Into relations, which, in the end, end in nothing. And

to make the relation of time an unit is, first of all,

to make it stationary, by destroying within it the

diversity of before and after. And, in the second place,

this solid unit, existing only by virtue of external

relations, is forced to expand. It perishes in ceaseless

oscillation, between an empty solidity and a transition

beyond itself towards illusory completeness.

And, as with space, the qualitative content--which is

not merely temporal, and apart from which the terms

related in time would have no character--presents an

insoluble problem. How to combine this in unity with the

time which it fills, and again how to establish each

aspect apart, are both beyond our resources. And time so

far, like space, has turned out to be appearance.

But we shall be rightly told that a spatial form is

not essential to time, and that, to examine it fairly,

we should not force our errors upon it. Let us then

attempt to regard time as it stands, and without

extraneous additions. We shall only convince ourselves

that the root of the old dilemma is not torn up.

If we are to keep to time as it comes, and are to

abstain at first from inference and construction, we

must confine ourselves, I presume, to time as presented.

But presented time must be time present, and we must

agree, at least provisionally, not to go beyond the

"now." And the question at once before us will be as to

the "now's" temporal contents. First, let us ask if they

exist. Is the "now" simple and indivisible? We can at

once reply in the negative. For time implies before and

after, and by consequence diversity; and hence the

simple is not time. We are compelled then, so far, to

take the present as comprehending diverse aspects.

How many aspects it contains is an interesting

question. According to one opinion, in the "now"

we can observe both past and future; and, whether these

are divided by the present, and, if so, precisely in

what sense, admits of further doubt. In another opinion,

which I prefer, the future is not presented, but is a

product of construction; and the "now" contains merely

the process of present turning into past. But here these

differences, if indeed they are such, are fortunately

irrelevant. All that we require is the admission of some

process within the "now."

For any process admitted destroys the "now" from

within. Before and after are diverse, and their

incompatibility compels us to use a relation between

them. Then at once the old wearisome game is played

again. The aspects become parts, the "now" consists of

"nows," and in the end these "nows" prove

undiscoverable. For, as a solid part of time, the "now"

does not exist. Pieces of duration may to us appear not

to be composite; but a very little reflection lays bare

their inherent fraudulence. If they are not duration,

they do not contain an after and before, and they have,

by themselves, no beginning or end, and are by

themselves outside of time. But, if so, time becomes

merely the relation between them; and duration is a

number of relations of the timeless, themselves also, I

suppose, related somehow so as to make one duration. But

how a relation is to be a unity, of which these

differences are predicable, we have seen is

incomprehensible. And, if it fails to be a unity, time

is forthwith dissolved. But why should I weary the

reader by developing in detail the impossible

consequences of either alternative? If he has understood

the principle, he is with us; and, otherwise, the

uncertain argumentum ad hominem would too certainly pass

into argumentum ad nauseam.

I will, however, instance one result which

follows from a denial of time's continuity. Time will in

this case fall somehow between the timeless, as A--C--E.

But the rate of change is not uniform for all events;

and, I presume, no one will assert that, when we have

arrived at our apparent units, that sets a limit to

actual and possible velocity. Let us suppose then

another series of events, which, taken as a whole,

coincides in time with A--C--E, but contains the six

units a--b--c--d--e--f. Either then these other

relations (those, for example, between a and b, c and d)

will fall between A and C, C and E, and what that can

mean I do not know; or else the transition a--b will

coincide with A, which is timeless and contains no

possible lapse. And that, so far as I can perceive,

contradicts itself outright. But I feel inclined to add

that this whole question is less a matter for detailed

argument than for understanding in its principle. I

doubt if there is any one who has ever grasped this, and

then has failed to reach one main result. But there are

too many respectable writers whom here one can hardly

criticise. They have simply never got to understand.

Thus, if in the time, which we call presented, there

exists any lapse, that time is torn by a dilemma, and is

condemned to be appearance. But, if the presented is

timeless, another destruction awaits us. Time will be

the relation of the present to a future and past; and

the relation, as we have seen, is not compatible with

diversity or unity. Further, the existence, not

presented, of future and of past seems ambiguous. But,

apart from that, time perishes in the endless process

beyond itself. The unit will be for ever its own

relation to something beyond, something in the end not

discoverable. And this process is forced on it, both by

its temporal form, and again by the continuity of its

content, which transcends what is given.

Time, like space, has most evidently proved

not to be real, but to be a contradictory appearance. I

will, in the next chapter, reinforce and repeat this

conclusion by some remarks upon change.

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CHAPTER V

MOTION AND CHANGE AND ITS PERCEPTION

I AM sensible that this chapter will repeat much of the

former discussion. It is not for my own pleasure that I

write it, but as an attempt to strengthen the reader.

Whoever is convinced that change is a self-contradictory

appearance, will do well perhaps to pass on towards

something which interests him.

Motion has from an early time been criticised

severely, and it has never been defended with much

success. I will briefly point to the principle on which

these criticisms are founded. Motion implies that what

is moved is in two places in one time and this seems not

possible. That motion implies two places is obvious;

that these places are successive is no less obvious.

But, on the other hand, it is clear that the process

must have unity. The thing moved must be one; and,

again, the time must be one. If the time were only many

times, out of relation, and not parts of a single

temporal whole, then no motion would be found. But if

the time is one, then, as we have seen, it cannot also

be many.

A common "explanation" is to divide both the space

and the time into discrete corresponding units, taken

literally ad libitum. The lapse in this case is supposed

to fall somehow between them. But, as a theoretical

solution, the device is childish. Greater velocity would

in this case be quite impossible; and a lapse, falling

between timeless units, has really, as we have seen, no

meaning. And where the unity of these lapses, which

makes the one duration, is to be situated, we,

of course, are not, and could not be, informed. And how

this inconsistent mass is related to the identity of the

body moved is again unintelligible. What becomes clear

is merely this, that motion in space gives no solution

of the problem of change. It adds, in space, a further

detail which throws no light on the principle. But, on

the other side, it makes the discrepancies of change

more palpable; and it forces on all but the thoughtless

the problem of the identity of a thing which has

changed. But change in time, with all its

inconsistencies, lies below motion in space; and, if

this cannot be defended, motion at once is condemned.

The problem of change underlies that of motion, but

the former itself is not fundamental. It points back to

the dilemma of the one and the many, the differences and

the identity, the adjectives and the thing, the

qualities and the relations. How anything can possibly

be anything else was a question which defied our

efforts. Change is little beyond an instance of this

dilemma in principle. It either adds an irrelevant

complication, or confuses itself in a blind attempt at

compromise. Let us, at the cost of repetition, try to

get clear on this head.

Change, it is evident, must be change of something,

and it is obvious, further, that it contains diversity.

Hence it asserts two of one, and so falls at once under

the condemnation of our previous chapters. But it tries

to defend itself by this distinction: "Yes, both are

asserted, but not both in one; there is a relation, and

so the unity and plurality are combined." But our

criticism of relations has destroyed this subterfuge

beforehand. We have seen that, when a whole has been

thus broken up into relations and terms, it has become

utterly self-discrepant. You can truly predicate neither

one part of the other part, nor any, nor all, of the

whole. And, in its attempt to contain these

elements, the whole commits suicide, and destroys them

in its death. It would serve no purpose to repeat these

inexorable laws. Let us see merely how change condemns

itself by entering their sphere.

Something, A, changes, and therefore it cannot be

permanent. On the other hand, if A is not permanent,

what is it that changes? It will no longer be A, but

something else. In other words, let A be free from

change in time, and it does not change. But let it

contain change, and at once it becomes A*, A*, A*. Then

what becomes of A, and of its change, for we are left

with something else? Again, we may put the problem thus.

The diverse states of A must exist within one time; and

yet they cannot, because they are successive.

Let us first take A as timeless, in the sense of out

of time. Here the succession of the change must belong

to it, or not. In the former case, what is the relation

between the succession and A? If there is none, A does

not change. If there is any, it forces unintelligibly a

diversity unto A, which is foreign to its nature and