Over the last few decades the biological sciences have developed a strong new branch which lays down certain important prerequisites for any conception of human nature. This is the science of behavior which has found a place half-way between its sister sciences, morphology and physiology, who are often very far apart from one another. The new science has given some of its representatives the will to try out new conceptions of the organism. “Behavior” combines structure and function in a new whole, and it promises to overcome the separation between individual and environment, for a larger synthesis brings more comprehensive phenomena into view. It also promises to overcome the isolation of the individual, for it makes it possible to comprehend the individual as an integral part of a whole which is of necessity supra-individual.

The existence of monsters throws doubt on life's ability to teach us order. This doubt is immediate, no matter for how long a time we have had confidence, no matter how accustomed we have been to see honeysuckle grow on honeysuckle vines, tadpoles become frogs, mares suckle colts, and in general to see like engender like. It is sufficient that this confidence be shaken once by a morphological variation, by a single equivocal appearance, for a radical fear to possess us. Perhaps, fear, you will say; but why radical? Because we are living beings, real effects of the laws of life, and in our turn future causes of life. A failure on the part of life concerns us doubly: a failure could affect us, and we could cause a failure. It is only because we men are living beings that a morphological failure is, in our eyes, a monster. Suppose we were pure reason, a pure intellectual machine for observing, calculating, and accounting—inert, and indifferent to the objects that give rise to thought: in that case the monster would simply be that which was different from the ordinary, of an order other than the most probable order.

The truly great social drama of mankind has not been the oppression of the minorities by the majorities. This form of tyranny affects by definition only small groups of human beings, and if it has often assumed violent forms, it has nevertheless retained over the centuries its episodic character—excepting the case of the Jewish people.

One of the interesting aspects of the study of children's play is that it permits us to see clearly how an awareness of rules is built up in us against factors of wildness, and how this awareness of rules, little by little, pervades the child's behavior. Now, the child's experience can inform us about the experience of the species: if the processes of the acquisition of self-control cannot be exactly the same, as Stanley Hall thought, the very differences allow us to specify the importance and exact role of an environment which is not the same for the child and for early mankind. For example, the existence of a coherent, stable, adult group makes for the institutionalization and perpetuation in terms of an adult tradition of behavior which, in the child, cannot take on its full development for lack of that social, and so to speak, institutional co-efficient. Thus, all at once, childhood turbulence is transformed into adult techniques of ecstacy and intoxication, or playing according to rules, sloughs off in the adult as religion, art, or even philosophy.

The most illustrious tradition of romantic poetry on oriental subjects, from the Westöstlicher Diwan to Rückert, Platen, Hugo and Leconte de Lisle, was inspired essentially by Indian and Persian epic, lyric and gnomic poetry, referring only to a minor degree to the ancient poetry of the Arabs—although it is precisely Rückert to whom we are indebted for a version of the Hamâsa, a famous anthology of pagan Arabic poetry. Goethe approached this anthology through the versions of Jones, described it briefly in the “Notes and Commentary” to the Diwan, and among other sections retold one tale splendidly in verse: the “Song of Vengeance” of Taâbbata Sharran. Here the force of his genius lifted him well above the bristling Latin of Freytag, through whom he had come to know the song, and brought him very close in lyrical intuition to the original of this masterpiece of debated authenticity. But on the whole, the poetic heritage of the ancient Arabs was not adequately echoed in the literature of the romantic age. Rückert himself, inspired by pagan Arabic poetry, is read by few people today; and the poetry that was his model is studied rather by philologists, for its documentary value. Theodor Noeldeke, at the beginning of his classic study of the Mu'allakat, declared frankly: “It is questionable whether the aesthetic pleasure provided by the study of ancient Arabic poetry is worth the great pains required even to approach an understanding of the same.” It is difficult to stand in opposition to the authority of the “old master” of German orientalists, who confessed that “the more he studied the Semites, the more he loved the Greeks.” Even the most humble author of these lines dares to appropriate for himself the lines of Noeldeke; and yet, beyond every comparison, which cannot help resulting unfavorably for the ancient poets of the desert, he who knows how to love and seek out poetry will find in them authentic artistic values. Even the harsh pagan song can in certain passages interest us, fill us with enthusiasm, and move us.

During the past ten or twenty years this question has begun to concern a great many thinkers. The interest which it holds for our time is not only of an academic order. The vigorous growth of various forms of teaching of translation and interpreting; and the setting under way of gigantic programs of translation by electronic machines (to cite only two “spectacular” facts) illustrate its practical importance.

Serious intellectuals in Japan have been concerned with problems of tradition and modernization not only in the postwar period but at least as far back as the Meiji Restoration, although it is true that in each period the problems were viewed in different ways. The issue of tradition and modernization is not peculiar to Japan. However, there are sufficient reasons for the fact that this issue has been and is being conspicuously argued among the Japanese.