But
suppose I want to think about something like 'the British Constitution'.
I cannot simply produce an imaginary picture 'looking like' the British
Constitution, because the B.C. does not 'look like' anything. What
happens is that, over the years, I have built up a complex image, partly
visual, partly verbal, and perhaps also with elements from other
senses; and this complex image has an internal structure that
corresponds to that of the B.C., at least in so far as I have correctly
understood it. If, in my studies of the British Constitution I have
consulted faulty authorities, or omitted part of it, these faults or
omissions will be represented in this complex image. Whenever I wish to
think about the B.C. (or even whenever anybody mentions it) this complex
image comes to my mind, and it is with reference to it that I (for
example) answer questions about the B.C. This complex image is a concept—it
is my concept of the B.C. With luck, it may correspond fairly closely
with the original thing, but most probably it is a very misleading
representation. (Note that, since the essence of the concept is in the structure
of the complex image, and not in the individual images that make up the
complex image, it is quite possible to have a number of different
complex images, but all with the same structure, to represent the real
state of affairs in question. Here, the concept remains the same, though the image is different. Thus, in the world of art, it is possible to express the same idea either in music or in painting.)
Now all conceptual thinking is abstract;
that is to say, the thought or concept is entirely divorced from
reality, it is removed from existence and is (in Kierkegaard's phrase) sub specie aeterni. Concrete thinking, on the other hand, thinks the object while the object is present, and this, in the strict sense of the words, is reflexion or mindfulness.
One is mindful of what one is doing, of what one is seeing, while one
is actually doing (or seeing) it. This, naturally, is very much more
difficult than abstract thinking; but it has a very obvious advantage:
if one is thinking (or being mindful) of something while it is actually
present, no mistake is possible, and one is directly in touch with
reality; but in abstract thinking there is every chance of a mistake,
since, as I pointed out above, the concepts with which we think are
composite affairs, built up of an arbitrary lot of individual
experiences (books, conversations, past observations, and so on).
What
Huxley is getting at, then, is simply this. As a result of our
education, our books, radios, cinemas, televisions, and so on, we tend
to build up artificial concepts of what life is, and these
concepts are grossly misleading and are no satisfactory guide at all to
real life. (How many people, especially in the West, derive all their
ideas about love from the cinema or T.V.—no wonder they run into
difficulties when they begin to meet it as it is in reality!) Huxley is
advocating a training in mindfulness (or awareness), satisampajañña—in
thinking about life as it is actually taking place—instead of (or, at
least, as well as) the present training in purely abstract thinking. In
this way, so he maintains—and of course he is quite right—, people will
be better fitted for dealing with life as it really is. Does this answer
your question?