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Panentheism. Revisionism. Anarchocapitalism.
From The Musical Times, Vol. 141, No. 1873, Winter 2000, 47-52. “In language, here is the word, there is what it means. But the musical note and its meaning are far more intimately connected; so the particular state of tension which we perceive . . . does not exist outside that note. We are therefore left with a mystery, namely how can music take place where things/bodies exist and at the same time be transcendental to the space in which things/bodies move.”
A. N. Whitehead and Music: Real Time
Richard Elfyn Jones
To cite Alfred North Whitehead in any discussion of aesthetics needs some explanation, for he refers very little to art or aesthetics in his work. Yet he was one of a small group of thinkers whose influence extended far beyond any confined disciplinary specialism. Indeed, I would like to suggest in this article that his philosophical writings can, in fact, provide even musicians with much food for thought, despite their difficulty and stylistic elusiveness.1
Whitehead was elected to the Professorship of Philosophy at Harvard in 1924, at the late age of sixty-three, following a phenomenally distinguished career as a scientist. Despite his advancing years, it proved a fruitful period of activity for him: not only did he count among his pupils such illustrious figures as Susanne Langer, Paul Weiss, F. C. S. Northrop and Charles Hartshorne, but, drawing heavily on his scientific discoveries, he developed rapidly as a philosophical thinker. Indeed, the interaction between scientific and philosophic concepts underpins one of his most important beliefs: that a fundamental relationship exists between forces at work (“process”) and reality.
In his famous book Process and Reality: An Essay in Cosmology (1929)2 we find an exposition of what he described as his “Philosophy of Organism.” Here, he asserts that ultimate components of reality are “events,” not particles of matter. An event is never instantaneous, for it always lasts over a certain duration (even if perhaps an infinitesimally short period of time, as when a molecule in this paper reacts with another). This is an event, and a process in time. An instant of time and a point in space, however, have no place in his scheme. Thus, with events we do not talk of how things are (what they are made of) but of how things become. The process of events, their “becoming” is fundamental. Those events of which the world is made are called “actual entities.” In older philosophies substance plays a fundamental role, but unlike substance (which endures), an actual entity has no permanence. (And as if to emphasise this point he, in typical neologistic fashion, describes an actual entity not as a subject but as a superject, thus suggesting its emergence from antecedent entities to itself.) The scope of the concept of “actual entity” is quite remarkable since it applies to all forms of matter and, indeed, even to God.
The actual entity “becomes” as it absorbs influences from other entities in its environment, including God. God also can become. This absorption is termed “prehension,” literally meaning “grasping.” So prehension is a ferment of qualitative valuation which need not necessarily be conscious. The table on which I am writing prehends its surroundings, since its molecules react to others. Whether one can romanticise this and see in it the workings of a mind or rudimentary consciousness evidenced by the simple transfer of energy is not a matter for the present discussion, but we remember that Whitehead was a scientist, well used to a purely rational approach and well aware that, by his time, physics was to do with flux of energy rather than the particle of Newtonian matter.
The entity prehends objects from its environment. Those objects are said to exert “causal efficacy” on the subject. But this is not some simple, easily understood effect, for to begin with it need not be conscious. In “seeing” for instance, the eye’s enjoyment of a reddish feeling is intensified and transmuted and interpreted by complex occasions of the brain into definite colours and other instances of qualitative “eternal object.” The original physical feeling of causal efficacy is submerged but not eliminated by an inrush of conceptual feelings, and then we have a display of qualities presented to us. Whitehead calls this experience “perception in the mode of presentational immediacy.”
The becoming of an actual entity is called a “concrescence,” which is an integration as a result of prehending other things or as a result of experiencing the causal efficacy of other things on it.
Actual entities (also termed actual occasions) are the final real things of which the world is made up. There is no going behind actual entities to find anything more real. God is an actual entity, and so is the most trivial puff of existence in far off empty space.3
There may be gradations of importance, or diversities of function, but in principle all are on the same level.
When the concrescence is complete, an actual occasion or actual entity’s private life (during which it has been prehending) comes to an end. In perishing it embarks on a public career and the cycle starts again. This novel occasion now becomes the object for another subject to prehend, and, if consciously, perhaps with sweet thoughts of immortality. While ordinary objects may be physically prehended, eternal objects are conceptually prehended. Whitehead sees them as ingredients in an experience and rather similar to Plato’s ideal forms. They are patterns and qualities like squareness, blueness, hope or love. So when an actual entity undergoes the developing process (concrescence) it acquires a definite character (to the exclusion of other possible characters) by selecting some eternal objects (rather than others) to conceptually prehend. But Whitehead rejects the Platonic notion of the superiority of the eternal forms, for they are no more than “pure potentials for the specific determination of fact.”4 That is all. So if I say that this pencil is green, then this is a proposition where the subject is a society (nexus) of molecular actual entities and the predicate is the eternal object “green.” The fusion of the two is the combining of something real with something ideal.
But what has this to do with music or aesthetics? The answer lies in the general or universal nature of Whitehead’s concepts, thereby ensuring their application to all areas of reality. Strangely, it is in only one field that his speculations have been influential. Process Theology is largely the result of the way in which Whitehead, along with Charles Hartshorne, succeeded in influencing members of the School of Divinity at Chicago during the 1930s and later. It is only fairly recently that the concept of process has featured in writings about art, notably in E. David Martin’s book Art and the Religious Experience: the Language of the Sacred.5 This is a work redolent of the Whiteheadian approach. For example, in attempting to explain the fundamental essence of different art forms Martin concludes that
Music more than any other art is perceived mainly in the mode of causal efficacy. Abstract painting more than any other art is perceived mainly in the mode of presentational immediacy. Thus music appears in part elsewhere, whereas abstractions appear to be all here. In listening to music, we experience presentational immediacy because we hear the presently sounding tones. But there can be no “holding” and we are swept up in the flow of process. In seeing an abstract painting we experience causal efficacy because we follow the reference of the embodied meaning and this involves a sense of process . . . .6
This extract gives an idea of the modus operandi required when adapting Whitehead’s theories to a chosen area of analysis. In the context of the present discussion we need to focus on the fundamental point of Martin’s argument, that this is a religious or theological quest, with the aim of raising ultimate questions in the actual context of specific works of art. And if we are to follow him successfully we must be aware of certain elementary facts about sense and perhaps perceive them in a Whiteheadian manner. For example, if we consider sounds and ponder on their nature we might argue that when I hear a door shutting, the sensation is not (primarily) an abstract acoustic one. I, the subject, have already prehended the object and, by means of the “mental pole,” interpreted it. If we are to be useful transcendentalists we may have to listen away from things, listen through things, perceive the inner core of an aural (and indeed visual and other) sensa, to the depth dimension of whatever it is, the referent. Some will see this as somewhat comparable with Heidegger’s notion of Being as the depth dimension of all beings, Being giving enduring value and ultimate significance to beings—indeed, so much so that a being is in-Being. It is an attractive area of mental activity, this rationalising of the finite so that it is given a depth dimension that raises our reasoning to dizzy transcendental heights. But if Being can be recognised, can it really be cognised? Questions about recognition are raised, with the attendant nagging doubts.
Whitehead tells us that although the ontical (the secular) and the ontological or religious are distinguishable, they are not separable. Remember, God is an actual entity. So can we ever be sure where the ontical ends and the ontological begins? We may at least tentatively attempt to answer this by scrutinising the materials of our chosen art, music, and look at common experiences of music. To avoid confusion we will consider pure music only (not programme music). We also need to bear in mind the traditional rift between the Referentialists and the Non-referentialists, and remember that most aestheticians tend to belong to the second category, being either Formalists (like Hanslick or Gurney) or Absolute Expressionists (like Leonard Meyer). For the Formalists tonal structures have meanings which are strictly musical. The Absolute Expressionists take a softer line, in that, while affirming the evocation of emotion by the musical meanings, this emotion is strictly musical, so musical meaning is intra-musical for them too. The Referential Expressionists, on the other hand, claim that musical meanings legitimately refer to the extra-musical world, whether that be ontical or ontological. This theory owes its unpopularity presumably to the implication that somehow one shouldn’t listen to music as such at all, but rather daydream of swirling torrents and great vistas of the natural world—anything extra-musical in fact (a common perception among non-musical people). We may not favour this theory, but in the present context we may choose to review it and give at least some credence to it, albeit in a rather unorthodox way. This is because the whole point of our discussion is that of art referring to something else. Bearing Whitehead in mind, E. David Martin’s bold compression of Whitehead’s thought into a single sentence is useful.
Music more than any other art forces us to feel causal efficacy; the compulsion of process, the dominating control of the physically given over possibilities throughout the concrescence of an experience. The form of music binds the past and future and present so tightly that as we listen we are thrust out of the ordinary modes of experience, in which time rather than temporality dominates. Ecstatic temporality, the rhythmic unity of past-present-future, is the most essential manifestation of the Being of human beings.7
The implication here is that music can make us feel process directly, since musical notes are presented successively. But successive unfolding is found in other arts too. Music’s special claim surely lies in its abstract nature. The meaning of the notes are basically internal, or embodied, meanings, at least in pure music, where there are no designative allusions. It appears that only music has both characteristics, namely a successive unfolding and abstraction. But before elaborating on this special claim which is made for music, Leonard B. Meyer’s differentiation between designative and embodied meaning should be clarified.8 In language, when a word refers to an object, this is a designative meaning. Embodied meaning occurs when the stimulus and the referent are the same. A note, a phrase, or a section of music has embodied meaning, because it points to and makes us expect another musical (not extra-musical) event. Embodied meanings are the internal relationships of an art form, and in pure music and abstract painting it is the very lack of a designative meaning that distinguishes them respectively from programme music and representational painting.
Designative meaning is strong in literature, film and dance (in dance, the bodies themselves have a designative meaning). Whether having a designative meaning weakens our sense of the fundamental compulsion of process is a vexed question—it might form a distraction inimical to the experiencing of process. Martin succeeds in conveying this peculiar engagement or participation in process via music by recalling a striking passage from Sartre’s The Psychology of Imagination, where the author succinctly observes that music neither dates nor locates:
I am listening to the Seventh Symphony. For me that “seventh Symphony” does not exist in time, I do not grasp it as a dated event, as an artistic manifestation which is unrolling itself in Châtelet auditorium on the 17th of November, 1938. If I hear Furtwaengler tomorrow or eight days later conduct another orchestra performing the same symphony, I am in the presence of the same symphony once more. Only it is being played either better or worse . . . .
I do not think of the event as an actuality and dated, and on condition that I listen to the succession of themes as an absolute succession and not as a real succession which is unfolding itself, for instance, on the occasion when Peter pays a visit to this or that friend. In the degree to which I hear the symphony it is not here, between these walls, at the tip of the violin bows. Nor is it “in the past” as if I thought: this is the work that matured in the mind of Beethoven on such a date. It has its own time, that is, it possesses an inner time [process], which runs from the first tone of the allegro to the last tone of the finale, but this time is not a succession of a preceding time which it continues and which happened “before” the beginning of the allegro; nor is it followed by a time which will come “after” the finale. The Seventh Symphony is in no way in time.9
At this point, it is useful to recall the distinction which Susanne Langer, in Problems of Art,10 makes between musical time and clock time, with musical time possessing a “complexity” and “variability” which is more similar to body time, with its passage of vital functions and the tensions of “lived events.” Music certainly seems to give meaning to time, and through it we experience the present in a special way, directed as we are towards the future anticipated by our expectations. Thus if the ontical categories of time and place, and all the habits of everyday existence are not designated, then (to revert to Heideggerian terminology) we may now be open to Being.
When discussing music in more detail, E. David Martin’s treatment of standard works is sometimes disconcerting. For instance, in clarifying the ontological implications contained in music, he compares Bach’s Well-Tempered Clavier (i.e., all the preludes and fugues as a single group) with the Art of Fugue and with the St. Matthew Passion, all three works being reduced to single, rigidly uniform types. We may tentatively agree with him that technically the Passion is a form of programme music for liturgical use, its designative meaning referring specifically to religious events and doctrines. But he goes on rather provocatively to say:
Yet music can have a religious programme and even be put to liturgical use and still not be religious, except in the sense that all works of art are religious insofar as they reveal something of the mystery of Being in their seeming inexhaustibility . . . . There must be a more essential or further inner continuity between the music and the religious dimension.11
Unfortunately he is not clear about the “how” of this inner continuity. He points out that the Art of Fugue and the Well-Tempered Clavier lack religious programmes. How then he asks, very provocatively, is it possible that the Art of Fugue possesses an inner continuity with the religious dimension that the Well-Tempered Clavier lacks?
With this question poised in suspended animation we could perhaps digress for a moment in order to refer to another area of art where Martin’s arguments prove more convincing and logical. In discussing painting, Martin recalls the ground-rules set by Tillich, particularly Tillich’s distinction between “signs” and “symbols.” There is a further distinction, too, that between conventional signs and iconic signs, where the term “sign” designates ontical (secular) reality. We also have conventional symbols and iconic symbols, where symbol designates ontological reality. The meaning of a conventional sign is arbitrarily attached to it, perhaps by social convention, like [Z] at the roadside or x and y in mathematics. The sign’s value is its transparency, since one sees through it to the message conveyed, as when using a non-onomatopeic word. An iconic sign on the other hand incorporates characteristics significantly similar to the referent, like a stickman. In language, the word “rattle,” because it resembles the sound of a rattle or something rattling, is an iconic sign. There is a designative meaning here too, and thus this sign is also transparent. Martin cites another human image very far removed from our stickman, namely Christ in Grunewald’s Crucifixion. He says of it: “our sight is ensnared, we attend carefully to the embodied meanings.” The designative meaning is very obvious, while the embodied meaning is the divinity and suffering in the lines. “Whereas the stickman is a “transparent icon,” Grunewald’s Christ is a “translucent icon.” The referent of a translucent icon, unlike that of a transparent icon, cannot be understood independently of careful attention to the icon.”12 This is where a work of art attains ontological significance, and there is no doubt that works of art possess this translucent iconicity. While Grunewald’s Christ has conventional symbols it also has iconic symbols. Martin asserts that without the addition of conventional symbols, it will be very difficult for an iconic symbol to function as a religious one. For how can one prove that certain brush strokes in a painting have iconic symbolism? Martin’s answer is that if the primary subject matter is ontological, then, and only then, can the work be appropriately described as religious. But how does one determine whether a work is onto logically oriented? The answer has usually been— “if conventional symbols are present.” But what if it is not a painting of Christ, or the Cross, or anything like that? Let us say Picasso’s Guernica (to cite an example of Martin’s). There are no conventional symbols in it which might specifically indicate the religious dimension. We must ask therefore whether it has iconic symbolism even if only implicitly. Does it point to a further reality in its devastating representation of what the ontical is like when it becomes man’s supreme value? One can assert that Guernica does suggest something other than the secular values of Franco’s fascism, a something other than the awful image of a bull signifying totalitarianism. But this “other” image is not explicitly indicated, despite the fact that one is helped in a possible interpretation by the presence of recognisable figures. This raises the issue of how to extend this ontological enquiry to paintings which are completely abstract, or indeed too abstract, or to pure music. Tillich himself was moved to see in Guernica an ontological dimension, and, as Martin reminds us, it was Tillich who argued powerfully (in a much more abstract context) that there was more religion in Cézanne’s apple than in Hofman’s Jesus!13
To return to music, we must now note Martin’s conclusion, which greatly complicates the premise whereby the St. Matthew Passion and, say, a secular work like the Art of Fugue (or the Well-Tempered Clavier) are pigeon-holed into ontological and ontical categories respectively. For, as we have stated, he maintains that not only is there a difference between the Passion and the Art of Fugue, there is also a distinction to be made between the Art of Fugue and the Well-Tempered Clavier, with the former at least implicitly seen to possess “an inner continuity with the religious dimension.” He amplifies this as follows:
In most of the work—Contrapuncti 1-11, 14, 17-18 and above all 19 (the unfinished quadruple fugue)—there is in the structure of the embodied meanings an unearthly inevitability about the resolution of the tensions that is iconic with the sense of reverence and peace that accompanies coercive experiences of Being. For example, in the opening sixteen measures of Contrapunctus 11 the three-note phrases that form the subject sound in isolation somewhat baseless and suspended.
Despite their majestic pace, there is unfulfilled tension, anxiety in each one. Yet this theme of four and a quarter measures is centred around the tonic pitch, and when it arrives at the D there is a sense of quiet release, although there is no final release until the last chord of the fugue.
The Well-Tempered Clavier on the other hand, despite its perhaps equally powerful icons of inexhaustibility and temporality generally lacks icons of religious feeling . . . . 14
Later, he admits: “often no doubt we will differ about such judgements.”
Fortunately, there are some conclusions one can draw from this, and they suggest the need for a more careful scrutiny of the musical materials than is found in Martin’s analysis. First, if music is an iconic symbol and translucent, showing us a world beyond, then very careful attention must be paid to the actual harmonic and rhythmic characteristics. After all, if God is somehow to be evoked and perhaps even experienced through the icon, then the icon itself must be carefully assessed. When one does this, it soon becomes apparent that what is really under scrutiny is the language of music as whole, not just one “secular” piece and the way it differs from another secular one. Some will argue quite convincingly against this by stressing that a metaphysical distinction is apparent between the Art of Fugue and some banal music. We may indeed concur, and plausibly dismiss the inferior music as failing, through its embodied meanings, to inform us or make us aware of ecstatic temporality because of the triteness of meanings and their failure either to make significant demands upon our imagination or to conjure up a translucent iconicity. But such general statements may be so weighed down with cultural preconceptions and prejudice as to be rather suspect, and one reason for this is the lack of a detailed assessment of the actual music. What if we found that a piece of pop had the same chord structure as a beautiful (transcendentally beautiful) piece by Mozart? What criteria apply then, even when there is meticulous regard for musical materials? So, comparing pieces has its pitfalls. I would rather look at music as a whole and do so in the light of a modification of Susanne Langer’s observation that
The tonal structures we call “music” bear a close logical similarity to the forms of human feeling forms of growth and of attenuation, flowing and stowing, conflict and resolution, speed, arrest, terrific excitement, calm or subtle activation and dreamy lapses—not joy and sorrow perhaps, but the poignancy of either and both . . . . Music is a tonal analogue of emotive life.15
Unlike Langer, however, I would claim that the iconic designations of music are not necessarily restricted to the structure of feelings. By means of powerful internal connections which seem inexhaustible, the very structure of music (so much out of only twelve notes) suggests that music as an analogue of feeling is too restricted a definition.16 To begin with, the fundamental technical basis is an eternal object found in nature and bequeathed by God to us, and that is the harmonic series. We all know its pervasive role as the very root of all music, so we should ask what statements can be made about the resultant art. Our approach might be to ponder what the world must be like if between us and the world the phenomenon of music can occur. How must I consider the world, how must I consider myself, if I am to understand the reality of music? This may not have all that much to do with conventional analysis of a particular piece of music, so concerned are we with certain fundamentals common to all music. And it is fascinating how musical notes, although derived from something very material like the harmonic series, do not correlate with any material phenomena when they are in horizontal motion or vertical grouping. Acoustical phenomena and one’s auditory apparatus are indeed material, but they have nothing to do with the meaning of the sounds. (We might impose a private meaning on the sounds, of course; and we might be helped to appreciate the music by the designative meanings or conventional symbols in it.)
But one should be very cautious in the present context of this personal interpretation, for claims have been made (by Charles Hartshorne and other process philosophers) that the element of feeling is more closely bound up with the “outer world” component than might at first be assumed. As Hartshorne has pointed out in discussing colour (and the point remains true of music) “the ‘gaiety’ of yellow . . . is the yellowness of the yellow.”17 One of the most lucid examinations of this metaphysical basis of music is by Victor Zuckerkandl, who in his Sound and Symbol analyses the inherent metaphysical quality of musical phenomena.18 He deals with the issues raised by Hartshorne as follows:
Though the strict separation of the two worlds is abandoned, the two components, physical and psychic, are still maintained. The nonphysical element that is found in the outer world, although it is no longer imported into it from an inner world, is yet, so to speak, an external psychic. Even the vocabulary—feeling, excitement, gaiety, and so on—is wholly drawn from the psychic realm. (In this connection we must not forget that our language, which conforms to our mode of thought provides a vocabulary for physical phenomena and for psychic phenomena, but none for phenomena that belong to neither class: a source of frequently insuperable difficulties in all investigations that do not readily fit into the traditional pattern of thought.) But how, without falling back upon the old belief in the world soul or in a God in nature, we are to conceive feelings outside of a consciousness, and a seeing, hearing, and touching of feelings (to say nothing of other complications), we cannot at first see. In this situation, music shows us the way out.19
He then takes the opening theme of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony as an illustration:
When it appears for the first time in the Ninth Symphony, it is played by the lower strings. The tones of the celli and double basses in this passage—especially by contrast with what has preceded—have a very definite emotional character; it could be called a character of solemn repose. The two components, then, are present—the physical, the acoustical tone and the psychic, the emotional tone; but the melody, the music, as we know, is in neither of these. What we hear when we hear melody is simply not F#, G, A, etc., plus “solemn repose,” tone plus emotion, physical plus psychic, but, with that and beyond it, a third thing, which belongs to neither the physical nor the psychic context: 3, 4, 5—a pure dynamism, tonal dynamic qualities. It is not two components, then, which make up musical tone, but three. The words we use to describe this third component—words such as force, equilibrium, tension, direction—significantly such as neither of the two sides claims for itself alone and, consequently, may well refer to a separate realm between the two, a realm of pure dynamics. What makes a musical tone is so much the work not of the physical and not of the psychic component but of the third, a purely dynamic component, that, compared with the latter, the two others appear to sink to the function of trigger and after-effect: a physical process sets off the dynamic phenomenon; the latter reverberates in a psychic process.
So greatly is our thinking under the spell of the two-worlds scheme! Perhaps the sterility of traditional aesthetics is owing to the fact that it has never escaped from this schema; that it continually swings like a pendulum between a physical and a psychic component of art work and art experience, in a vain attempt to comprehend the phenomena of art from the narrow viewpoint of the trigger action and the reverberation.20
What is this “external psychic”? Our experience of music tells us that it is a force of some kind, for which the physical/acoustical manifestation is transparent. It has nothing to do with the expression of feeling because these dynamic qualities appear even when nothing is thought to be expressed, namely when a scale is played. (Since we are now imbuing a scale with meaning it may be necessary to change our view about its low musical status and confer on it an inherently metaphysical expressive power.)
To conclude, we have noticed when discussing embodied meaning that there is an obvious difference between language and music. In language, here is the word, there is what it means. But the musical note and its meaning are far more intimately connected; so the particular state of tension which we perceive, let us say, in the leading note or seventh degree of a musical scale (in the context of a key) does not exist outside that note. We are therefore left with a mystery, namely how can music take place where things/bodies exist and at the same time be transcendental to the space in which things/bodies move. It may be instructive to recall, at this point, one of the few remarks Whitehead made about music. When confessing to not understanding Beethoven’s last quartets, he expressed the consciousness of the grandeur of their “surrounding immensities of thought.” He must surely have meant that, when you listen to a masterpiece, you have a sense that you are in the presence of infinitude. But for Beethoven to conjure up this extraordinary phenomenon was essentially a technical exercise whereby he had to choose between one musical concept and others. But these infinitudes of possibility or unrealised possibilities which provide choice have an important place in Whitehead’s system in a category called “conceptual reversion,” a subject for a later discussion, and one deserving careful thought since it seems to be the clue to the possibility of a “hybrid” prehension of God. Whitehead’s original approach to this awesome subject may provide a starting point for further exploration. Whitehead emphasises God’s immanence in the world in three ways, and these provide cornerstones for new avenues of enquiry Firstly, God supplies every entity with its basic conceptual aim. Secondly, He is present with the entity throughout its concrescence in its world. Thirdly, as the entity prehends God, so is He an influence on it, and His own consequent nature is duly affected. As Zuckerkandl has suggested at the very end of his book, our con· clusions are but indicators for further study.
Notes
1 Whitehead himself maintained that he was the only person ever to have read the chapter on “Abstraction” in his Science and the Modern World, and Dorothy Emmett in an obituary notice said, “there are some who have done so. But they must be very few.”
2 Revised edition, ed. Griffin & Sherburne (New York, 1978).
3 Ibid., p.18.
4 Ibid., p.22.
5 (Lewisburg, 1972).
6 Ibid., p.147.
7 Ibid., pp.94-95.
8 See his Emotion and Meaning in Music (Chicago, 1956), pp.2f.
9 See Martin, op. cit., p.104 and The Psychology of Imagination (New York, 1948), pp. 279f.
10 (New York, 1957), p.37.
11 Martin, op. cit., p. 113.
12 Ibid., p. 116-17.
13 Ibid., p. 160.
14 Ibid., p. 124.
15 Feeling and Form (New York, 1953), p.27.
16 This is also Martin’s view, op. cit., p.l22.
17 See Charles Hartshorne’s Creative Synthesis and Philosophic Method (Illinois, 1970), chapter 4.
18 Translated by Trasg (London, 1956), chapter 5.
19 Ibid., pp.59-60.
20 Ibid., pp.60-61.
