The Human Machine | Page 6

the brain of the average well-intentioned man as possessing
the tricks and manners of one of those gentlemen-at-large who, having
nothing very urgent to do, stroll along and offer their services gratis to
some shorthanded work of philanthropy. They will commonly
demoralise and disorganise the business conduct of an affair in about a
fortnight. They come when they like; they go when they like.
Sometimes they are exceedingly industrious and obedient, but then
there is an even chance that they will shirk and follow their own sweet
will. And they mustn't be spoken to, or pulled up--for have they not
kindly volunteered, and are they not giving their days for naught! These
persons are the bane of the enterprises in which they condescend to
meddle. Now, there is a vast deal too much of the gentleman-at-large
about one's brain. One's brain has no right whatever to behave as a
gentleman-at-large: but it in fact does. It forgets; it flatly ignores orders;
at the critical moment when pressure is highest, it simply lights a
cigarette and goes out for a walk. And we meekly sit down under this
behaviour! 'I didn't feel like stewing,' says the young man who, against
his wish, will fail in his examination. 'The words were out of my mouth
before I knew it,' says the husband whose wife is a woman. 'I couldn't
get any inspiration to-day,' says the artist. 'I can't resist Stilton,' says the
fellow who is dying of greed. 'One can't help one's thoughts,' says the
old worrier. And this last really voices the secret excuse of all five.
And you all say to me: 'My brain is myself. How can I alter myself? I
was born like that.' In the first place you were not born 'like that,' you
have lapsed to that. And in the second place your brain is not yourself.
It is only a part of yourself, and not the highest seat of authority. Do
you love your mother, wife, or children with your brain? Do you desire
with your brain? Do you, in a word, ultimately and essentially live with

your brain? No. Your brain is an instrument. The proof that it is an
instrument lies in the fact that, when extreme necessity urges, you can
command your brain to do certain things, and it does them. The first of
the two great principles which underlie the efficiency of the human
machine is this: _The brain is a servant, exterior to the central force of
the Ego_. If it is out of control the reason is not that it is uncontrollable,
but merely that its discipline has been neglected. The brain can be
trained, as the hand and eye can be trained; it can be made as obedient
as a sporting dog, and by similar methods. In the meantime the
indispensable preparation for brain discipline is to form the habit of
regarding one's brain as an instrument exterior to one's self, like a
tongue or a foot.

IV
THE FIRST PRACTICAL STEP
The brain is a highly quaint organism. Let me say at once, lest I should
be cannonaded by physiologists, psychologists, or metaphysicians, that
by the 'brain' I mean the faculty which reasons and which gives orders
to the muscles. I mean exactly what the plain man means by the brain.
The brain is the diplomatist which arranges relations between our
instinctive self and the universe, and it fulfils its mission when it
provides for the maximum of freedom to the instincts with the
minimum of friction. It argues with the instincts. It takes them on one
side and points out the unwisdom of certain performances. It catches
them by the coat-tails when they are about to make fools of themselves.
'Don't drink all that iced champagne at a draught,' it says to one instinct;
'we may die of it.' 'Don't catch that rude fellow one in the eye,' it says to
another instinct; 'he is more powerful than us.' It is, in fact, a majestic
spectacle of common sense. And yet it has the most extraordinary
lapses. It is just like that man--we all know him and consult him--who
is a continual fount of excellent, sagacious advice on everything, but
who somehow cannot bring his sagacity to bear on his own personal
career.

In the matter of its own special activities the brain is usually
undisciplined and unreliable. We never know what it will do next. We
give it some work to do, say, as we are walking along the street to the
office. Perhaps it has to devise some scheme for making £150 suffice
for £200, or perhaps it has to plan out the heads of a very important
letter. We meet a pretty woman, and away that undisciplined, sagacious
brain runs after her, dropping the