system is determined, and here that contact with reality takes effect.

The last point, particularly, is vital. To return to the direct view of
things beyond all figurative symbols, to descend into the inmost depths of
being, to watch the throbbing life in its pure state, and listen to the
secret rhythm of its inmost breath, to measure it, at least so far as
measurement is possible, has always been the philosopher's ambition; and
the new philosophy has not departed from this ideal. But in what light
does it regard its task? That is the first point to clear up. For the
problem is complex, and the goal distant.

"We are made as much, and more, for action than for thought," says Mr
Bergson; "or rather, when we follow our natural impulse, it is to act that
we think." ("L'Evolution Creatrice", page 321.) And again, "What we
ordinarily call a fact is not reality such as it would appear to an
immediate intuition, but an adaptation of reality to practical interests
and the demands of social life." ("Matiere et Memoire", page 201.) Hence
the question which takes precedence of all others is: to distinguish in
our common representation of the world, the fact in its true sense from the
combinations which we have introduced in view of action and language.

Now, to rediscover nature in her fresh springs of reality, it is not
sufficient to abandon the images and conceptions invented by human
initiative; still less is it sufficient to fling ourselves into the torrent
of brute sensations. By so doing we are in danger of dissolving our
thought in dream or quenching it in night.

Above all, we are in danger of committal to a path which it is impossible
to follow. The philosopher is not free to begin the work of knowledge
again upon other planes, with a mind which would be adequate to the new and