The arrow and the wheel have both been used to represent time, which has been measured by the flowing of water or sand, unilateral and definitive, or by the movement of a needle on a dial, an ever recurring cycle. These two aspects of time—the unlimited advance without stop or return and the cycle which passes again and again through exactly the same states— have for various reasons preoccupied both philosophers and astronomers. A universe of infinite duration which never returns to any of its preceding states, the sort suggested by application of the second principle of thermodynamics, has little appeal for certain thinkers and leads them to a sort of cosmic pessimism. A cyclical evolution, on the other hand, with an eternal return to states, if not identical, at least very similar, to the one in which we live, gains more sympathy by providing the mind with a sort of repose, a vague consolation for death. This preference can be observed in action whenever the progress of astrophysics presents a new hypothesis on cosmic evolution. The expansion of the universe, an irremediable evolution, met with a hostility which, under cover of scientific arguments, concealed an affective malaise induced by metaphysical anguish in the presence of this final fading-away, far as it might be from our day.

Both late pagan and early Christian expression may be considered subdivisions of some larger whole—call it the Style of Gnosis. Both are embraced in the earthly gloom and the search beyond gloom for transcendent form. As we look back on the larger motion, it seems inevitable that a faith should have grown from that world hunger. That it would be mystical is also clear. Material Rome was a Lazarus beyond even Christian revival. The faith must be one that could outlive Rome reading in its fall the divine purpose. It must be a faith beyond this life, since this life grew darker from year to year. It must give man what he searched for, a will and power to suffer and die, to meet loss and martyrdom, not in frenzied struggle, but in peace. It must give order to a new society, incorporating the somber Stoic morality in a group-righteousness of love, attended with all the promises of the immortality cults.

Until now, the analysis of dreams has dealt almost exclusively with their contents and has been concerned with an attempt to extract all their meaning from the images which appear in them. As is well known, the incorporation into science of the analysis of dreams began with Freud, who, upon discovering a basic hypothesis or subject, quickly arrived at a kind of metaphysics of which dreams are the manifestation: the libido, which is, in essence, desire.

But, in dealing with the phenomenon of dreams as a part of human life, one must first study their form: the form of the dream, first of all; later, the species of dreams, if such species exist. One must, that is, arrive at a phenomenology of the dream and of dreams. Such a phenomenology does not exhaust the study of dreams; it is simply a first approach to knowledge of dreams, an introduction.

Economists today are increasingly concerned with the problem of economic growth. They are inquiring whether it is possible for our economic system to continue the seemingly miraculous business of putting more people to work, making more goods, and adding to the national income. Back in the 1930’s their major concern, however, was with depression and instability. The economy then was heading downward in what seemed to be a never ending plunge. The rate of population growth had dropped rapidly, and nineteenth-century chatter about race suicide revived. The limits of our territorial frontiers had long been reached. National output moved sluggishly, and the unemployed huddled with puzzled brows around makeshift fires and apple boxes. Then came the war, and there was a burgeoning need for men in jobs. But, despite expanded income and overtime pay, fewer goods were available than might have been expected. This was the anomaly of inflation, and economists had on their hands a new, though not unfamiliar, problem, which stayed with them even after the war.

One of the perennial problems of theoretical ethnology has been the interpretation of cultural similarities between remote peoples. In fact, the question troubled observers long before the rise of anthropology as a distinct branch of learning. When the painter George Catlin saw Mandan Indians crossing the Missouri in hide-covered craft resembling an inverted open umbrella, he recalled the Welsh coracle and concocted the amazing theory that the Mandan were the descendants of Welsh immigrants to America. Equally flimsy was the view that the natives of America represented the Ten Lost Tribes of Irsael because redskin and Jew shared such observances as menstrual taboos—customs by no means peculiar to them.

The massive literature of modern psychology, which embraces so many important and unimportant subjects, fails conspicuously to deal with one fundamental human problem—many would term it the fundamental human problem—death. Why, when there are libraries of books on every aspect of normal or abnormal character in infancy, childhood, adolescence, adulthood, and (more recently) old age, is the human adjustment to death ignored? An essay by Freud, several articles by Schilder, a volume by Anthony, and a few other scattered papers virtually exhaust the scientific literature on the subject. Does the vain Faustian spirit, searching ever for the light, fear to examine the heart of darkness? Or has society, uncloaking sexuality, put death in its place as a secret rite not to be discussed in public? Has psychology, like so much of physics, become a kind of dignified engineering, forsaking truth for utility and therefore disinterested in a matter about which nothing can be done? Or is it felt that inquiry can disclose no more than what has always been known—that all men are mortal?

So varied and complex is the world of games that there are many ways in which a study of it can be approached. Psychology, sociology, anecdotal history, pedagogy, and mathematics all share a domain whose unity ends by ceasing any longer to be perceptible. Works like Homo ludens by Huizinga, Jeu de l'enfant by Jean Chateau, and Theory of Games and Economic Behavior by J. von Neumann and O. Morgenstern are not addressed to the same readers, nor do they appear to deal with the same subject. Ultimately, this question arises: How much does one profit from the facilities or contingencies of vocabulary by continuing to act as though such different and almost incompatible inquiries are fundamentally concerned with a same specific activity? It is doubtful whether common characteristics permit one to define this specific activity and consequently whether it can legitimately constitute the object of a comprehensive study.