To apply the notion of language to the animal world is admissible only at the price of misusing terms. We know that it has been impossible until now to prove that animals enjoy, even in a rudimentary form, a means of expression endowed with the characteristics and functions of human speech. All serious observations made of animal communities, all attempts to establish or verify, by means of various technical devices, any form of speech comparable to that of man have failed. It does not seem that animals which emit certain kinds of calls are thereby displaying any behaviour from which we may infer that they are conveying ‘spoken’ messages to one another. The fundamental conditions for a strictly linguistic communication seem to be lacking even in the higher animal world.

Now that the twentieth century has celebrated its fiftieth birthday, it can no longer plead youth and inexperience as excuses to avoid judgments on its achievements, least of all in its poetry, of which one chapter is practically closed and another has at least made its main point. Of course any survey of European poetry in the last fifty years is bound to be very general and superficial, but is perhaps worth attempting not merely as a matter of historical inquiry but because it may throw some light on the immediate present and the prospects for the near future. We may be still too close to recent developments to see them in their right perspective or to gauge them at their final worth, but much that has happened since 1900 already belongs to a past sufficiently remote for an independent judgment to be passed on it, while much else has revealed its main lines of development, with the result that we may perhaps form a clearer and juster estimate of what the poets have done than was possible when their works were too new to be rightly assessed and suffered alike from the ardent hopes of their protagonists and the shocked disapproval of their opponents.

By the nineteenth century the struggles in Europe against those forms of authority which go back to the Middle Ages resulted in giving everyone a standard of freedom perhaps without precedent in history.

Thucydides excuses the possible dullness of his history on the ground that he means it not for a passing entertainment but for a ‘permanent possession’ which may be of practical use in future times when some similar situation occurs again. We tend to smile at the idea. We all know that history never repeats itself. But surely we know also that though exactly the same situation or problem never recurs, yet elements are constantly recurring which, in different contexts, with all sorts of different accompaniments, are essentially the same; and though, obviously, the old parallel never provides an answer to the new problem, it may well help to its understanding. The differences between any problem of ours and those of Thucydides are of course enormous. Our civilisation, immense in scale, dazzling in its scientific inventions and its power over matter, is extremely different from the small-scale city state of fifth-century Athens with no electricity, no gas, no steam, no buttons, no drainage even, and a standard of food and comfort which would produce instantaneous strikes in any Western community. Yet the essential situation which Thucydides had to face was the overthrow of a very high and peculiar civilisation by a long and all-absorbing war, a war to which men could find no end, from which they could never keep aloof, and under whose influence they found themselves sinking to standards of barbarism which filled them with horror. We in modern Europe share the experience of that sort of war; and we share perhaps more fully than any age between that time and our own the special quality of that civilisation. How can we find words to describe it? It was a free civilisation, proud of its freedom of life and thought, its advance in knowledge, art, literature; with flourishing commerce, with wide command of the sea, with an acknowledged superiority over ‘barbaric’ or non-Greek communities and over some that were Greek; and open, evidently, to the kind of criticism that is always provoked by a combination of commercial wealth and high culture, of democracy and empire. Thucydides has left us a wonderful picture of Athens, not of course exactly as she was but as she conceived herself to be or as she was in the eyes of those who loved her. It is not quite as we now see her; to us, living two thousand years afterwards, Athens is chiefly remarkable for its ever-living achievements in art, philosophy, and poetry; but Thucydides hardly mentions such things, though in one famous half-sentence, ‘We seek beauty without luxury’, he doubtless implies them. He writes not as a critic of art or poetry; and his philosophy is only the philosophy of a statesman.

Specialists in genetic psychology, and especially in child psychology, do not always suspect what diverse and fruitful relationships are possible between their own subject and other more general kinds of research, such as the theory of knowledge or epistemology. And the converse is even more true, if that is possible: that child psychology has for long been regarded as a collection of case histories of infants. The necessity has not always been recognised, even in the field of general psychology, of considering all problems from the standpoint of development, and it is still true, in certain countries, that ‘child psychologists’ are a group apart, having no contact with the main currents of experimental psychology. Even less, as a rule, do students of the theory of knowledge suspect that, within reach as it were, in the field of psychogenetic experience, they can sometimes find solutions to the most general questions on the formation of ideas or on the analysis of intellectual activity. Yet they have been known to show inexhaustible patience when trying to reconstruct some unknown passage from the history of science for the sake of its epistemological significance.

The importance of language for the real understanding of culture is being more and more felt by most students of civilisation. A linguistic system is an expression, though not a complete one, of the system of perception which a social group has of its surroundings and of itself. No civilisation can be fully understood by one who ignores its linguistic means of expression. Modern anthropologists cannot work any more through interpreters if they want to collect really reliable material. As Edward Sapir writes, ‘Some day the attempt to master a primitive culture without the help of the language of its society will seem as amateurish as the labors of a historian who cannot handle the original documents of the civilization which he is describing.’

Archaeological discoveries, unless of unusual beauty, are generally of less inherent interest than the conclusions to which they point. Not that they are merely evidence in the court-room sense of the word; they certainly spur the imagination, and provide tangible links with those vast, unknown areas of human knowledge which scholarship seeks to restore to us. The public interest in recovered documents of the past, however, seems mainly in the discovery of the objects themselves rather than in the interpretation of those objects. It is as if proving there was a past at a given date is of more interest than the life which made up that past.

It is evident, for example, that public interest in the Dead Sea Scrolls is fading, now that publication of some of the new texts contained in them allows a preliminary assessment of their significance. Contact with the minds of men who composed them seems to be of lesser moment to many than the physical existence of manuscripts written and made use of two thousand years ago.

The thought of Karl Jaspers does not reveal an evolution in the sense of an intellectual pilgrimage whose stages and whose course could be precisely defined. In a certain sense, as he says himself, his philosophy was already immanent in him by the time he was seventeen. He is not one of those who wait for problems to run up against them from the outside. Events in the world, hypotheses and ideas are indeed the object and the matter of his reflection, but they are summoned from within to serve as props for a different kind of confrontation, at once more essential and more mysterious, whose mystery must be illuminated without being dispelled. His attitude is meditative. His thought digs deep, but digs on the spot; its end is an experience always the same yet inexhaustible, alongside which every sort of diversity appears monotonous. That is why vertical images bulk so large in his vocabulary, the vocabulary of a diviner: sources, gushing forth, the abyss, the ground that one loses or recovers, and a complete ambiguity about depth and height which imposes and refuses transcendence.