of
number. He who thus makes the really "deep" and "inner" effort necessary
to becoming--were it only for an elusive moment--discovers, under the
simplest appearance, inexhaustible sources of unsuspected wealth; the
rhythm of his duration becomes amplified and refined; his acts become
more conscious; and in what seemed to him at first sudden severance or
instantaneous pulsation he discovers complex transitions imperceptibly
shaded off, musical transitions full of unexpected repetitions and
threaded movements.

Thus, the deeper we go in consciousness, the less suitable become these
schemes of separation and fixity existing in spatial and numerical
forms. The inner world is that of pure quality. There is no measurable
homogeneity, no collection of atomically constructed elements. The
phenomena distinguished in it by analysis are not composing units, but
phases. And it is only when they reach the surface, when they come in
contact with the external world, when they are incarnated in language
or gesture, that the categories of matter become adapted to them. In
its true nature, reality appears as an uninterrupted flow, an impalpable
shiver of fluid changing tones, a perpetual flux of waves which ebb and
break and dissolve into one another without shock or jar. Everything is
ceaseless change; and the state which appears the most stable is already
change, since it continues and grows old. Constant quantities are
represented only by the materialisation of habit or by means of
practical symbols. And it is on this point that Mr Bergson rightly
insists. ("Creative Evolution", page 3.)

"The apparent discontinuity of psychological life is due, then, to
the fact that our attention is concentrated on it in a series of
discontinuous acts; where there is only a gentle slope, we think we
see, when we follow the broken line of our attention, the steps of a
staircase. It is true that our psychological life is full of surprises.
A thousand incidents arise which seem to contrast with what precedes
them, and not to be connected with what follows. But the gap in their
appearances stands out against the continuous background on which they
are represented, and to which they owe the very intervals that separate
them; they are the drumbeats which break into the symphony at intervals.
Our attention is fixed upon them because they interest it more, but
each of them proceeds from the fluid mass of our entire psychological
existence. Each of them