognize the powers of reason without explaining them, reason seems to lie outside nature and science. Faced with these two opposing objections, the mind remains uncertain. But if we accept that the categories have a social origin, a new approach becomes possible. We believe that this approach will allow us to escape both difficulties.

The fundamental proposition of the apriorist theory is that knowledge is made up of two sorts of elements, which cannot be reduced into one another, and which are like two distinct layers superimposed one upon the other.¹⁶ Our hypothesis keeps this principle intact. In fact, that knowledge which is called empirical, the only knowledge of which the theorists of empiricism have made use in constructing the reason, is that which is brought into our minds by the direct action of objects. It is composed of individual states which are completely explained¹⁷ by the psychical nature of the individual. If, on the other hand, the categories are, as we believe they are, essentially collective representations, before all else, they should show the mental states of the group; they should depend upon the way in which this is founded and organized, upon its morphology, upon its religious, moral and economic institutions, etc. So between these two sorts of representations there is all the difference which exists between the individual and the social, and one can no more derive the second from the first than he can deduce society from the individual, the whole from the part, the complex from the simple.¹⁸ Society is a reality sui generis; it has its own peculiar characteristics, which are not found elsewhere and which are not met with again in the same form in all the rest of the universe. The representations which express it have a wholly different contents from purely individual ones and we may rest assured in advance that the first add something to the second.

The basic claim of apriorist theory is that knowledge consists of two kinds of elements. Neither can be reduced to the other, and they are like two separate layers, one on top of the other.¹⁶ Our hypothesis keeps this principle intact. Empirical knowledge is brought into our minds by the direct action of objects. It is the only kind of knowledge that empiricist theorists have used to construct reason. It consists of individual states that are completely explained¹⁷ by the individual’s mental nature. If, on the other hand, the categories are essentially collective representations, as we believe they are, they should first of all reflect the mental states of the group. They should depend on how the group is founded and organized, on its morphology, and on its religious, moral, and economic institutions, and so on. So the difference between these two kinds of representations is the full difference between the individual and the social. We can no more derive social representations from individual ones than we can deduce society from the individual, the whole from the part, or the complex from the simple.¹⁸ Society is a reality sui generis. It has its own distinctive characteristics, which are found nowhere else and do not appear in the same form anywhere else in the universe. The representations that express society have wholly different contents from purely individual representations. We can be sure in advance that social representations add something to individual ones.

Even the manner in which the two are formed results in differentiating them. Collective representations are the result of an immense co-operation, which stretches out not only into space but into time as well; to make them, a multitude of minds have associated, united and combined their ideas and sentiments; for them, long generations have accumulated their experience and their knowledge. A special intellectual activity is therefore concentrated in them which is infinitely richer and complexer than that of the individual. From that one can understand how the reason has been able to go beyond the limits of empirical knowledge. It does not owe this to any vague mysterious virtue but simply to the fact that according to the well-known formula, man is double. There are two beings in him: an individual being which has its foundation in the organism and the circle of whose activities is therefore strictly limited, and a social being which represents the highest reality in the intellectual and moral order that we can know by observation—I mean society. This duality of our nature has as its consequence in the practical order, the irreducibility of a moral ideal to a utilitarian motive, and in the order of thought, the irreducibility of reason to individual experience. In so far as he belongs to society, the individual transcends himself, both when he thinks and when he acts.

Even the way the two are formed sets them apart. Collective representations are the result of immense cooperation across both space and time. To create them, many minds have joined together and combined their ideas and feelings. For their sake, generations have accumulated experience and knowledge. Collective representations therefore contain a special kind of intellectual activity, infinitely richer and more complex than that of an individual. This helps us understand how reason has been able to go beyond the limits of empirical knowledge. Reason does not owe this ability to any vague, mysterious power. It owes it simply to the fact that, as the well-known formula puts it, human beings are double. There are two beings within each person. One is an individual being, grounded in the organism and therefore strictly limited in its activities. The other is a social being, representing the highest intellectual and moral reality we can know through observation: society. This dual nature has consequences both for action and for thought. In action, a moral ideal cannot be reduced to a utilitarian motive. In thought, reason cannot be reduced to individual experience. To the extent that individuals belong to society, they transcend themselves, both in thought and in action.

This same social character leads to an understanding of the origin of the necessity of the categories. It is said that an idea is necessary when it imposes itself upon the mind by some sort of virtue of its own, without being accompanied by any proof. It contains within it something which constrains the intelligence and which leads to its acceptance without preliminary examination. The apriorist postulates this singular quality, but does not account for it; for saying that the categories are necessary because they are indispensable to the functioning of the intellect is simply repeating that they are necessary. But if they really have the origin which we attribute to them, their ascendancy no longer has anything surprising in it. They represent the most general relations which exist between things; surpassing all our other ideas in extension, they dominate all the details of our intellectual life. If men did not agree upon these essential ideas at every moment, if they did not have the same conception of time, space, cause, number, etc., all contact between their minds would be impossible, and with that, all life together. Thus society could not abandon the categories to the free choice of the individual without abandoning itself. If it is to live there is not merely need of a satisfactory moral conformity, but also there is a minimum of logical conformity beyond which it cannot safely go. For this reason it uses all its authority upon its members to forestall such dissidences. Does a mind ostensibly free itself from these forms of thought? It is no longer considered a human mind in the full sense of the word, and is treated accordingly. That is why we feel that we are no longer completely free and that something resists, both within and outside ourselves, when we attempt to rid ourselves of these fundamental notions, even in our own conscience. Outside of us there is public opinion which judges us; but more than that, since society is also represented inside of us, it sets itself against these revolutionary fancies, even inside of ourselves; we have the feeling that we cannot abandon them if our whole thought is not to cease being really human. This seems to be the origin of the exceptional authority which is inherent in the reason and which makes us accept its suggestions with confidence. It is the very authority of society,¹⁹ transferring itself to a certain manner of thought which is the indispensable condition of all common action. The necessity with which the categories are imposed upon us is not the effect of simple habits whose yoke we could easily throw off with a little effort; nor is it a physical or metaphysical necessity, since the categories change in different places and times; it is a special sort of moral necessity which is to the intellectual life what moral obligation is to the will.²⁰

This same social character helps us understand why the categories are necessary. We call an idea necessary when it asserts itself in the mind through some power of its own, without proof. It has something within it that compels the intellect to accept it without first examining it. The apriorist assumes this unusual quality but does not explain it. To say that the categories are necessary because the intellect cannot function without them merely repeats that they are necessary. But if the categories really have the origin we attribute to them, their power is no longer surprising. The categories represent the most general relationships between things. They are broader than all our other ideas and govern every detail of our intellectual life. People must agree on these essential ideas at every moment. They must share the same conceptions of time, space, cause, number, and so on. Otherwise, all contact between their minds would be impossible, and so would all life together. Society therefore cannot leave the categories to individuals to choose freely without abandoning itself. To survive, society needs not only a satisfactory degree of moral conformity but also a minimum of logical conformity. It cannot safely allow less than that minimum. For this reason, society uses all its authority over its members to prevent such disagreements. Does a mind appear to free itself from these forms of thought? It is no longer considered fully human and is treated accordingly. That is why we feel that we are not completely free when we try to cast off these fundamental notions. Even in our own minds, we feel resistance both within and outside ourselves. Outside us, public opinion judges us. But society is also present within us, so it opposes these revolutionary ideas even there. We feel that we cannot abandon these notions without our whole way of thinking ceasing to be truly human. This seems to be the source of reason's exceptional authority, which leads us to accept its suggestions with confidence. It is the very authority of society,¹⁹ transferred to a way of thinking that is essential to all common action. The necessity with which the categories impose themselves on us is not the result of mere habits that we could easily throw off with a little effort. Nor is it a physical or metaphysical necessity, since the categories change across places and times. It is a special kind of moral necessity. It is to intellectual life what moral obligation is to the will.²⁰

But if the categories originally only translate social states, does it not follow that they can be applied to the rest of nature only as metaphors? If they were made merely to express social conditions, it seems as though they could not be extended to other realms except in this sense. Thus in so far as they aid us in thinking of the physical or biological world, they have only the value of artificial symbols, useful practically perhaps, but having no connection with reality. Thus we come back, by a different road, to nominalism and empiricism.

But if categories originally express only social states, does that mean they can describe the rest of nature only metaphorically? If categories were made merely to express social conditions, it seems they could extend to other realms only as metaphors. So, insofar as categories help us think about the physical or biological world, they are only artificial symbols. They may be useful in practice, but they have no connection to reality. Thus, by a different route, we return to nominalism and empiricism.

But when we interpret a sociological theory of knowledge in this way, we forget that even if society is a specific reality it is not an empire within an empire; it is a part of nature, and indeed its highest representation. The social realm is a natural realm which differs from the others only by a greater complexity. Now it is impossible that nature should differ radically from itself in the one case and the other in regard to that which is most essential. The fundamental relations that exist between things—just that which it is the function of the categories to express—cannot be essentially dissimilar in the different realms. If, for reasons which we shall discuss later,²¹ they are more clearly disengaged in the social world, it is nevertheless impossible that they should not be found elsewhere, though in less pronounced forms. Society makes them more manifest but it does not have a monopoly upon them. That is why ideas which have been elaborated on the model of social things can aid us in thinking of another department of nature. It is at least true that if these ideas play the rôle of symbols when they are thus turned aside from their original signification, they are well-founded symbols. If a sort of artificiality enters into them from the mere fact that they are constructed concepts, it is an artificiality which follows nature very closely and which is constantly approaching it still more closely.²² From the fact that the ideas of time, space, class, cause or personality are constructed out of social elements, it is not necessary to conclude that they are devoid of all objective value. On the contrary, their social origin rather leads to the belief that they are not without foundation in the nature of things.²³

But interpreting a sociological theory of knowledge in this way overlooks an important point. Society is a distinct reality, but it is not a world unto itself. It is part of nature, and indeed its highest representation. The social realm is a natural realm that differs from others only in being more complex. Nature cannot differ radically from itself in what is most essential. The fundamental relations between things are what the categories express. These relations cannot be essentially different in different realms. For reasons we will discuss later,²¹ these relations emerge more clearly in the social world. But they must also exist elsewhere, though in less pronounced forms. Society makes them more visible, but it does not have a monopoly on them. That is why ideas developed on the model of social things can help us think about another part of nature. At least, if these ideas serve as symbols when used beyond their original meaning, they are well-founded symbols. The mere fact that they are constructed concepts makes them somewhat artificial. But their artificiality follows nature very closely and is constantly approaching it even more closely.²² The ideas of time, space, class, cause, and personality are constructed from social elements. But we need not conclude that they have no objective value. On the contrary, their social origin gives us reason to believe that they have a foundation in the nature of things.²³

Thus renovated, the theory of knowledge seems destined to unite the opposing advantages of the two rival theories, without incurring their inconveniences. It keeps all the essential principles of the apriorists; but at the same time it is inspired by that positive spirit which the empiricists have striven to satisfy. It leaves the reason its specific power, but it accounts for it and does so without leaving the world of observable phenomena. It affirms the duality of our intellectual life, but it explains it, and with natural causes. The categories are no longer considered as primary and unanalysable facts, yet they keep a complexity which falsifies any analysis as ready as that with which the empiricists content themselves. They no longer appear as very simple notions which the first comer can very easily arrange from his own personal observations and which the popular imagination has unluckily complicated, but rather they appear as priceless instruments of thought which the human groups have laboriously forged through the centuries and where they have accumulated the best of their intellectual capital.²⁴ A complete section of the history of humanity is resumed therein. This is equivalent to saying that to succeed in understanding them and judging them, it is necessary to resort to other means than those which have been in use up to the present. To know what these conceptions which we have not made ourselves are really made of, it does not suffice to interrogate our own consciousnesses; we must look outside of ourselves, it is history that we must observe, there is a whole science which must be formed, a complex science which can advance but slowly and by collective labour, and to which the present work brings some fragmentary contributions in the nature of an attempt. Without making these questions the direct object of our study, we shall profit by all the occasions which present themselves to us of catching at their very birth some at least of these ideas which, while being of religious origin, still remain at the foundation of the human intelligence.

Renewed in this way, the theory of knowledge seems likely to combine the advantages of both rival theories without their drawbacks. It keeps all the essential principles of the apriorists. At the same time, it draws on the spirit of inquiry grounded in observable facts that the empiricists sought to satisfy. It preserves reason’s distinctive power while explaining that power through observable phenomena. It affirms the dual nature of our intellectual life, but explains it through natural causes. The categories are no longer considered basic facts that cannot be analyzed. Yet they remain too complex for the easy analyses that satisfy the empiricists. They no longer seem to be simple ideas that anyone can easily form from personal observations and that popular imagination has unfortunately complicated. Instead, they appear as priceless tools of thought, painstakingly forged by human groups over centuries. In them, these groups have accumulated the best of their intellectual resources.²⁴ A whole chapter of human history is condensed in them. To understand and judge the categories, then, we need methods other than those used until now. We did not create these concepts ourselves. To know what they are really made of, examining our own consciousness is not enough. We must look outside ourselves and study history. We must develop a whole science, a complex science that can advance only slowly and through collective effort. The present work offers some fragmentary contributions as an attempt in that direction. These questions are not the direct subject of our study. But we will take every opportunity to observe at their birth at least some of these ideas. Though religious in origin, they still lie at the foundation of human intelligence.